Monday, August 15, 2005

One expensive trip


My one attempt at telling someone who controls a (large) portion of where my money goes each month was met with great disaster. I am terrible at telling people where to stick it - even when I know I'm getting ripped off like you wouldn't believe.

My insurance agent is a very nice, smiley lady who has the gift of sympathy, but also the possesses the power to deny pitiful souls like mine a decent insurance rate. Who would think one (slight) speeding ticket in 2001 would screw me over so much that I'm suddenly classified as a "high risk" driver. To me, that's obsurd, obscene and enough to make me switch companies.

While most insurers count violations 3 years back, my insurance company goes back a whopping 5 years. So it makes me wish that four years ago, when the speeding ticket that keeps on giving was written, I never would have gotten into my car to make the trek to Atlanta that's now cost me lots of moolah.

You see, I was on my way to see a guy I was dating play at a club with his band. My friend Allison was along for the 45 minute ride to Atlanta from North Georgia. And at the last minute, she got a phone call from her on-again-off-again boyfriend who suddenly decided he wanted to join us at the club. Sidenote: This guy was a jerk from the word "go" - I didn't want him to come with us, but Allison couldn't say no to the loser. So, I get off the freeway, hop onto some two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere and procede to jerk boy's house. Sidenote #2: He lived with his mother and didn't seem to have any desire to get his own place.

About five miles down the road that I didn't even want to be on, the speed limit dropped from 65 mph to 45 mph. With the speed limit sign still clearly in my rear-view mirror and my car slowing down, I spotted a cop sitting in the parking lot of a fruit stand.

"Aw, dammit. I think he clocked me."
"But you were going the speed limit," Allison said.
"I was going the speed limit, but it just dropped to 45 - I was going 60 probably when he saw me."
"Oh, you're fine."
"Um, no I'm not ... notice the blue lights ... "

And that was that. About 10 minutes later we were driving down the two-lane with a nice yellow slip of paper on the dashboard on our way to pick up a bona fide jerk who would later make my night miserable.

And now, four years later, I'm still paying for it.