So today I experienced one of moments when the larger cultural impossibility of queerness, (and certainly the the invisibility of queerness for the girly-girl - which to be clear - is very frustrating whether it works in my favour or not) actually did me a solid (as my friend Patrick would say).
See, I have this lead foot. And I also have this habit of being stuck up in my head when I shouldn't be. And those two things combined led to me (and sleeping Girlio in the back seat) being pulled over by the guy in the car with the flashing red-and-white lights. In case you were wondering, he failed to find these aspects of my personality in any way endearing. Anyhow - so - I got ma'amed. Sternly. I handed over my license and registration politely like a good girl. And then Mr. Police Dude was in his car for a long time. Long, long. Disturbingly long. And when he returns, he tells me (again with the stern) that the reigstration is expired. I respond with something eloquent and composed, like "shit! Really?" Because - in case you didn't know this - this is bad. Like get-out-of-the-car-then-car-gets-towed-away-kinda-bad. And before I can say anything else, Mr. Police Dude says, (yes, if you guessed sternly, you get the prize), "I'm going to let you go on a warning, since it isn't YOUR car. But you need to let your friend know that if she doesn't get her updated registration in here, she'll be in some trouble!" True, the car is registered in L's name. But if our car was registered in a dude's name and I got pulled over while speeding in our nice family automobile full of sleeping kid and cheerios, you can be darn sure he'd have assumed this was a shared hubby & wifey piece of property. I'm thinking you could also likely assume that if I read more outwardly queer, I would not have been done this favour. He assumed the car couldn't possibly be mine because I couldn't possibly be queer. A big chunk of me, like let's say 96.7% wanted to protest: "Oh yes this is MY car!" My big-queer- honk-if-you're-a-homo-rific-car. (Also this is annoying, because, as the little-woman-stay-at-home-wifey, my existence is routinely ignored by folks who want to talk to the important working spouse. So, all buttons pushed.) I took the low, possibly less honourable road, squelched the indignation and listened to the other very small % of my brain that was saying "simmer down, little lady."
And I thanked Mr. Officer Dude and drove away with my very large speeding ticket and my still sweetly sleeping Girlio.
And while I feel thankful for not having to walk what would have been a no-longer sweetly sleeping baby home, and not havnig another enormous fine and towing costs added to my considerable speeding ticket; I also feel kinda dirty.