birthday girl

My very pregnant mother woke my dad up at 415am and said, "It's time". My dad, who never likes to be late, rushed her out of bed into his 1974 Ford Mustang. He sped down Clark Street (we lived on Clark and Pensacola at the time), passing 1060 W. Addison, a sign that I will forever be a Cubs fan, on the way to Illinois Masonic Hospital. He gets pulled over by Chicago's finest (it's only been 13 years since the Democratic National Convention, so respect is low for the police, think The Blues Brothers) and the cop says, "Where do you think you're going? To deliver a baby?" My dad leans back and the cop sees my mom and me (well, me in "pod form") and guides us to the hospital. Being the procrastinator that I am, I decide to chill in the womb until 1259 pm. Almost 25 years to date, I am catching a jalon out of site to go to Gracias and the truck gets pulled over by the police. There are three people in the front, including the driver, and I am the only one in the flat bed. Everyone is questioned and bags are searched by 3 policemen with rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. They determine us clean and send us on our way. If you ever wondered why I am one to challege the rules or find ways around them, perhaps it's because I've been hassled by "the man" before I was even breathing my own oxygen! More importantly, thanks to everyone who has already sent me birthday emails. It's weird to celebrate a birthday in a foreign country when no one knows it's your birthday!