It was as good as I imagined it, friends. A woman came up to me at a restaurant and said, “You look familiar. What’s your Twitter name?” We proceeded to confirm our social media identities. This transaction took place in front of my children, which is important inasmuch as my children, who believe their mother to be a loser who exists only to buy the Uncrustables and to embarrasses them when she has parent chaplain duty, is actually Twitter famous. We made a mom date, the Twitter lady and I. We talked about writer dork things and compared podcast notes. So I made a new friend and my kids think me slightly less of a loser mom. Win win. Go follow my new friend Bethany on the Twitter. She’s fab.
Earlier in the day, I had entered a court room. I immediately saw a co-worker, who will remain anonymous. It felt good to recognize someone in a sea of strangers, even though none of us would be anonymous for long. We sat and watched the courtroom proceedings. Names were called. Charges were announced. “So public,” my co-worker commented. Some in shackles, some in suits, some in the summer shorts attire. Whatever the uniform, we were supposedly all equals before the law. I stood before the judge of my municipality. He called my name, a name that reminds me that I’m in the South: “Miss Layyy.” Miss Layyy. I squeaked, “Present” and stood in a panel of other lawbreakers. We had driven above the speed limit. We had “forgotten” to brake at a stop sign. Our charges were dismissed, however, given our good driving records. “Except for Miss Layyy. Charges will be dismissed but she must pay cost of court. She was speeding through a school zone and that’s a no-no.” I waited in line with the other perpetrators and handed the clerk my card. I signed my name, she who owned the card, she who did the crime and paid for it, she who wants to be recognized known, just not for a no-no.