From My Kids' Perspective

A conversation between my eight- and ten-year old, as relayed to me by their father:

"I can't wait 'til April 8."

"Yeah, when Mom can drive again."

My ten year old, "I bet she'll never drink again. She could get in so much trouble! [and to his dad] She could go to jail, and then we'd have to live with you for a year!

Dad, amused at their horror at living with him for A WHOLE YEAR, says diplomatically, "well, I think we've all learned a lot this year."

The ten year-old persists,

"And we'd have to visit her in jail and it would be like going to that hospital in the middle of the water."

Dad puzzles over this description, and finally comes up with,

"Alcatraz?"

"Yeah."

It's just a good thing that 10 year-olds aren't tasked with determining sentences for misdemeanors.

David Sedaris Doesn't Drive

This comforts me somehow. I don't know why. I'm not a wildly popular author with one of the finest-tuned senses of humor in the world with a quirky voice. I'm a convicted drunk driver. We're not even close to being of the same world. Yet it comforts me just the same.

I didn't get my driver's license until I was 20 and going into my last year in college. This was unheard of in southern California at the time. Now, there are more restrictions--kids can drive at 16, but I don't think they can drive with anyone else in the car for ages, certainly not their friends. An armed guard, maybe.

Then, however, you skipped the morning at school on your 16th birthday, and drove all of your friends to the beach that afternoon. It was a middle-class neighborhood, but kids got cars for their birthdays.

My 16th birthday came and went with a learner's permit fading in my wallet. My parents tried, they really did. My father patiently tried to teach me to drive a stick shift, which introduced far too many actions for my brain to handle at one time. My mother, worried that I was about to hit the cars on the right side of the street, cowered near the passenger door, begging me to move more toward the center of the road.

The summer before my senior year in college, however, I was determined to get it done. I was living with my boyfriend at the time (very scandalous). He had a little blue Toyota Tercel. Hatchback. No radio.

The weekend before my appointment to get my license, we went down to Laguna Seca to a Grateful Dead show. On the way back (the following day, totally sober), boyfriend suggests I drive, as practice, for the test the next day.

I get us all the way up to Palo Alto without incident. Right before we hit the off-ramp, boyfriend notes that now is the time to be careful, that most accidents occur within two miles of home. I successfully downshift on the off-ramp, but to this day, I'm not really sure what happened next. I think I tried to slow down, and hit the clutch instead of the brake? At any rate, with a carful of guys screaming "brake, brake," I plowed into a pick-up truck in front of me. The Tercel was no match. The hood bent into a ninety degree angle. No one one was hurt, but in a million years, I couldn't tell you how mortified I was.

I did get my license the next day. My dad bought me a Datsun B210 four-door coupe. The boyfriend and I were through soon thereafter. And my driving career began.

And Now What?

The crappy part of not being able to drive is that on a rainy day, you can't just jump in the car, drive to Target, and spend a little bit of cash on something you don't really need but will amuse you and the kids for awhile.

Yeah, yeah, I know, it'll make me more spiritual, quality time with the kids, blah blah blah. All I really want is a pair of knock-off UGGs and to buy the kids a hot dog.

Instead, I'm in my p.j.s close to noon, we have a fire going, and Sponge Bob is on t.v. I gave A. an old iPod of mine, so we're filling it up with music. Kid's taste is unpredictable. He'll take Meatloaf, but no Tom Petty. He likes some re-mixes from the Shrek soundtrack. A new group I found called Free Energy works, but no Neil Young. I had to buy the Green Day song from the Transformers soundtrack, my Green Day albums were too old, I guess.

The dogs are circling our small house like sharks, looking for food to steal, confused about the weather.

Luckily, I have chocolate chips. Fresh batches of cookies solve everything.

Missing

Someone stole my bike helmet. And my seat. When I went to pick up my bike from where I park it when I catch the bus, it looked sad and a little decapitated. My friend Heidi says she's lost five seats in the last year--she rides her bike everywhere. So this is to be expected?

When I was in college, it was a good prank to steal someone's bike seat. But now? I guess I understand the helmet, but where do the seats go? Is there a booth at the swap meet full of bike seats?

I loved that seat--it had some kind of gel core, and was wide and cushy. It had a design that matched the bike.

I'm guessing I can find another one. I haven't really tried yet. And then I'm going to need a large bag so that when I lock up the bike, I can take the seat and the helmet with me. Geez.

Requiem for a Dream

It's worth noting that what started on a lovely day in October of 1996 ended today--another lovely day--in a courthouse in San Diego.

We didn't even have to go in front of the judge, we were prepared with all of our signed paperwork, and the facilitator took care of the rest.

Then we went to breakfast and did some shopping. We talked about what to get the kids for Christmas, planned A's birthday party, and made each other laugh. Then we went together to the kids' parent-teacher conferences.

We were friends years before we married. We are friends now. We have children together, and one day, I hope, grandchildren. So this is an ending of something that existed on paper, but I believe the best part lives on.

And Yet Another Fine Mess

I'm sitting at the courthouse again. Waiting. I have number 60 and they're on number 18.

Among the things I was supposed to do, one was to attend a MADD Victim Impact Panel. Going through some papers on Sunday, I realized I had a deadline for that. A deadline that passed about six weeks ago. And there are big letters underneath the deadline saying A WARRANT WILL BE ISSUED FOR MY ARREST if I miss the deadline. So I did what comes naturally. I panicked.

No, really. I literally went to the window to see whether or not a peace officer was walking up the front steps to arrest me. What if they came to take me away while my kids were home? Their dad was out of town. Oh my god, would the arresting officer give me time to call someone to get them? Or would they be taken by child protective services? Surely their dad would then decide enough was enough and demand full custody of them? Would I lose my job because I was in jail? I'm sure I would, and then I would lose my house.

I pretty much had myself in a homeless shelter in forty seconds flat.

Then it occurred to me that outstanding arrest warrants might be online. And they are! I tried every possible permutation of my name and came up empty. So I probably wasn't going to be rousted out of bed in the middle of the night and hauled to the pokey.

I then proceeded with self-flagellation. How utterly and completely stupid could I be?

I had some optimism that I could take care of the problem over the phone. But the telephone number for the courthouse is just an unending loop. You can't talk to an actual human being. My only option was to come down to the courthouse. Not the downtown courthouse that's near my office and easy to get to--no, the east county courthouse. The one that takes two hours by bus and trolley to get to.

