War of the tickers or Up down up down

I knew this would be a roller coaster of a pms day when I burst into tears this morning upon finding that there was only enough spaghetti sauce in the fridge for one lunch. A few minutes later, however, all was put to rights when Tom took some white cheese sauce (the name of which completely escapes me) with his pasta instead.

I had an evening appointment, so I nulled the carpool for the day, and instead followed right behind Tom in my own car. He pulled into a Starbucks, and I continued on to the parking lot I always park in. For $4 a day, I couldn’t go wrong. But this time, there was a queue in front of the pay machine. With a sinking feeling, I stepped out of my car. “Event parking,” said the fellow at the front of the line.

Shit. $15 a day? No thanks.

My knowledge of downtown streets and parking remains limited because I go there as little as possible and hardly ever alone. So of course as I excited the parking lot, I went out the wrong exit and started heading away from downtown. Shit.

I eventually managed to turn around and get back on a familiar street, and drove toward the parking lot that is behind where I work. $11 a day. Ouch.

Stopped at a traffic light, I noticed a familiar black car in the other lane. Tom. I called his cell and told him it was event parking at my lot, breaking into a fresh batch of tears. He told me he knew where I could park for $8 a day, and I followed him.

I recognized the street we were on as one he used to try to find free parking on, and there, on the other side of the street as we drove up it, was a spot. I pulled an instant u-turn and slammed my car into reverse to back up to the spot. While that was happening, a woman in a Civic was coming down the street on the same side as the parking spot. Tom swerved onto her side of the road to slow her down. I backed up to the spot and she drove up to the spot at the same time. We sat there. Idling. One free parking spot between us. Then I remembered: the ticker.

I flicked on my right-turn signal, to show I was waiting for her to move so I could park. She turned her signal on too. Her left-turn signal. She drove around me and off down the road.

Victory.

I backed into the tight parking spot with ease, mostly thanks to my snub-nosed car. I stepped out onto the road and said thanks and bye to Tom, who was now late for work. I got my stuff out of my car, locked it and crossed the street.

I looked admiringly at the marina and classy condominiums surrounding me. “Hmm”, I sniffed, as the scent of laundry and expensive cafes drifted by, “it smells like rich people.” I stepped over the curb and onto the grass. Splut. “It smells like rich people who don’t clean up after their f*cking dogs!.”

Fortunately I was wearing my sneakers, my driving shoes; my shoes that went with the change of clothes I brought so I wouldn’t be stuck in a button-down blouse and sweater vest for the next 12 hours. I pulled my work shoes out of my backpack and slipped them on. Wiping the excess crap off my sneaker onto the grass, I deposited it and its pair gingerly into my trunk.

At work a few minutes later, I noticed a bottle of wine sitting on my desk. Belated, long weekend wine. Yes, my employer gives us wine to enjoy during long weekends. I sat down at my desk and noticed three more bottles under my desk, including a bottle of Rosé. Cha-ching.