And now, the Continued Adventures of Rachel and her Run-ins with the Law.

Ironically, as I was driving through town 10 mph over the speed limit at 1:45 a.m last night, I idly noted how empty the roads were, with not even a police officer in sight.
     Half a minute later I was on the side of the road having my license and registration examined by The Man.  It's kind of funny how the only major automobile-related troubles I've had this summer (save for a few parking tickets) have been while I was driving other people's vehicles.  In this case, he asked who the car belonged to and I told him, truthfully, "My stepmom."  It was the first time I'd officially used the title and it felt weird to say.  It served me well, because it implied a closer degree of intimacy between the car's owner and the person driving than would "My dad's fiancee" or "My dad's girlfriend."  With "stepmom," the cop could have been justified in thinking I'd known this woman since I was three, that my dad had been married to her for years, not just slightly over 24 hours.   I'm not so comfortable with that. 
   I guess it wasn't a bad thing to say, though, seeing as I got let off with a mere warning.  I think the cop thought I was headed home from some illicit rendezvous.  He asked me if I had had anything to drink, and what address I was coming from.  I told him no and I couldn't remember exactly, but it was on Van Meter, and asked if he was planning on sending people there, because it wasn't a wild party or anything.  With what can only be described as a knowing smile he replied, "It's OK, those are just standard questions.  What you're doing driving home at 1:45 am isn't our business." 
I wanted to say "God, that's funny! If only!" but thought the better of it and drove away.