So this presents the problem of either taking a cab, which I couldn't really afford at the moment, or asking someone to drive me. I couldn't really ask my parents. They've been through so much about this already, and I am so embarrassed that I screwed this up that I don't even want to tell them. Which brings me to asking a friend, and we've already discussed how much I hate to do that. But I really don't want to go to jail. So I swallow my pride and text an innocent--my friend Paula, bless her--who cheerfully drove me and was fun company to boot.

They're on number 21 now.

Bunch of guys sitting near me, waiting also. They're trading stories of the junkies they witnessed coming off of their respective drugs in their respective holding cells. The stories are gross. But they're laughing about their warrants. They're not all freaked out. Woman and her mother on the other side of me. Mother keeps calling the daughter "Baby"; daughter appears to be about 35.

Oh, we're moving now. We've jumped to 39.

From what I've gathered, the guys next to me have collective charges of possession, grand theft auto, driving under the influence, and public intoxication. The best part, though, is that they keep complaining about how slow the clerk is--"Ugh, this is your tax dollars at work." Never mind that we're all convicted criminals. Or convicted misdemeanants.

The crowd gets a little rowdy as the clerk calls the numbers, yelling "Bingo!" and "What'd I win?" The clerk gets testy and tells us to quiet down.

We're on number 49 now.

The bench we're all sitting on is slatted and uncomfortable. It's an unpleasant reminder of the bench in the holding cell.

60! Wait, yes, that's me. I walk up and smile, quietly tell the clerk that I've missed my MADD class, and I'm really sorry, but is there any way she can give me an extension? She starts punching in numbers into the computer, and asks "Is this your first extension?" My first? People do this? All the time? It's this easy? Not even a court appearance? I yes ma'am her, and she goes to get my file.

And like that, there's a thirty-day extension, all filled out on official paper and I am not going back to jail. Which is a relief.

This Too Shall Pass

The other morning, I was really chugging along. Up on time and about ready to jump on my bike and head to the bus stop. Packed some lunch in my bag so I wouldn't have to spend extra money. I was on it. I went out back to give the dogs water. Leaned over the bowl with the hose, and when I looked up there was Boomer, the dog who eats everything, with a bunch of bananas in his mouth. Wagging at me. Taunting me.

Look at me, lady. Look what I've got.
I got them out of your bag. Wanna come get 'em?
C'mon, come try to get 'em.

He did that thing dogs do when they bend down on their forelegs and kind of wave their butts back and forth. Then he started choking down the bunch.

And I realized I just can't handle that dog.

Since we last met, that dog has eaten two other bunches of bananas, a couple of loaves of cheese, and several cubes of butter. Off the kitchen counter. And before you say, "why don't you put that stuff away?" let me assure you, I do my best. But sometimes, in the middle of making grilled cheese sandwiches, I get distracted by one of the kids or the other dog, and I turn around, JUST FOR A SECOND, and the little bastard's nose sneaks its way up onto the counter and WHAM, it's in his mouth. And I chase him around the house, the kids running after me, yelling. We tackle all seventy-five pounds of him and he growls and wags his tail and even though I try to yank it out, he swallows harder, and then it's gone.

If I leave him outside while we're eating, he just whimpers and whines and makes things unpleasant. If I let him in, we sit at the table with a water bottle to spray him if he tries to take food from our plates. He wakes me up twice a night to go outside. He is whimpering at me now, nudging his nose against my elbow so that I can't type. So that I will pet him.

I just don't know what to do with him, and on a bad day he makes me miserable.

I've floated the notion of a new home, but as you can imagine, it won't fly. "NO! We love him!" Never mind that he has grabbed food from their very mouths, chewed up their favorite toys, terrified their friends, and knocked them over with his vivaciousness.

He is only two. I've hired a dog walker to get some of his energy out during the day. I'm going to look for a trainer, too. Time passes, and lots of problems take care of themselves. One day, he will be older, more mature.

I find myself older and possibly more mature. Lately I've been noting that it has been about a year since the kids' dad moved out. We are expecting the divorce to be formalized next month. A year ago, I felt like the skin had been peeled off me and I was walking around defenseless. I was sure our separation was THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN. And look, here I am today, not just managing but living. He's doing okay, too. My kids are thriving. I'm nine months' sober. I'm dating a great guy. I only have two more DUI program meetings. And I'm half way through the year without a car. Look at that.

I Hate You, Have A Horrible Day

I'm struck by how weird we all are. The guy next to me on the bus has a box of frosted flakes with him. I'm guessing he will be eating breakfast at his office. But frosted flakes? Who eats those?

A lot of weirdness is on display when you participate in something as communal as public transportation. There's a woman who regularly applies all of her makeup. Or the guy who spent the whole ride talking on his cell phone loudly enough that the entire bus knew he was headed to a court hearing that might end with him incarcerated.

Everyone tries to maintain their own space, preserve their anonymity so no one can see their weirdness. Earphones, newspapers, look out the window. Set a bag in the seat next to you so no one SITS RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. God forbid. Then they'd know for sure how weird you are.

Don't get me started about the weirdness of the group of women with whom I spent a night in a holding cell. Two had smacked around their boyfriends. Which is weird. Don't get me wrong, I know domestic violence goes both ways, but one of these girls was pretty tiny. Two others were there because of unpaid parking tickets. How many of those do you have to get to go to jail???? Weird. The rest, like me, were drunk and driving, or drunk and causing trouble.

My kids are weird, too, but in a good way. This morning, A. announced,"It's opposite day. Mom, I hate you, have a horrible day." And I'm so weird that I worried momentarily about the karma that I would put out there if I repeated this back to him. But he smiled at me expectantly, so I said, "I hate you, too baby, have a horrible day."

In Which I Am Discussed By Third Parties Without My Consent

One of the earliest things grown ups try to teach us is to mind our own business. I'm forever telling my boys to stop tattling on each other, and to pay attention to their own behavior. My sponsor and other women wiser than I am often preach that it's not my business what other people think of me. My job is to keep my side of the street clean.

I knew that all of the afterschool teacher's aides knew about the "troubles." I figured word had made its way around the neighborhood to some extent. Nevertheless, I am chagrined to learn that a group of moms were discussing me during one of the neighborhood bunco games. Not MY bunco group, the other one. And the story is far more sordid than real life. For example, I have up to three DUIs as far as some of these moms know. Ugh. And wow. And yuck.

