And Another thing

I see that, with my usual knack at telling a story I forgot the whole mug shot section, so you might need to know that.

Because it's nothing like you'd expect, although I can tell you that I now know why mug shots look like they do.

You know, like the person was drunk at the time or possibly a moron who drooled a lot.

Because they don't actually mention that they're going to take your picture, they just tell you to go stand by the wall there and face them. Which I did. But I was thinking about something and didn't realize they had taken my picture until they asked me to turn to the left.

By that time someone already had a picture of me with bad posture and breathing through my mouth. And during the profile shot I was obsessing over how I looked dead on and frankly, that didn't improve my profile picture, either.

And then some guy made me take off my glasses, because apparently glasses can alter your look to the point where your own mother wouldn't recognize you. I mean, my own mother always has, but clearly.

I was then not only looking perplexed, but I was blind, as well. I wanted to make a good impression so I tried to face forward, but that just makes me look like a turtle coming out of the shell. And trying to see when I'm blind tends to give me a maniacal glare.

So it's just their own fault if I look like Charlie Manson.

Also, I lose my balance when I can't see, because something to do with that brain freeze during heart surgery, so I don't just look like Charlie, I look like Charlie heavily drugged. Which, now that I think of it, is how Charlie usually looked.

Ah, well. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, mores the pity.

I would like to point out that if you can't tell I'm me if I take my glasses off, how well do you expect to do when I take my hair down? Yet, we left it up in it's twist.

No one even knows how long it is, or how it might alter my appearance if I quit dyeing it or tried a chignon or something. Isn't that as important as glasses? Does this mean I could sneak into Venezuela if I just got a new do?

And, despite the pain meds, I seem to remember we were having a lovely chat about being a grandma throughout this procedure, so I probably also have that sappy, somebody just hit me with a rubber hammer look I get when I rhapsodize over my grandchildren.

Charlie didn't have any grandchildren, but he tended to rhapsodize over a lot of things, so probably, there again, I bear a striking resemblance to him in my mug shots.

This was before the fingerprinting, but after the shoe discussion. I did offer to commit suicide once, but that was mostly a no starter. They looked at me oddly, but no one made an emergency appointment with my therapist like Tammy does when I make that offer to her.

Presumably, Tammy is more fond of me than the Sheriff's Department. But then she knows me better. So far. I am not feeling suicidal today, which is kind of a nice break, but you never know.

I figure I am just one small note from the Sheriff away at any given moment. I'm thinking I may devote a whole chapter in my book, "Pilly's Guide to Creative Suicide," on the downward spiral that occurs in the mind of crazy people when being threatened by yelling deputies.

And, by God, it wasn't an empty threat either. They're nothing if not thorough at that Sheriff's department. And honest. If they promise they're going to have you charged with a crime, you may rest assured that sooner or later, they will get around to doing it.

Even if they have to interrupt your funeral to do it. In fact, I would not be surprised if they dug up my corpse and insist it stand trial. I feel my mother may object to that, but there you are. The law is the law and we all must follow it. All the time. Every day. With no mistakes.

You make a mistake around here and you'll find yourself wandering around next to a wall trying to find a camera in no time at all. Just trust me. I would know.