Alternate-side parking is the bane of my existence. Do you know how expensive parking tickets are? Don’t even get me started on the cheddar it takes to get your car out of the impound lot. Not that I have to do that much, Rocco. Maybe you shouldn’t read this one. Ahem.
Alternate-side parking is always ruining my mornings. Why just this morning, Lucy was curled up in my pajama-wearing lap. I was chugging away on a writing project, sipping my honey-laden green tea, and rubbing Mildred’s belly with my barefoot. Heaven, right?
Then the alarm on my phone went off. “MOVE CAR, you wanker!” I dumped Lucy to the ground, knocking my tea over onto the legal pad filled with writing. With no towel or fabric in sight, I pulled the pages quickly across Mildred’s exposed belly, grateful I’d been working in ballpoint. Lucy howled when I stepped on her tail while sprinting the ten feet to the bedroom.
Three point five minutes later, I emerged from my building wearing my greatest fashion creation to date: pony-print clogs, navy blue running shorts with what I could only hope was a crusty chunk of dried sour cream on the left thigh, a polka-dotted button-down blouse, and Rocco’s leather RunDMC hat. Mothers, lock up your sons. Raw sex personified was roaming the unmonitored streets of Hoboken at five minutes til ten on this seemingly innocent morning.
I sprinted the three block to the car, wishing I’d taken an extra twenty seconds to put on socks. I rounded the corner at 10:03 to find no policeman in sight. Victory was mine! I danced a little celebratory jig on the corner. In the gated park to my right, a mother glared at me and pulled her child away from the fence, covering his innocent eyes. I retaliated with my best Beyonce impression.
Then I walked calmly to my car, opened the door, climbed in, turned her on and carefully backed out of my space.
Then I circled Hoboken for the next twenty minutes, searching for an empty spot.
There’s a reason people say, “More pizza places than parking spaces,” when I tell them where I live. Fuckers.
I did find one, eventually. It was a little tighter than I like (that’s what she said!), but I wasn’t looking to lose another thirty minutes to such an asinine errand. I find that with enough dedication, you can fit a car most anywhere – especially if the cars in front of you and behind you don’t have their parking breaks engaged. Just a few little love taps will rock those things enough to gain three or four inches on either side! That’s why they’re called bumpers, Interwebz. True story.
Sadly, it still took me ten minutes and thirteen tries to wedge Ginny in that wee parking space, but that’s still less than thirty. (Twenty less, even! Who says Thom’s the only one good at math?) And sure, one of her tires is on the sidewalk. Rocco would say two of her tires on on the sidewalk, but he’d be wrong. Technically a planter doesn’t count as sidewalk. Look it up.
The thing is, now that I’ve bothered getting dressed once today, I’m not really motivated to change. Do you think I can wear this to the MoMA? Just pretend I’m my own art installation?
Yeah, me too.