I like to be in control of what others think of me. This blog is a good vehicle for that. I can be funny, self-deprecating, and come off like a good sport. I aspire to this version of myself, so it's not a big lie. I think I have a better self that comes out on occasion if I can let go of the rest. What is a big lie, of course, is that I have any control over what the neighborhood moms think, or anyone else. And really, what a lot of work to try to influence that anyway. I can only behave myself, pay my fines, go to my classes and rear my children.

That doesn't stop a part of me from feeling like I'm a weird fourth grader again, and none of the girls like me because I'm different. Funny how we can regress.

Pigs in Your Heart

"If you have pigs in your heart, I will follow up with you."

This is the message I just received from an itinerant preacher while I waited at the bus stop. At least I think that's what he said. He said it gently, as a sort of benediction. He looked me in the eye and then walked off, pulling wheeled luggage behind him, earbuds firmly in place.

I feel like I've been casting my pearls before swine today. Management clearly doesn't understand my genius. I am misunderstood. I could've been a contender. Work is really starting to get in the way of my free time.

My program teaches me to pray for serenity, to be of service to others. A dear friend noted recently, "I get that jobs in the service industry aren't great, but why wouldn't you just decide to be the best waitress you could be?"

I tried to do these things today, but it came out all screwy. Another friend used to say, sometimes you just need the day to be over and go to bed. So that's my plan--get into bed when the kids do, watch serial killer tv, and pray for serenity. And in case it helps, ask for pigs in my heart.

Get Me Out of Here

"It's much better if you just let go."

My friend was describing a recent visit to an amusement park--a ride where they strap you in and basically drop you for what sounds like a vomit-inducing free-fall effect. Apparently, one's first instinct is to hold on tight, but my friend found that if you don't fight it, if you just let go and let the straps do their work, it's a much more enjoyable experience.

Hmmm.

I'm tempted to turn this into a hallmark moment of a life lesson, but I'm trying to avoid that here. So I'll just tell you that there's no way you'd ever get me on that ride.

20 Minutes in Hell

With very little provocation, I grew a second head this morning. A demon head. It blossomed out of my neck, stretched and roared at my oldest son in a deep, threatening voice.

This child of mine, so beautiful in a million different ways, will not get ready in the morning. He must be dragged from his bed, given his clothes, and reminded constantly of the same four tasks that he's been required to do every weekday morning for six years.

He is not a morning person. And neither am I.

All of this is compounded by the fact that we must leave earlier now, so that I can get the bus. Each morning I have the kids, my friend shows up, drives me to the bus stop, then ushers my kids off to school with her own. And despite the fact that mornings were not much smoother when I could drive, I still feel guilty for subjecting them to a more complicated morning.

The whole morning drama only lasts 20 minutes, but it takes me the 30 minutes on the bus for the demon to calm itself, tuck its horns back in and disappear completely.

Days at the Beach

My youngest son had a playdate/sleepover at his buddy's last weekend. I promised W we would do something special, just us. What did he want to do? "Let's go to the beach!"

Crap. How about the pool? "No. The beach."

When I lost my license, the thing I cried about the most was that I wouldn't be able to drive my kids to the beach this summer. It's one of my favorite things to do--throw the boogie boards and the cooler in the car and just go. We're all happier at the beach.

And, as it turns out, it's ridiculously hard to get to the beach by bus from my house. So what to do? Because I really want to go to the beach now, too. The usual suspects for giving us a lift were unavailable, or had been pressed into service too often of late. (I try not to wear out my welcome). So I called a car service--Terramoto Transportation. They have a fleet of Priuses, all painted black with a cool hummingbird logo in green. They charge about what a cab would cost, but plant a tree for every ride you take. Nice, right?

It cost me $40 each way. They were friendly and let me stop at the store on the way back home. Not cheap, but nothing about this gig has been cheap. Water was icy, but W and I ate chocolate chip cookies and had a blast.

My friend Cindy and I hit the same beach, sans kids, the next day. We wore our bikinis and pretended we were in high school again.

And on Labor Day, my dad called and invited me to ride the 9 mile-trail to the beach from my neighborhood. It was an awesome ride. When we got to the beach, we hit the taco stand for chorizo breakfast burritos and called my stepmom to come get us.

I really have nothing to complain about. Life is good.

Where the Hell is That Pony?

Just missed the bus. Next one doesn't come for an hour. I ran, but missed it anyway. What to do? Call my friend. Tell her I'll be late to dinner, and look! Here's a Starbuck's! New York Times, free wifi, and a mint refresher. Some kinda funky jazz on the sound system. Could be worse. Could be better, but could be worse.

The new mint refresher is tasty. And I wish hitchhiking was both socially acceptable and not ridiculously dangerous.

Ain't Got Nobody

I have one more DUI education class left, then my Sundays will be free again. I have nine more "group" sessions left before my Monday nights are my own. I have three "face-to-face" meetings with a counselor to go to, and a MADD program. I'll be done with all of this in October. And then I still won't be able to drive for six more months.

I have a good routine now. My bike and my super squishy flip flops get me through. Friends and family are generous in giving me a lift here and there. And yet. And yet.

I found myself home alone last Saturday night and really at loose ends. Kids had gone to their Dad's. In fact, I had earlier in the day met his love interest, and was musing over that. My own romantic interest had other plans. Many of my friends were with their families. Single friends had dates. If I'd been able to drive, I'm sure I would have taken myself out, but as it was I didn't feel like biking anywhere. I could do a bunch of housework, but it seemed like it would add insult to injury. So without a viable alternative, I watched a six-hour House marathon on tv. Made myself a burrito. Ate some ice cream. I wasn't depressed or unhappy, just at loose ends.

I'm not sure what this means, except that I miss my car. I miss driving.

Fag Love

I have one cigarette left in a pack of Marlboros I bought last week. I'm going to make it my last. For now.

I've smoked off and on since college. The habit kicks in again during stressful times, and the last year has been a stressful time.

It's a nasty habit. I hate the way it makes my hands smell. I hate the way my mouth tastes when I'm done. I hate the way I can't breath when I'm biking up the hill to my house.

I hide it. I don't want my kids thinking it's okay. If I've learned anything about parenting, it's that they'll do what I do, not what I say. So I hide it. When they're engrossed in t.v., I sneak out to the front of the house and light up. I sit where they can't see me if they run outside looking for me and I can put it out before they find me. My neighbors must think I've lost my mind.

My favorite smoke is the last one before I go to bed. I like the first one in the morning, too. The ones in between make me feel enslaved.

