My daughter Emma Katherine Roey, now Emma Buchheim, lied about a friend being raped and attempting suicide, claimed to have been molested by a priest, and then, just as her attorneys were about to file a law suit, Emma accused her mother (me) of physically abusing her and later of poisoning her with DDT. Emma claimed to have a toxicology report to confirm that her mother (me, again!) poisoned her, but would never turn over this report to my attorney. If you read through the blog, you will find many other examples of Emma’s lying. At one point, she even complained about the way her dad touched her and that he called her a “bitch” and a “slut” everyday. (I refused to listen to her when she talked about her dad like that.) As long as Emma continues with the lies, I will tell her story.  Emma and her current husband, Tyler Buchheim live in Frisco, Texas where Tyler, who has put architecture on hold, is studying to be a Full Stack Developer at the Flatiron School in an effort to avoid a midlife crisis (according to Tyler).  Emma works in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area as an insurance underwriter.   Emma and Tyler are the parents to two little dogs, Arya and Sansa.  (Emma is a huge Game of Thrones fan.)  Love and thanks to all of you who read and have written to me. If you have any questions or comments, please contact me at: losingemma@gmail.com Please continue to share the blog with others.

Part One, The Card (So, I went out of order.  Sue me.)

(There’s some alliteration for you, Emma. Remember learning that when we homeschooled?”)

Ok, so this post isn’t really about Emma, it’s just about life. Since a lot of you are estranged parents, divorced, struggling, and so on, you will get this. It’s just the daily things. The adventures in singledom. I once had a husband who took care of a lot of things and didn’t want me to handle the banking, the bills, the investments, the retirement, etc., and to be honest, I didn’t like dealing with car stuff or workmen on my own. I preferred Phill to be home if someone were coming to the house.

Emma and Phill at SEFF.  Southeast Electric Flight Festival

The cars were always in Phill’s name, and he always took care of the registration during his birthday month (March 21, 1958—my husband just turned 60!), except for a couple of times when he didn’t. One time, I was driving Emma to private school—-about 24 miles one way—the price we pay for trying to do what’s best for our children (sigh), and I got pulled over and got a ticket because Phill had forgotten to renew the registration. I was embarrassed and thought it had to be a mistake, but it wasn’t. Phill just forgot. Later, I asked him how much the ticket was, and he said, “You don’t want to know.” and I never did ask again. I looked it up these days, and it’s about $125-135. I don’t know why Phill said I didn’t want to know. I had assumed it was a lot more than that. Emma, I think, was in kindergarten. She was still in a childseat, and I remember the officer handing me the ticket and telling me that he appreciated that I had my child buckled in safely. I guess it’s always good to give someone a compliment when you’re about to ruin their day.

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Later on, Emma had made her big announcement of being sexually molested by the priest on Phill’s birthday, March 21, 2010, Phill was so distracted by everything that was going on, dealing with the church, the police, and poor Emma who was traumatized by her “repressed memories,” Phill forgot again and I got stopped again. I was driving down Hwy 124, near Mill Creek High School, when the police pulled over everyone. There were a bunch of police cars there. Spike, my lab/mix was in the back seat, hanging his head out the window, and I think the only reason I didn’t get a ticket was because Spike was a big, friendly goof and the police officer seemed to like him. For whatever reason, he let me go without a ticket that time.

Fast forward to April of 2018. I am having some car trouble, and my car is stuck in 2^nd Gear (which will be Part 2 of the story, The Car.) so I can’t drive it on the highway, and I’m driving back roads to work and being jerked around by the car dealer on when my car parts will be in. This was actually sort of a blessing in disguise because it is spring, flowers and trees are blooming, and I live in a rural area with a lot of horse farms. It was such a pretty drive, that I didn’t miss going down the highway, even though it took a little longer,  With the car problems, even on back roads, I was usually going about 30mph, and I know people were pulling up behind me wondering what the heck was wrong with this old lady who’s driving so slow. I wanted to dye my hair blue. I thought about putting a sign on the car that said, “Stuck in 2^nd Gear” or “Go Around” and then I thought both “2^nd Gear” and “Go Around” would make good names for a rock band.

On this little country road, I take for most of the 13 mile trip to my job, there is 3-way stop. One morning, I was going in to work late, about 1030am, when I noticed the police conducting a traffic stop at the 3-way stop. I thought this a little odd at this time of day because there wasn’t much traffic on this little road. It just didn’t seem like a busy enough road to have a traffic stop on, but what do I know?

As I pull up and stop on this beautiful spring morning, I roll down the window, and a young officer comes up and tells me they are just checking licenses and insurance. “Oh, ok. Sure.” I pull out my license and hand it to him. The officer takes my license and walks behind my car like he’s looking at the plate, with my license. I really wondered what he was doing, but wasn’t going to ask. He comes back and hands me my license and asks for my insurance card. Figuring that that was what he was going to ask, I had already opened my glove box and pulled out a stack of papers.

As I said, Phill always took care of the car stuff, so since Phil had me thrown out of our Buck Trail, Hoschton home in April of 2011, I had always just stuck whatever car stuff there was in the glove box. Every-time I got a new insurance card, I put it in the glove box, and the same with my registration, the owners’s manual, or anything else that had to do with the car.

I pull out a wad of paper and grab one on top and hand it to the officer. “Here’s my insurance card.”

“Ma’am, this card is from 2015.” (I love southern officers. They are so polite.)

“Oops. Ok, wait a minute.”

I flip through the paper and see on that has the correct year on it and hand it to him. “Here it is.”

“Ma’am, this is your registration.”

He hands it back to me, and I look at it. Yep, he’s right. I start flipping through all these papers. “I know it’s here. I remember putting it in the car. Apparently I don’t throw anything away.”

The officer says, “That might be a good thing.”

(Pause……………………………………………………)

“Ma’am, I’m just going to take your word for it.”

I was dressed professionally and wearing my name badge, so it’s not like I looked like some bum, but I really wanted to find that card.

“No, wait a minute. I know it’s here. Here’s 2016. Here’s 2017. Wait. I’m getting closer.”

“Ma’am it’s ok. You can go.”

“But I know it’s here.”

“Really ma’am, you can go. Just make sure you have it in the car when you get home tonight.”

I always thought the police could check your insurance with either your license plate or your driver’s license, but I don’t know and thought it was probably best not to ask, so I drove on it to work, and when I got there, I flipped though all those papers and found it! Sure enough, I did have it!  I almost wanted to turn around and drive back to show it to him.

To be continued……………..Part Two will be, The Car—- and dealing with car dealers, or being a woman in a man’s world, or……… In the end, there was a great service manager who knew I’d been treated poorly and he took over and made things right, but boy was it two weeks worth of aggravation!