My husband finally has proof that he married a fast girl.

Since living in Ireland, I have a rule of conduct: do not do anything illegal that will land you in jail and get you kicked out. Not that I was a regular law-breaker in the U.S., but they aren't going to kick me out of the country if I am caught buying weed, selling my child on the street, or protesting water charges.

When I tell people my rule they instantly ask me if I have ever done drugs in Ireland (nope) or if I speed when driving. Well.

OK. So, I speed. I received this in the post two weeks ago. It was right when I got home after the hardest day at work in a long while and immediately before a PTA meeting. It was the weeks old, slimy turkey in my shit sandwich.

They won't kick me out the country for a speeding ticket, but it is my first, which makes it not even nearly the same situation, but, you know, annoying. I have been pulled over three times and have been in three accidents (only one being my fault) in over 17 years of driving and I have never received anything more than a wink with a warning.

The other thing I find heart-breaking about this ticket, besides getting my cherry popped by a speed-camera, is the realisation of how fast I was actually going. When I told my dad about it, he did the very quick, rudimentary math that I couldn't do and told me that I was doing 47mph in a 37mph. The Stillorgan Road is a dual carriageway that could be confused for an airport runway. The fact that I have to pay €80 and receive three points on my license for not even hitting 50 on a what I would consider a highway is akin to being in the class with the kid who reminds the teacher she didn't collect the homework from the night before that you didn't bother doing: you're not wrong, Walter; you're just an asshole.

The only funny (or sad?) thing about this is that after 10 years, I still have no concept of kilometres (and celsius... and euros -- so, yeah, sad). They might as well have told me I was going 1,513,000,000 wiffles over the speed limit. I would have happily paid the fine, thinking me and Doc should be fucking time traveling any moment now.

In the end, I walked down to the local post office and paid the fine, telling the clerk I was there to pay my debt to society. Because, apparently, dad jokes are not, but should be, punishable by deportation. She didn't even smile.

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Liz in Dublin