I want to be around long enough to enjoy grandchildren, so tomorrow, after I get to work and have some coffee, I'm going to smoke the last one and then go cold turkey. And we'll see how that goes.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

I caught a ride from my AA meeting to my DUI class. It's all about alcoholism today. Some people go to church on Sundays. I work on not ever picking up another drink.

At any rate, I have about 45 minutes before class begins, so I'm just hanging out outside. Goes without saying that I wait around a lot more than I did when I could drive. Wait at bus stops. Wait at Starbucks if I'm early, or late, to the bus stop. For some reason, the dogs have been waking me up in the night to go outside, so I wait half asleep in the doorway for them to come back in. (this has nothing to do with losing my license, but it has coincided with that event, so sometimes it feels related).

Last week I waited at the courthouse to set up a payment plan for my fine, and then waited again to meet with the substance abuse assessment counselor. The thing I'm waiting for is not usually unpleasant. In fact, the counselor practically gave me a gold star for being in recovery already. It was nice to hear, and I'm glad I saved us both the trouble of him trying to convince me to get some help.

These DUI classes aren't too bad either. There's a feeling of camaraderie. They remind me a bit of high school. There are class clowns, pretty girls, jocks. Lots of rules, too. Your cellphone has to be off. Can't even vibrate or you get kicked out for the day and pay 25 bucks to reschedule. No tank tops, no mini skirts, no shower shoes. You can wear flip flops, but I'm at a loss to understand the difference between flip flops and shower shoes. Wear the prohibited item and you're out. No food, no beverages, except water in it's original water bottle. Don't be late, or they'll lock you out and you pay $25 to reschedule. The whole thing has a bit of an army bootcamp feel. I don't mind it so much. What I do mind is that to get here on my own steam, I have to take two buses. The irony of this nags at me. Really? It couldn't m
be on a major bus line? Or is this part of an effort to make life such a pain in the ass that we'll never drink and drive again?

I'd better go in now. Eight minutes left, and I don't want to be late.

Paying the Piper

I am officially sentenced.

The DA dropped the resisting arrest charge after all. I was sentenced for a first-time DUI and refusing a chemical test. The judge gave me time served for the community service requirement. I'm left to fulfill the following: a 3-month DUI program and a fine. The fine is $1980. My lawyer cost me $2000. I have to pay the DMV $125. The DUI class is $477. I still owe my parents $550 for bailing me out and getting my car out of hock. Luckily, the court and the DUI program have payment plans. My parents are extremely lenient creditors. Nevertheless, paying all of this off isn't going to be a cake walk. I work for the government, after all.

I went to the orientation for my DUI class today and it was not an uplifting experience. I'm going to be spending a lot of time there over the next three months. I have to go to a weekly group therapy session for twelve weeks. I have to go to an education class for six weeks, and I have to have three one-on-one meetings with a counselor. I also have to go to three "self-help" meetings (AA). Of course, I go to 3-4 of these a week anyway.

Don't get me wrong. I am fully aware that these are the fair and square consequences of my actions and no one else's doing. They played a Tom Brokaw production while we waited for our numbers to be called to set up our class schedule. It was a documentary about what happened to a carful of kids who were hit by a drunk driver. One died. One was seriously injured, requiring months of surgeries and physical therapy. All the survivors were psychologically scarred and incurred thousands of dollars in medical bills--the driver was uninsured and they weren't fully covered by their own insurance companies, if they had health insurance at all. It was depressing. So don't get me wrong. I'm grateful and lucky that this is all there was. Extremely grateful that no one was hurt, or killed. That my kids weren't in the car with me.

But I think because I have been working a program and managing my car-less situation in fairly good spirits, I had started to put the events of January 16 behind me. Today was just a reminder that there is a lot more work to do. And I guess I was chagrined to find myself properly in the company of--there's no other way to say it--common criminals.

Another Fine Mess I've Gotten Me Into

Sitting at the train station in Irvine. The woman at the counter
would not sell me a ticket because I don't have ID. When I was
arrested, the cop took my driver's license, so I haven't had an ID for
awhile. You can get a state-issued, "valid" ID card from the DMV, but I haven't gotten around to it.

It hasn't been a problem until now. I don't drink, so I don't get
carded, although I was out with friends one night and they wouldn't
let me into a bar where we were going to get some kind of famous tacos.

I bought the ticket to come up here on-line, printed it out at a
kiosk, and the conductor didn't ask for ID once I was onboard.

I tried to argue with the ticket vending woman. She didn't seem at all phased that I had ridden the train up with no ID. Grasping at straws, I told her I was a
lawyer. I don't know why this seemed like a good idea. Because lawyers
inspire confidence and feelings of trustworthiness in others. Right.

I asked for her supervisor. "I am the supervisor." Of course she is.

I'm not good at this kind of thing. A friend of mine recently talked
his way onto an airplane without valid ID. An airplane! I'm not
silver-tongued. I go straight to bullying, then wheedling. No one
gives in to that.

So I left the station and bought a ticket at the kiosk. We'll see if
they let me on. And not the train, mind you. It's not running
southbound today, so it's a big coach bus. I think the worse thing
that happens is they don't let me on. And then I say fuck it and hire
a limo. That's my plan.

Post From The Road

The kids have been with their grandparents out of state for a week. Serendipitously, a very dear friend from the other coast is on this coast, so I'm on the train to go visit her. The trip would take about an hour in the car. The train adds nearly another hour. Nevertheless, it's quite pleasant. And there are electric strips! So you can plug in your laptop or charge your phone! Pretty cool. I was inspired to blog from my phone. If I remember correctly, we will have a full view of the coast in a few moments. I'll try to upload a picture. By the way, guy next to me is totally passed out. Gently snoring.

The Right to Privacy

I'm home with the kids for a few days because school is out and day camp is not yet in. We spent several hours at the park yesterday and I got to observe a group of pre-school moms with their young ones. As they all got ready to leave, I watched them pack their gear into their mostly SUV-type cars and take off.

I remember doing that. I stayed home with my boys for about two years when they were very small. I really loved my jeep then because I could fit everything I needed into it--diaper bags, snacks, kids, dogs. We could go where I wanted when I wanted. I was ready for anything in those days, and I didn't need anyone to help me.

I'm realizing that our cars give us freedom, but I'm finding that they also give us a strange sense of privacy. As long as you can get around on your own steam, you don't have to explain yourself to other people.

