The Day all the Numbers Went Kaplooey!
It was a number jumble of humble proportions!
While it's true writers' brains are comprised mainly of words, back in the 90s with small kids, my pen was on hiatus. So I wasn't fluffy-headed-- full of plots and dialogues-- like I am now. (or menopausal)
And this was barely the computer age. The Internet had just crossed the information superhighway into our homes, but it was archaic, before Windows and way before logins, passwords and pin numbers clogged our cortex, So there wasn't much excuse for the flub, except maybe membership in the Mommy club.
I'm not a math whiz by any means, but I have a way with numbers. Even as a kid, I liked goofing around, making up calculator games. My mind sought sequences and associations, and after moving a lot as a Navy Brat (then a few times as a Navy wife), this came in handy for quick recall and making sense of patterns for each phone number and address jammed into the mental file cabinet, My number tricks also helped the noggin register several license plates from different states I've lived, and whatever else I had to cram in over the decades. Famous athletes' sports jerseys add to the significant fun as well.
But back to the big digit blow up. My hubby at the time, Barry, was a sailor and had Navy overnight duty every three days, but the love of my life had a habit of parking on a residential street near the submarine construction site---in a NO Parking Zone. You could argue and quote Crater Face in Grease that "the whole place was a no-parking zone" since there weren’t many legit spaces to park due to shipyard employees and boat crews. Maybe I should rephrase this and say on residential streets, there was a certain time limit. And every three days, Barry overstayed his welcome.
He didn't always park there, but at least four or five times he handed over tickets for me to pay! ( Don't worry, we had joint checking. )
Our small son and I had our routine excursion to the nice, new police station. I'm surprised we weren't on a first-name basis with the desk staff. :)
It was an impressive place and the little guy was in awe. It usually was a quick in and out--at least until the big ice storm!
The frigid N'oreaster blew in overnight on one of Barry's duty days and of course, he was parked in No-No land. By the time he left the next morning, the ice-encased citation was plastered to his windshield. He plucked it off in pieces.
Once again my son and I found ourselves at the City of Groton Police headquarters-- our home away from home. I slid the clerk the bill bits. They were reduced to soft petals, practically faded recycled paper. Naturally, she needed some information-- or more like all of it, which was easy... until she got to the license plate number.
Suddenly, I was stumped. it was pop quiz time! This was a series of letters and digits I knew by heart, especially here. I asked, but couldn't believe they didn't have it on file, especially since his car was a frequent flyer. So I racked my brain, glancing off into space, then peering out the door at my car's plate hoping it jogged his.
Then Eureka--I had it! I rattled off the secret code! Whew, triumphant--until the clerk crinkled her brows and said it didn’t seem right; it should contain at least a letter.
Hmm, how could it be wrong? I leaned into the glass and looked at what she had written. Of course it was right, right? I scrutinized the series, but something did seem off. Then it all made sense! I couldn't stop laughing. I had given her my mother's phone number in Florida!
Duh!
[image error]
While it's true writers' brains are comprised mainly of words, back in the 90s with small kids, my pen was on hiatus. So I wasn't fluffy-headed-- full of plots and dialogues-- like I am now. (or menopausal)
And this was barely the computer age. The Internet had just crossed the information superhighway into our homes, but it was archaic, before Windows and way before logins, passwords and pin numbers clogged our cortex, So there wasn't much excuse for the flub, except maybe membership in the Mommy club.
I'm not a math whiz by any means, but I have a way with numbers. Even as a kid, I liked goofing around, making up calculator games. My mind sought sequences and associations, and after moving a lot as a Navy Brat (then a few times as a Navy wife), this came in handy for quick recall and making sense of patterns for each phone number and address jammed into the mental file cabinet, My number tricks also helped the noggin register several license plates from different states I've lived, and whatever else I had to cram in over the decades. Famous athletes' sports jerseys add to the significant fun as well.
But back to the big digit blow up. My hubby at the time, Barry, was a sailor and had Navy overnight duty every three days, but the love of my life had a habit of parking on a residential street near the submarine construction site---in a NO Parking Zone. You could argue and quote Crater Face in Grease that "the whole place was a no-parking zone" since there weren’t many legit spaces to park due to shipyard employees and boat crews. Maybe I should rephrase this and say on residential streets, there was a certain time limit. And every three days, Barry overstayed his welcome.
He didn't always park there, but at least four or five times he handed over tickets for me to pay! ( Don't worry, we had joint checking. )
Our small son and I had our routine excursion to the nice, new police station. I'm surprised we weren't on a first-name basis with the desk staff. :)
It was an impressive place and the little guy was in awe. It usually was a quick in and out--at least until the big ice storm!
The frigid N'oreaster blew in overnight on one of Barry's duty days and of course, he was parked in No-No land. By the time he left the next morning, the ice-encased citation was plastered to his windshield. He plucked it off in pieces.
Once again my son and I found ourselves at the City of Groton Police headquarters-- our home away from home. I slid the clerk the bill bits. They were reduced to soft petals, practically faded recycled paper. Naturally, she needed some information-- or more like all of it, which was easy... until she got to the license plate number.
Suddenly, I was stumped. it was pop quiz time! This was a series of letters and digits I knew by heart, especially here. I asked, but couldn't believe they didn't have it on file, especially since his car was a frequent flyer. So I racked my brain, glancing off into space, then peering out the door at my car's plate hoping it jogged his.
Then Eureka--I had it! I rattled off the secret code! Whew, triumphant--until the clerk crinkled her brows and said it didn’t seem right; it should contain at least a letter.
Hmm, how could it be wrong? I leaned into the glass and looked at what she had written. Of course it was right, right? I scrutinized the series, but something did seem off. Then it all made sense! I couldn't stop laughing. I had given her my mother's phone number in Florida!
Duh!
[image error]
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