Why I had to Hit a Cop today

I don’t know what it is abut that square block the runs from MLK to Mitchell and Capitol Ave to Washington in downtown Atlanta, that gives dudes the idea that they can act like frat boys. And get away with it I mean.

Not 30 seconds after I sat down for my meeting this morning, a certain Sheriff (an actual Sheriff, not a deputy) comes over to greet me. He holds out his hand to shake mine then quickly reaches down and grabs my ankle- my ANKLE! He gestures at my tattoo and tells the woman next to me, “Look, she got my name tattooed on her ankle!” I wish I could embed a recording of this cuz his accent is something else.

I literally swatted at his hand over and over to get it off my leg. I repeatedly hit a cop today, people. It took him a while to finally let go. And what makes it even funnier is that he isn’t the first cop that I’ve had to swat away form my lower leg. Last session there was a certain Chief of Police who had a similar obsession my body art. He would usually announce loudly to those around us "looks like you got some dirt on your ankle!" Groan. Then he would grab my ankle. He even did it once when I was wearing pants- like lifted up my pant leg. Unreal.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I can never leave the house when I’m headed for the Capitol in a skirt without pantyhose. How funny is it that my Mother’s displeasure at my tattoo oh-so many years ago and her admonitions that I would regret it carried some weight because the tattoo subjects me to the advances of pervy old white Georgia cops!

I actually stared into my sock drawer this morning, lamenting the fact that my pantyhose stash had been completely depleted by the session. Because I was running late as usual, I had no time to stop at CVS to pick up a pair. And I thought to myself, the hell with it, what does it really matter if I'm barelegged or not? Now I know.

In other news, I’m finally getting the hole in my closet fixed to prevent future visits from Blossom the Possum. The dude who came to fix it out of the blue started talking to me about metal and haunted houses even though I was wearing a suit. Am I really that obvious to read?

Also my sister’s blog and report of what happened this weekend in Chicago is fantastic and hilarious and makes me feel like I should close up shop over here because she has got it covered. Here's a preview to entice you to go read it:

My family celebrated an early Mother's Day at a fancy french restaurant called Chez Joel. It's owned by these handsome Moroccan brothers, one of whom (probably my future husband, even though he's married, waa waa) is named Sufjan. Sexy. Anyhow, the food was delicious. The giant bottle of wine was delicious. And my father was drunk. He was hilarious; right before dessert, he stated "I'm going to try to stand up now," wobbled towards the bathroom, and waved his fingers at the waiter who stood aside to let him by. I can only imagine what he may have said to him. Plus, earlier in the evening, he was trying to think of the word for Metrosexual and could only come up with "Sexopolitan." That's right. Sexopolitan.