One day, when I was walking home from the bus stop, my next-door neighbor picked me up. She is in the unique position of watching my comings and going fairly closely.

"So, where is your car?"

(I'm in her car, right? She's doing me a favor. I can't exactly say 'none of your beeswax!' Not very friendly, or gracious.)

"Oh, my friend Judi has it. I take the bus to work." Yes, slightly evasive, but I'm a lawyer, I'm trained in evasive.

"Do you get it back on the weekends so that you can run your errands and things?"

Crap, she's got me. I decide to go for it--we're only as sick as our secrets, right?

"Well, no, this is embarrassing, but . . ." and I give her the short version.

She's pretty cool about it, and I get the impression she's been suspecting something of the sort and I've only just confirmed it for her.

I shared the information with one of my kids' friends' moms the other day. We had been talking about letting the kids go to the Boys' and Girls' club for a few weeks in the summer, instead of the day camp at the school. This, of course, presents a transportation problem for me. I told her I wasn't going to be able to carpool because I wouldn't be driving this summer. She didn't ask, but I told her anyway. She smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well, I've done a lot worse." And shaking her head, "A lot worse...." I didn't ask. But she offered to drive the kids, and I can't believe her kindness.

Have people always been this nice? What the hell is wrong with me that I didn't know this? I'm really going to have to work on this attitude that one can't ask for help, essentially because people will think you're an evil leech. In the last two months, the exact opposite has proven to be true.

People are thrilled to help--I know I love it when I can. It's like we are all starving for community and we want to reach out but we're stuck in our cars and our houses without front porches and we can't interact the way maybe we once did. Are we so concerned with protecting our privacy that we are losing our community? Why don't the moms going to the park ever ride together?

Why can't we all just get along?

Just kidding--the devolution into a boring rant needed to be stopped.

But I am curious about whether the desire for privacy blocks the building of community.

In the meantime, I better get these kids out of the house before the dog starts chewing on them.

DOG is GOD spelled backwards

The dog ate my God Box.

The God Box is, I believe, a twelve-step thing. It allows the owner to manifest physically the concept of "turning over" a problem to one's higher power. The idea is that you write down the thing that is fretting you and put it in the box. You've turned it over. I find it to be like writing troubling things down in a journal. It's a nifty idea.

My sponsor made me a God Box. It was cute and round and nicely decorated. A lovely gift. But I left it out on a side table and Boomer, my 22-month old lab, ate it. I wanted to kill him. It's not the only thing that dog has wolfed down. Last week, he went after a two-pound cube of cheese on the kitchen counter. One minute it was there, the next, gone. I chased him into the backyard and he growled at me while I tried to pry his jaws open and dig it out. I got about a third of it out before he swallowed the rest, wrapper and all. All I could think of was if he needed to go to the emergency vet, I couldn't drive him there. It didn't slow him down at all, though. In fact, a couple of days later he stopped in the hallway, hocked up the wrapper on the carpet, and just kept moving. Unbelievable.

Other things that dog has eaten, or at least tried to eat: my glasses, my blackberry, my red stiletto patent leather pumps, and several other shoes I once held dear, a few books, food off the table, food from the kids' hands, and an awful lot of trash.

I've had labs my whole life. I like having dogs around, I even let them sleep on the bed. But the two black ones I have right now can overwhelm me. They each weigh about 75 pounds, which is only slightly heavier than my kids. Sometimes I feel like I have four kids. My house is just under 1300 square feet, so when I'm walking around and the dogs are underfoot, and the kids are underfoot, I kind of feel like the Bumpuses.

No wonder I used to drink so much. You can understand why the kids' dad really wanted his own room when we were still together--I cannot blame him.

Here's what's funny about getting sober, though. When I was drinking, I really thought that was the only way I could deal with the stress and responsibilities of holding down a job, rearing kids and taking care of these dogs. But in reality, I kind of ignored the dogs. Now, with all this time on my hands, the dogs tend to get walked a lot more. The kids like to go, too, so we spend more time at the park.

This is all very positive, and yet the damn dog continues to eat things. He regularly pokes his head into the trash in the bathroom like it's his own personal snack bar, pulls out a tissue and just munches it down. I happen to wear bras with underwire in them, which I guess make great chew toys. Look out if he gets ahold of one of those--I'm a lovely sight chasing him around the backyard with a pink Victoria's Secret hanging out of his mouth.

What I'm wondering is, if I write down my troubles on a piece of paper, and feed them to the dog, could it be the same as giving them over to my higher power?

The Wheels on the Bus

The bus I ride to work is nice. It's part of a "commuter express" line of buses, Greyhound-like in its design, and established to ship in people from the suburbs to downtown. It only runs during morning and evening rush hour.

It's definitely more comfortable than my car, a 2000 Jeep Cherokee. It's more relaxing than driving. The seats recline, there is overhead storage, and there is generally enough room that you don't have to sit next to anyone else if you don't want company. I've snoozed on the way home, but otherwise I read or obsessively play scrabble on my iPhone. The route is set up so that it takes no more time to take the commuter bus than to drive my car downtown. There are HOV lanes on the freeway and a limited number of stops at the beginning of the commute. Frankly, I think it's genius in transportation planning. The only way it could be better is if I still drank and they served martinis. If taking the bus is the most inconvenient situation I experience this next year, I have nothing to complain about.

No one really talks on the phone on the bus, which brings me to some observations on bus etiquette in general. You can imagine that it is the same gang of people at each stop who board. People are generally polite, nodding and smiling. There's a crew of reality t.v. followers who discuss who got voted off what island last night. There's a lot of discussion about the weather, a lot of "well, it's Monday," "hooray, hump day," and "thank God it's Friday" talk. We've got one lady at my stop who's a real personality--her voice reminds me of the nosy neighbor in "Bewitched," and she's forever accusing the bus driver of smoking on the bus. She can smell it--he's not supposed to do that.

After one boards, however, no talking. I don't know how other people feel about this, but I'm grateful. I need a little quiet time between wrestling the kids out the door and hitting my office door. Plus, I suck at small talk. One horrifying morning, though, I politely responded to a morning greeting and found myself subjected to AN ENTIRE CONVERSATION. IT DIDN'T END UNTIL I REACHED MY STOP. Really? This guy doesn't know the rules? No one likes to start their day this way, friends. Don't chat with strangers on the bus.

The commuter bus experience is vastly different from your regular municipal bus experience here in southern California. I've lived in other cities where bus travel is more widely used and accepted. Here, as you've probably gathered, there's a certain class issue involved.

