youie

How do you spell youie, as in a U-turn abbreviated?

On Thursday night, C. and I drove about an hour and a half up to Oak Brook, IL, to see Heather Armstrong, aka, Dooce, give a reading from her new book. We had a blast together. We ate dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, and before and after the reading, which was great, we shopped at stores we don't have down here in Bloomington--The Container Store (love it!) and Crate and Barrel (love it even more). We left Oak Brook for home at about 9ish.

About a half hour into our drive, I have to pee, so we get off on the next exit on the highway. There's a McDonald's/BP station right off the highway, but in order to get to it, you have to drive a bit and then take a U-turn in order to get onto the other side of the road to get into the parking lot. In other words, there's no direct way in. And the U-turn you've got to take is clearly illegal. Two big signs tell drivers not to do it. C. told me not to do it. I justify it to her by saying that they should have an easier way into McDonald's cuz I really gotta pee. So I make the U-turn and drive into the parking lot.

Meanwhile, as we're driving I've been telling her the cute story about how every night all we have to do to get the girls to go out one more time to go potty is say to them, "Who gots to go pot-pot?" and they book it out the dog door. Belly's usually in one of the bedrooms at this time of night, so she comes bookin' it down the hallway and has to slow down a bit before she turns from the hall into the kitchen. It's a sharp turn. We call it roundin' third. Here comes the Booda rounding third and she's being sent home. I'm gesturing wildly as I'm telling this story and I finish it just as I drive into my parking spot at McDonald's.

And the blue lights grab my attention in my rear view mirror.

"Oh Amy. I'm sorry," C. says. Christ. I just got "pulled over" in a parking lot. That damn U-turn. I gather my stuff--registration, insurance card, license--and I have it ready for the cop when he comes to my window.

"Good evening, Ma'am. Do you know why I stopped you tonight?"

"Actually, no I don't." I sounded so convincing I think I convinced myself.

"You made a U-turn back there and there are two signs clearly posted prohibiting a U-turn."

I didn't even stop to think up this response. "Oh. I was just so intent on using the bathroom"--I nod toward McDonald's--"that I must not've noticed it."

"Where're you headed?"

"Bloomington."

"Where're you coming from?"

"Oak Brook. We went to a reading up at the Borders there." Why I felt the need to tell him this, I'm not quite sure. Probably a class thing. See, I'm a good, cultured person, the kind of person who attends book readings. I don't deserve a ticket. Not for having to pee real bad.

He hesitates, looks at my documents, tells me that if my license is valid, he'll cut me a break this time. Goes back to his car. But not before telling me--twice--that I can go ahead and use the bathroom while he looks me up.

So I go inside, confident that I'm not getting a ticket, impressed with my own quick reactions to his questions. When I come back out, he gives me my stuff back and tells me to be more careful next time.

The youie. Rounding third. Belly and me both doing so just to pee one more time before bed. But my prompt came from a 25-year-old cop who got off just a bit too much on his own authority.