Feb. 14, 2008 at 6:43pm

Photos, Phun, and Phucking Big Brother.

(my brush with Tacoma cops via photo.)

A letter came to The Man today, from some random police-ish address, "Photo Enforcement Division," or some such.  Now, as it stands, I drive a car that we purchased and insured under his name, since my reputation is less than pristine as far as insurance companies view me.  Kinda', they look at me like a cross between "the girl next door who's easy" and "that girl at the strip club who only dances to buy milk for her baby."

Consequently, Joe Virgin-Reputation scores us much better deals, insurance-wise.  And when notices about parking violations come in the mail addressed to him, I pretty much know the dealio.

And so, consequently, I got that gut-sinking feeling that follows (or precedes) the word "busted!"

Normally, I'm a good person and I let The Man open his own mail, but today I had a niggly feeling it might be best for me to feign ignorance if he asked about the open state of said letter. Maybe I'd bat my eyelashes and raise my voice several octaves, "oh, heee heee heee, that's *your* name??"  

So I decided to open the envelope.

Sure as shit, there was my car, going through a red light, 9 am.

And you know, pictures don't lie.

Friends do, when they tell you, "you don't look at all like you've put on thirty pounds," or "you don't look that old!" -- but the photos will straight-up tell you, "yes, you're a fatty and you appear to have morning face that lasts all day."

So I had to examine the photo, the better to go on the defensive about it. "Musta' been The Man driving," I said, looking at the date stamp.

(um, no.  Friday the 8th, 9 am. Intersection of Pearl and N 26th.)

"That wasn't me, I was dropping the kid off at school."

(um, yeah, negatory number two.  Kid got dropped off a scosche early so I could get to MIL's for the Hillary thing.)

"The light couldn't have been red, it musta' been yellow!"

(once again, the picture chirps a cheerful nope! as it shows the car, passing the crosswalk  .15 seconds after light turned red.)

"Oh for the love of a dog, .15 of a second?  Come ON!" -- and as it turned out, the speed at which I crossed said crosswalk-- 20 mph-- showed further that perhaps I was not the most hardened of career traffic criminals-- surely, if I wanted to commit a crime, I'd want to do it right, veering across lanes and careening through the intersection at at least... 35 mph, right?

Another beautiful point: roads, empty.  Empty, empty, empty.

HOWEVER, the camera snapped my car, my license plate,(make that, HIS car, HIS license plate)  going through a red light.

Do I fight it, which means telling him, so that he can fight it? Or kiss away my freelance check and pay off the bastards without a fight?  ...And then, does he find out about the hidden ticket anyway, via increased insurance premiums?

(arrrrr.  Cameras, pictures.  Love 'em.  Hate 'em.)