When I first described how I planned to manage the suspension of my license to a female relative, she said, "but the people who ride the commuter bus are more like you, right?" I assumed she meant professionals, but it's an interesting question. My fellow commuters certainly don't ride the bus for the same reason I do. Most likely, they are saving gas and parking money because the bus is so convenient. I suspect that my reasons for taking the bus are more similar to those passengers I've seen on the regular municipal buses I ride sometimes--can't drive for one reason or another--can't afford a car, or the insurance, or like me, the state of California has withdrawn the privilege.

These people are pierced. They sometimes smell bad, and sometimes rave and weave. They drag large plastic bags filled with stuff onto the bus with them. Young mothers and their babies. Or they might be young hipsters, living in the more urban areas of the city. And, during commuter hours, you'll find people going to work.

None of this is different from bus rides I've taken in other cities, but for some reason I feel the class difference more keenly here.

Maybe this will illustrate it best: a security guard greets you at the downtown office where you can buy your monthly transit pass, and there is thick, presumably bullet-proof, glass separating the employees from the public.

Good days, bad days

I was almost annoyed as I trudged home from the bus stop tonight. There was this mom with her kids--they had walked down to the store from somewhere in the neighborhood. Like it was a fun field trip! Like they were slumming! I wanted to yell, "Hey! Some of us do this every day lady! Quit acting like it's a lark!" So I'm having a bad day.

Only not really. As I walked, I perked up. Found a stray tennis ball. Bounced it as I walked. It was kind of like meditation. By the time I got home, I felt better. I thought a little bit about what it must've been like when there was more time. Before people expected you to RESPOND TO MY TEXT RIGHT NOW!! Can you remember? I'm not that old, but I remember a time before answering machines. What in heaven's name did we do? Call back? Madness. What if we didn't get hold of someone on the second call? Call again? Really frickin' crazy.

I have three different e-mail accounts. I can access all of them on my iPhone. I can access the internet from the iPhone, too. You've seen the iPhone commercial, right? You can mow the lawn and cook dinner with it if you have the right app.

This allegedly makes me more efficient, but really it's a nightmare for me. My deepest character flaws are that I'm disorganized and get overwhelmed very easily. I suspect that I have some form of adult ADD, but I'm really too overwhelmed with all of the other crap I'm trying to manage in my life to look into it.

I like to imagine my forced car-less-ness as the universe's way of telling me to slow the hell down.

Earlier this month, the kids and I went to Mother's Day brunch at the nearby golf resort (not as ritzy as it sounds, I assure you). We went to the pool after that, and then strolled home. The boys collected rocks, and flowers. A in particular was fascinated with all of the different colors of pink that existed in the world. We were barefoot, wandering along the main road, not very purposefully. I felt a twinge of shame, like I was mistreating them somehow, or exposing some kind of dirty laundry. As in, call child protective services, that barefoot woman is making those children walk! Barefooted! But then A said,"I like walking. It's more fun than driving."

I'm not making this up.

I'm not in charge

I never stopped fretting over the karmic debt that I feel I am building up by asking for rides here and there, help with my kids, etc. And then the other day, I had this great epiphany--since when am I in charge of the balance sheet for the universe? Who the hell am I to say if I'm getting too much or too little? I should just shut up my head and do what's in front of me and ask for help if I need it and help others if they need it! This may seem very obvious to those of you who are more spiritually advanced than I, but I'm kind of on a caveman level of spirtuality right now--the place where I'm just leaving the cave and putting my hand over my eyes because the light's too bright.

I've cut my walking time to the bus by 2 minutes. It only takes me 22 minutes now. I may be ruining my feet, though. At first I was walking in Old Navy flip-flops and carrying my heels in my purse. My Dad suggested wearing tennis shoes, at which I scoffed--what, should I start wearing scarves tied in bows around my neck, too? But he might be right. I've graduated to a pair of Sanuk flip-flops that I got at REI. They're made of the same material as a yoga mat--very cushy. But my ankles are starting to give me trouble. Is it so much to ask for a stylish pair of walking shoes? More research is required.

Unexpected benefit of not driving--I never drive through Jack in the Box.

And guess what? I'm six weeks into this gig. Only 10 and a half more months to go.

Yes, I'm sure.

Due to budget cuts, even though I made bail the night I was arrested, I still had to spend the night in a holding cell. They didn't have enough staff to release anyone between 10:30 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. I still don't understand this, but again, I was in no condition to argue. The profile of the ladies with whom I spent the evening is another story for another time. At about 2 a.m., though, I was called out of the holding cell and put in what looked to be some kind of interview room. I guessed someone had come to see me. I prayed it wasn't my father, whom I had called crying from the holding cell hours earlier. I didn't want him to see his high-achieving pride and joy behind bars.

It was the kids' dad. He came to see if I was okay. He told them he was my lawyer, showed them his bar card, and they let him in. The first thing he said when they brought him into the interview room, "I can't touch you." I must've looked like I really wanted to hug him, but no mind, I wouldn't have wanted to touch me either. Remember the earlier urges to pee--they hadn't ended well. We sat in silence for a few minutes and he said,

"You know you have to quit drinking."

I nodded slowly, as I had been thinking the same thing. Nevertheless, some part of me thought, "Really? Do I really have to quit?"

And that's how I know I'm an alcoholic.

I have friends who have told me they don't think I am. One in particular who jokes that I wasn't trying hard enough. I called two people before I got in the car that night who've both told me I sounded fine. But I know. A little voice had been suggesting it for some time.

A couple of weeks ago, in an effort to clear out a jumbled mess of thoughts that were bugging me, I reached for an old journal to jot some of the mess down. I came across a list of fears I wrote down at the suggestion of my therapist, about a year ago. Top of the list? "I'm afraid I'm an alcoholic." So I knew. And I know.

I'm not going to preach my 12-step program. I'm not supposed to do that, and it sounds queer anyway. But it's AWESOME. And no matter how uncomfortable all of these "feelings" get--the ones I used to drink away--I like being sober a lot.

Depends on what you mean by resisting

I went to meet with my lawyer today. Not only was I charged with DUI, and "refusal," but I was also charged with resisting arrest. The DUI charge is due to the fact that I was, well, driving under the influence of alcohol. (As it turns out, my blood alcohol content was .19--yes my friends, that is more than twice the legal limit). The refusal charge is because I refused a chemical test. That is to say, I not only refused the breathalizer when I was pulled over, but after the nice men took me to the police station, I kind of wouldn't give them any blood either. They had to sort of pin me down. Not my finest hour.

