So. Yeh.

There is currently a rumor circulating that I am incarcerated*.  Let’s dispatch with that nonsense, shall we? For absolute clarity’s sake, I am not in custody, I am not even in trouble, nor is Daniel. Everyone is fine.

Yes, if you drove past #208 the other morning, you would have seen a hilarity of cop cars in our driveway**.  This is not what it looks like.

So the sheriff was here with a nastigram about someone’s *** excise tax. You know – the tax one has to pay annually on their depreciating car, the car that they paid sales tax on already (I still don’t understand this. Someone please help me understand this). Well, if you don’t pay it in a timely manner, eventually the sheriff comes to your door and bangs for a while to get your deadbeat butt off the couch to come pay attention – after all, you owe the state your monies! Then if you don’t come to the door, the officer tapes the excise bill to one’s storm door in such a manner that it’s the first thing one sees in the morning when on the way out the door.  It is confusing, but will indeed bring one to wakefulness in short time.

Ok, so the sheriff comes to knock, and Daniel and I are in the basement, so as we’re sitting there drinking our morning coffee, we hear the pitter patter of big heavy boots on the stairs, and we’re all like whaaat? and follow up to see what that’s all about. Well, the sheriff wants nothing to do with us, we explain that Candice no longer lives here, and we walk the gentleman to the door.

Which is when he sees my car. My fanceh 1965 Type 3 Fastback imported from Europe back when it was redonkulously expensive to import a car from Europe, but the previous owner tells me it was snuck onto a cargo boat. How someone sneaks a car onto a cargo boat is beyond my ability to imagine, but that’s beside the point. What the point is, is that my car is a lovely machine, despite the fading paint and big mileage (he odometer has rolled over two – 2! – times since I have owned it). Pre-fuel injection, pre-nosejob, once nailpolish red, I love my car.

Well! Our sheriff  friend had never seen a Type 3 before up close and personal. So he had to have a look. And then his partner did too. Who also called a friend on the force, who also called a friend. And before you know it, my driveway looked like CSI was responding to an incident at our house. Everything but yellow tape and a body, swear to dog. There were seven cop cars. Seven! I did the natural thing – I made another pot of coffee and shared it around with the nice officers.

Which is when Mrs. McCowan decided to drop by. And, seeing the cruisers lined up,  drive past, rubbernecking at our driveway. And then drove to the museum where she is a donor, the museum where Will works, and made a ruckus. Which led Will to come home, speeding just a little bit, and get stopped with a warning (-whew!-) at the bottom of the street.

But already the damage is done: Skipper’s mom thinks we got busted for something (God only knows what), the people at the museum also believe that someone we live with got busted, and this rumor spread to my guild.

So the moral of this story is:

PAY YOUR DAMNED EXCISE TAX. If you don’t, the reputations of your neighbours may suffer.


*In Violet Hold, no less.
**Sorry, Skipper. I know you wound up parking on the street because the driveway was blocked, and the date’s misfortune happened to fall on street sweeping day. I will totally help you to pay for the parking ticket.
***Candice’s (who doesn’t even live here anymore, for those of you who haven’t been following along).