Ticket facilitators
Among other strange diseases (including "afraid-of-frost-on-orange-juice-cans-itis") I also have the disease known as "Only One Trip." Meaning that, regardless of how many different places I've stopped during the day, how many items I've deposited in my car that need to be taken into my apartment, I am allowed only one trip. This would make sense if I lived in a 20-story apartment building and had to double park to get anything inside without walking six blocks. But the nature of this disease is such that, even though my car is ten feet from my apartment door, I have to get it alllll in one trip. What I really hate is having about eight grocery bags over one arm and trying to reach around the seats to pick up that rebel box of cereal that escaped its bag and is running loose on the floor. I also hate having serious deep red marks on my forearms for about an hour after this little trick because I ended up hauling around roughly a million pounds of whatever and getting cranky because I can't get it all in the door.
Also in the way of transportation woes, I am terribly annoyed by my current parking situation. I'd draw out a picture, but that would require some actual artistic or web design skills, neither of which I have. Basically, in a parking lot roughly 500 square feet, there are usually five cars parked. This is not really an issue; I know the dimensions of my car and can zip in and out without crashing into the garage or another car. Way to go, me. What really irritates me to no end is the fact that my neighbor (whom I love dearly in all other respects) seems to have no problem allowing her teenage daughter to park behind her. This directly blocks my exit, and turns my three point reverse turn into like a twenty-point desperate attempt at freedom. Then, I get out into the alley and what do I find? Three cars parked behind the bakery, right at the exit of the parking lot. Usually there's at least one sketchy guy leering at me as I attempt to get by, usually meaning I scrape the side of my car on the shrubbery. I've gotten really mean and put the parking police on speed dial so I can get them to come give out tickets when it's really horridly bad.
My alternative to parking behind my house is parking on the street. But there's no way on God's green earth that I'm going to do that. Meter maids (I know, I should be PC and call them something like ticket facilitators but I don't even care) are fascist lunatics around here. Maybe it's the city's attempt to maintain the boutique atmosphere, but let me tell you, you REALLY don't want to park even a minute over the limit on a 75minute spot. That's $35 right there - which is probably about reasonable. What is not reasonable are the stupid street sweeping rules. They're like the hours of barbeque restaurants (e.g. "We're open from 1-3 on Tuesday, and then from 4-4:30 on Friday, and Saturday until noon"); you really have no idea when they're actually in effect. The sign outside my house reads "Street sweeping on the third Wednesday of every month." Which would be super if I even knew what day it was half the time. The street sweeping violations are $40. As though this town doesn't make enough money taxing the celebrities and jailing jaywalkers.
I would buy a horse or a bike, I really would. But the only good thing about having a car is the car wash. I do so love the car wash. It's on my short list of "things to make even the worst day tolerable." There's something about the rhythmic thrum of the water and the thwap thwap thwap of the washer arms on the car and the multicolored foam that absolutely entrances me. Mostly, I think, it's the feeling of having a safe haven from the water outside. This summer, when I was so desperate for rain that I downloaded "peaceful sounds of rain" MP3s and closed the shades so I could pretend it was storming, I loved going to the carwash so I could at least hear water pounding down on the car roof again.
Fortunately, I got a good dose of rainy weather while I was in Charlotte. It was my favorite Christmas present to sit outside on my parents' porch, wrapped up in a big quilt, watching all the drizzly rain come down and gather on the tree limbs and the bright cerulean petals of the pansies in the garden. California may be a model boyfriend, but he's got nothing on the monsoon rains and the subsonic reverberations of thunder that hit around July every year in North Carolina.
I'm making myself homesick. Time to go to bed and get ready for an exciting day of philosophy and my anthropology course on biotechnology. The only cure for homesickness is learning fascinating things which will never prove lucrative but make me so glad I'm not working in an office.
Also in the way of transportation woes, I am terribly annoyed by my current parking situation. I'd draw out a picture, but that would require some actual artistic or web design skills, neither of which I have. Basically, in a parking lot roughly 500 square feet, there are usually five cars parked. This is not really an issue; I know the dimensions of my car and can zip in and out without crashing into the garage or another car. Way to go, me. What really irritates me to no end is the fact that my neighbor (whom I love dearly in all other respects) seems to have no problem allowing her teenage daughter to park behind her. This directly blocks my exit, and turns my three point reverse turn into like a twenty-point desperate attempt at freedom. Then, I get out into the alley and what do I find? Three cars parked behind the bakery, right at the exit of the parking lot. Usually there's at least one sketchy guy leering at me as I attempt to get by, usually meaning I scrape the side of my car on the shrubbery. I've gotten really mean and put the parking police on speed dial so I can get them to come give out tickets when it's really horridly bad.
My alternative to parking behind my house is parking on the street. But there's no way on God's green earth that I'm going to do that. Meter maids (I know, I should be PC and call them something like ticket facilitators but I don't even care) are fascist lunatics around here. Maybe it's the city's attempt to maintain the boutique atmosphere, but let me tell you, you REALLY don't want to park even a minute over the limit on a 75minute spot. That's $35 right there - which is probably about reasonable. What is not reasonable are the stupid street sweeping rules. They're like the hours of barbeque restaurants (e.g. "We're open from 1-3 on Tuesday, and then from 4-4:30 on Friday, and Saturday until noon"); you really have no idea when they're actually in effect. The sign outside my house reads "Street sweeping on the third Wednesday of every month." Which would be super if I even knew what day it was half the time. The street sweeping violations are $40. As though this town doesn't make enough money taxing the celebrities and jailing jaywalkers.
I would buy a horse or a bike, I really would. But the only good thing about having a car is the car wash. I do so love the car wash. It's on my short list of "things to make even the worst day tolerable." There's something about the rhythmic thrum of the water and the thwap thwap thwap of the washer arms on the car and the multicolored foam that absolutely entrances me. Mostly, I think, it's the feeling of having a safe haven from the water outside. This summer, when I was so desperate for rain that I downloaded "peaceful sounds of rain" MP3s and closed the shades so I could pretend it was storming, I loved going to the carwash so I could at least hear water pounding down on the car roof again.
Fortunately, I got a good dose of rainy weather while I was in Charlotte. It was my favorite Christmas present to sit outside on my parents' porch, wrapped up in a big quilt, watching all the drizzly rain come down and gather on the tree limbs and the bright cerulean petals of the pansies in the garden. California may be a model boyfriend, but he's got nothing on the monsoon rains and the subsonic reverberations of thunder that hit around July every year in North Carolina.
I'm making myself homesick. Time to go to bed and get ready for an exciting day of philosophy and my anthropology course on biotechnology. The only cure for homesickness is learning fascinating things which will never prove lucrative but make me so glad I'm not working in an office.