The resisting arrest charge I'm a little unsure of. My lawyer is trying to get the DA to drop the charge, and suggested I get some letters of support from friends, colleagues, etc. My AA sponsor wrote one, affirming that I have been sober since my arrest. The kids' dad wrote an extremely generous and heartfelt letter for leniency as well. I am truly humbled by his kindness.

At any rate, today was the first day I actually read the police report. Good God. My guess is that they settled on the charge of resisting arrest because there isn't a charge of being an enormous drunken pain in the ass to law enforcement.

I mocked the police officer. I remember this. I don't remember accusing him of threatening me with his baton (which apparently was a flashlight), or telling him I didn't have to step away from the vehicle when he ordered me to do so. I don't remember running over to the bushes at the side of the road to pee, mid-field sobriety test. I remember wriggling out of the handcuffs and waving at him from the backseat of the cruiser. I don't remember screaming quite as much as is reported, but really, I was in no condition to remember. I don't remember saying I wanted a lawyer before they took the blood test (This is almost the most embarrassing part--I AM a lawyer, after all. I know a lawyer is not necessary at the testing portion of this scenario). I do remember another cop threatening to taze me if I moved off the bench, but in my defense, I really had to pee (again--c'mon people, if you had a BAC of .19, you'd have to pee a lot, too!). I remember about four different officers pinning me down to take my blood. I think that was the first time that night I realized this was serious business.

So we'll see. We'll see if they drop that resisting arrest charge. In the meantime, I wrote a letter, too. To the cop. Apologizing. And thanking him. He saved my life in more ways than one.

A dose of humility

One of the kids' after school program teachers pulled me over the other day and said, "A was sharing some information about your situation today." I raised my eyebrows and she nodded knowingly. "I told him maybe that was mom's private information." I smiled and thanked her.

There's a fine line between being honest and being private. As I wrote here earlier, the kids know what happened. They don't know the gory details, but they know the results. It seemed important to be honest with them. But I didn't say, "Don't tell anyone." I'm still not sure that I should. I'm wondering about things like shame, humility, honesty and the concept of reputation. Should I have told them not to tell anyone so that the parents in the neighborhood don't think ill of me? Like I care. But should I have found a delicate way to suggest this information is private so that parents in the neighborhood won't think ill of them? Maybe. Would they confuse that to think that lying was okay sometimes? I don't know. I guess ultimately, I didn't want to put the stress of thinking they needed to keep a secret for me on them. Seemed like a bad precedent to set.

The concept of discretion doesn't completely escape them, however.

Before we rode down to the pool one day, I called for W, who had gone to visit with our four-year old neighbor in his front yard.

"Come on W, we're going to the pool now." I can't remember if I've mentioned it before but this boy, my oldest son, is LOUD. He proceeded to bid his little friend adieu as follows,

"OKAY, WE'RE GONNA GO NOW. WE'RE RIDING OUR BIKES DOWN TO THE POOL... BECAUSE RIDING YOUR BIKE IS GOOD FOR YOU...AND BECAUSE MY MOM CAN'T DRIVE A CAR BECAUSE . . . " At this point, I got pretty uncomfortable, so I interjected,

"Um, W?" He got the message immediately,

"WELL, I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY, CAUSE IT'S PRIVATE, AND YOU CAN'T GUESS, AND I CAN'T TELL YOU, BUT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS," And holding his hand up to his mouth, mimicking drinking from a bottle,
"GLUG, GLUG, GLUG!"

Oh, the shame. As we rode our bikes past the neighbor's house I saw that not only had W announced my mistake to his little friend, but also to his grandfather, who was sitting out front watching his grandson. I smiled weakly, waved and pedaled on.

The Kindness of Strangers

Not being able to drive is not that bad, but when it is bad, it really sucks. Like the recent morning I got to the bus stop and realized I'd forgotten my wallet--no money, no bus pass. And here was the bus, ready to go. It was the last express bus of the morning. My heart sank--I was going to have to walk all the way home (24 minutes!), and then walk all the way back (24 more minutes!) and take the regular bus, which takes forever. For a split second, I almost begged the five bucks off of one of my fellow bus-takers, but that seemed like overstepping some sort of boundary. I called my neighbor in desperation and out of the kindness of her heart, she ran by my house, picked up my wallet, and drove me to work.

One afternoon, I was walking home under a cloudy sky and it just opened up on me. I'm not organized enough to carry an umbrella, so I ducked under a tree. While I stood there feeling clever, another busrider who did have an umbrella strolled by, offering not only to walk with me under her umbrella, but then drive me from her house to mine! Can you believe this stuff? The rain stopped abruptly so I thanked her and kept on. About three blocks further, a man walked toward me and offered me an umbrella. "Here I brought this for you. I've seen you walking. Can I give you a ride somewhere?" I smiled, said thanks, but I was fine. He persisted, "I wouldn't want you to get sick--then I'd have to bring you chicken soup."

At this point I realize he's trying to pick me up. He did not look like a serial killer, but also not really my type. I thanked him again and moved on. Who knew you might find love on the walk home?

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

I live in a 1970s suburban neighborhood. It's full of ranch-style snout-nosed houses (you know, where the garages and driveways stick out the front of the house). Of course you know it--you grew up there, too.

This particular neighborhood has one main street in and out. Big Box store hell lies beyond.

Forgive my snarkiness, but I think of myself as an urban girl. I like sidewalk cafes, corner markets, boutiques. I like walking. I like public transportation. I'm enjoying my bus rides. But the walk from my house to to the bus stop--which takes me 24 minutes--is an unusual experience. No one else in my neighborhood seems to walk it.

Well, that's a slight exaggeration. Here are the people who walk: members of the half-way house who can't drive anyway; retirees who have all the time in the world; dog walkers; and teenagers who don't have a driver's license yet. Sometimes after the stay-at-home moms drop their kids at school, they'll do a little walking. No one walks to the bus stop, though. No one. If they take the bus, they drive down there and park in the grocery store parking lot.

