Every year our local EMT’s knock on the door, asking if we’d like to donate to their fundraiser.
Seeing as my husband is a Police Officer, we make a point to support our public servants (Police, Firemen, EMT’s, etc.) . These men and women are often taken for granted though they work tirelessly for not near enough pay. And even less thanks.
Which is one of the many reasons I couldn’t do their job.
I require praise for rolling my fluffy biscuits outta bed. And if you want me human, I’m gonna need to see some cash.
I did consider joining the Raleigh Police Department for one brief millisecond of insanity. Not because I wanted an arsenal at my hip, though I admit to being intrigued. I’m all about authority–mine. But because we are a one income home until my youngest starts school.
The department pays decent, the benefits are great and I could work the shift opposite my husband’s so one of us could be home with the kids at all times.
Visions of Cagney & Lacey spun through my head–I just need sidekick because clearly I’m the lead. Oh yeah, armed and dangerous and badass!
So why not?
Well, to put it mildly, I’d end up in prison. My hub’s job requires mass quantities of diplomacy and self-restraint.
I don’t do either of those.
My dad used to tell me to walk softly and carry a big stick. I’d foam at the mouth every time he recited those words to me. One, it went against my nature thus pissing me off. And two, it’s a really stupid quote.
I figured if I carried a big enough stick, I could make all the honkin noise I wanted.
He also used to say, “Don’t write a check with your mouth that your butt can’t cancel.”
Unfortunately, listening to that might’ve saved me a lot of trouble.
Ah, but we didn’t know I might one day carry a gun, a taser and a raging can of pepper spray! Bring it on, mother quackers!
But alas, I came to my addled senses. My hubs and I both agree I wouldn’t make it a full month at his job.
The first time some punk called me a pig, I’d teach him to oink outta his ass. Or some criminal malcontent would resist my arrest, and I’d have to Indiana Jones the frigger.
I’d be the dumb schmuck in cuffs. And I totally cannot do time.
It isn’t the confining cell, the forced labor, or the soul-crushing discipline (I have kids so that’s nothing new). Hell, it’s not even becoming Big Bertha’s choice Butterfly.
It’s the orange jumpsuit, man. It totally clashes with my hair. Fashion before justice, ya’ll.
So, to keep me out of prison, I write.
Maybe someday I’ll make some money at it.