By Lauren Felechner
Daily Titan Staff Writer

My parents always told me not to drink and drive. “You’re playing with fire” is something I would always hear. It wasn’t until March 8, 2009 that playing with fire got me burned.

It was the UFC fight night between Quinton “Rampage” Jackson and Keith “The Dean of Mean” Jardine. My boyfriend and I hung out at a friend’s house in Irvine, while I was partaking in the available drinks and enjoying the fights.

Afterward, my boyfriend wanted to go back home to Lake Elsinore, wanting me to go with him. I decided to take my own car since I live in Irvine, and meet him there.

I remember that it wasn’t the worst I had been driving under the influence, yet for some reason, I had a strange feeling that I would, and should, get pulled over that night. I passed the Main Street exit on the 15 South reaching my boyfriend’s exit, Railroad Canyon, when I saw those oh-so-pretty blue and red lights flashing in my rearview mirror.

The cop told me he had pulled me over because I failed to signal when switching lanes.

Bullshit.

And that they had been following me for a couple exits back for passing by slower vehicles.

That sounded about right.

I took the sobriety tests and felt I had passed them with flying colors, then he whipped out the breathalyzer. I blew a 0.09. A 0.09!

I was cuffed and put into the cop car while one of the officers parked my car at a nearby McDonald’s parking lot so it wouldn’t get impounded.

That was probably the coolest thing they did all night for me.

Honestly, maybe it was because I was still drunk, but I wasn’t mad about getting a DUI.

I was more pissed at the fact that I was so close to my boyfriend’s house.

I had been driving for 45 minutes, and I got pulled over a mile away from his house.

Statistically, people usually get pulled over within five miles of their destination.

I just didn’t want my boyfriend to worry.

Ahh, jail. Probably the last place I ever want to go back to. This was a deja vu of an arrest I experienced in Lake Havasu when I was 18. But instead of 10 girls being in the cell with me like Havasu, there were only two others in the Murrieta jail.

One was relieved she had “smoked that blunt” right before being pulled over, so she had no problems falling asleep. The other one was worried about “her husband kicking her ass.” I wrapped my hands and feet up in toilet paper, not only because I felt like I was sitting in an ice box, but because jail isn’t the cleanest place in the world.

I managed to fall asleep for a while, using a full toilet paper roll as a little pillow. Curled up in the fetal position, I woke up to two male officers looking through the glass window of the cell door at me, as if I were an animal at the zoo, and they were trying to figure out what I was wearing under my shirt. No joke.

Underneath my clothes I was wearing a bathing suit because we had gone to the jacuzzi before heading home. I sat up quickly, causing them to almost bump into each other trying to get away from the door. Dirty bastards.

Twelve hours later I was released. But because inmates are only allowed to call landlines from jail and it was not connecting to my boyfriend’s work line, it was to a taxi cab. I saw eight missed calls and four text messages from my boyfriend throughout the early morning hours.

It started to settle in on my way to his house that, damn, I have a DUI.

I thought, “How am I supposed to pay for this?” because at the time, I was unemployed, and “How am I going to tell my parents?” because I was scared to death.

I didn’t go home for a couple of days, and I had decided I wouldn’t tell my parents about the DUI until after my court date, which was set for May 11.

How would they know about it if I wasn’t convicted yet? Well, this type of stuff is public record and if necessary you could look it up and see my mug shot and find out about my arrest. That is what law offices do because that is how they get their clients.

On Monday morning, my mom walked into my room while I had my back turned to her.

When she didn’t say anything, I turned around and saw a stack of envelopes from law offices stamped with red letters, “DUI” on them. So unnecessary.

I had to come clean to her, which wasn’t the easiest thing, but I did it.

I ended up taking my dad to breakfast to tell him just because I felt a public place and feeding him were safety guidelines.

With a DUI, you are basically throwing away about $3,000 after everything is done and paid for.

The actual fine itself is about $2,184, the three month-long alcohol program I was assigned to was around $530, and then there are little DMV fees here and there.

I did a weekend-long house arrest, with an ankle bracelet and everything, instead of six weeks of community service, which added more money to my fees.

The fact that I was arrested in Riverside County, even though I live in Orange County, meant I had to report to the courts and orientations out there, draining my gas.

When it comes down to it, I am happy that this happened because even though it obliterated my bank account and made me want to pull out my hair, it gave me a new sense of responsibility.

But damn, those were probably the most expensive drinks I have ever had in my life.