At first I was self-conscious about being the only person walking. It's a small neighborhood so I know the people in about every third car that whizzes by me. I don't know if I want them to see me, or not. If they see me, they say, "Hey! I saw you walking the other day--where were you going?" This cracks me up--they saw me walking but didn't offer a ride? On the other hand, I've had people who know me very well drive right past me and obviously not see me at all. I trudged past a neighbor's house the other day and he said, "Are you exercising?" I look down at my suit and the purse I have slung over my shoulder. "Um, no, I'm walking from the bus stop." From the look on his face, I might have been speaking Chinese.

But like I said, I enjoy public transportation. I'm a dork, but I think it's kind of fun to figure out how to get from point A to point B. The other night, I had appetizers out on the water after work with a friend. When we were done, we jumped on the trolley and then parted ways at the transit stop to our respective buses. I strolled home from the bus stop. All was quiet in suburban America. It was a warm evening and the stars were out. I shared the journey with a couple of dog walkers.

My feet hurt

I have a blister on the ball of my foot because yesterday I forgot the flip flops I've been wearing to walk to and from the bus stop. I had to walk the 3/4 mile or so in my heels.

All in all, the week went okay. Riding the bus means I have to wake up quite a bit earlier, which frankly sucks. The first morning I had the kids was a disaster. A woke up with a sprained/broken/swollen finger. I didn't know what to do--if I could drive, I'd just take W to school, A and I would go to the urgent care, and then I'd drop him at school later. But as it was, after 7:30, there are no more express buses downtown, plus how would I get to urgent care? On my bike, with A on the handlebars?

My neighbor, who was going to drive me to the bus stop and the kids to school, arrived. By then, it was clear that all A really needed was his finger wrapped. I did that, but I'd missed the bus. We dropped the kids at school and then my neighbor offered to drive me to work. I accepted.

Which brings me to a problem I'm having--accepting help from people. I'm an able-bodied woman with a job. I feel like I should take care of my problems myself. But the truth is, I just can't do this all by myself. The few friends and neighbors I've told about the DUI have been amazing, falling all over themselves to help. I'm so embarrassed to accept their help, even though I know I'd do the same for them if I could. The kids' dad has been amazing, too, even though he and I are trying to unwind our marriage. I feel like I'm building up a debt I will never repay, and that really frightens me.

At least the bus pass works.

What now?

We have no plans today. When the kids were very little and I stayed home with them, if the day got too claustrophobic, I'd throw them in the car and go for a drive. I still do that. If they're squirrely and bickering, I think of an errand or an outing and away we go. But I can't do that now, so I'm wondering what we will do with this day. So far, there's been a lot of computer playing--something called dinosaur run. They found cheat codes on-line, and now their dinosaurs have extra speed and strength. I need some cheat codes.

We took our first bike trip yesterday. We belong to a pool that's about 3/4 of a mile away. It's mostly downhill there, so A., who only just mastered a two-wheel-sans-training-wheels bike last summer did pretty well on the first leg. The trip back was a bit more of a struggle. W. raced ahead, but A. and I took our time. He's prone to giving up in frustrating situations, so I just tried to be supportive, reminding him of popsicles that waited for him at home. Sometimes we got off and walked our bikes. He fell a couple of times and a few other times threw the bike down in disgust, but we eventually reached our street. He seems proud of himself, so I'm hoping he won't balk when I want to do it again.

I already realize the importance of having a good bike, though. The kids' bikes are so heavy and clumsy, no wonder it's more difficult. My friend Judi came with me to buy mine, and urged me to buy the one I eventually got. It's a Novaro "Mia." It's a dream to ride. Definitely a street bike, but more upright, kind of cruiser-like. She says that it's closer to the style that they ride in Europe where commuter biking is more common. Which reminds me--check out her blog: http://www.sansauto.blogspot.com.

Nothing Compares 2U

Remember that song by Sinead O'Connor? While I drove around town yesterday, that song kept going through my head. "This is the last day of our acquaintance . . . " I know, drama queen, right?

I took yesterday and the rest of this week off because it's the kids' spring break. This coincides neatly with adjusting to the no-wheels situation. And yes, the kids do know about the license suspension. The conversation went something like this:

(Me): "You guys, mom did something wrong, stupid and dangerous. I drank too many beers one night and then drove the car. A police officer pulled me over and as punishment, I can't drive a car for a year."

(In horrified chorus): "A YEAR!!!!"

(A., my seven year-old): "But how will we get to Albertson's?"

(W., my nine-year old, philosophically): "Well, we can walk, it's not that far."

(A): "What if we have to go to the bathroom?"

(Me): "On the way? Well, we can pee in the bushes."

(A nods, satisfied that the only problem he sees with the entire situation is resolved).

(W): "Wait, will we have to take the bus to Dad's?"

(Me): "Um, no, I'm pretty sure Dad will come pick you up."

So that was it. Their concerns were met and they are a-okay with the situation. I wonder what they'll say about it at school? I opted for not telling them it was something to keep to themselves, so I'm sure the neighborhood will know everything shortly.

On another note, I got my bus pass in the mail yesterday--it's a spiffy plastic credit card type thing that you can reload on line. Apparently you just tap it next to some kind of electric device when you board the bus. I'm already having anxiety that it hasn't been properly loaded, so that when I use it for the first time on Monday, an alarm will sound indicating that the card is empty, and I am trying to pull a fast one. I will stand there stupidly at the front of the bus while the busdriver looks at me askance. Again with the drama queen. I'm going to make sure and bring cash, though.

One of the last car trips I took yesterday was to the grocery store. I had to laugh at myself because I shopped as though I was going to disappear into a bomb shelter for a year. And of all things, what did I forget? Coffee. I usually run by Starbuck's on my way to work.

The Last Day

Tomorrow is the last day I will drive a car for a year. I'm going to reduce my carbon footprint. I'm going to protect mother earth. I'm going to do my part.

Except I'm not doing this voluntarily. I'll be serving penance for driving under the influence of alcohol.

A couple of months ago, on the way home from an extended happy hour, I got pulled over. The wheels of justice turn slowly, and my DMV hearing was just last week. My lawyer didn't really have any evidence to contradict the police report, so it was a pretty clear cut decision. The court hearing on the misdemeanor hasn't been scheduled yet.

For a year, I won't be able to just jump in the car and go . . . well, anywhere. I will be dependent on public transportation, my new bike, and the kindness of my friends and family. I live in the carcentric universe called the suburbs and a mile from the closest bus stop. I have two kids who have to get to school. Their dad and I are separated, so I'm the head of the household. I live 20-plus miles from my office.

I don't know how difficult it will be. I think it could be funny. And, like the rest of America, I think my experience might be worth blogging about.