The Parking Attendant

Image courtesy of http://www.diochon.com

 

I’ve always been a bit of a rule follower.  I think it was my strict up-bringing, which made me afraid of breaking rules.  Sure some rules are meant to be broken – like the speed limit – but all-in-all I’m a pretty honest person. 

I’m the kind of person that if the Jewel cashier gave me an extra dollar I would give it back. 

I’m the kind of person that will never take an extra bag of mulch at Home DePot.  If I pay for 4, we get 4! 

I’m the kind of person that finds a wallet and returns it – without taking the $20 bill. 

I’m not saying I’m a goody-goody or anything.  I just feel like I’m a pretty honest, good person.  Hopefully this will be my ticket to Heaven seeing as though I’m a crab ass with a potty mouth and a chip on my shoulder. 

I remember at 22 when I moved into my first apartment.  I lived in Four Lakes Village in Lisle.  It was the place to be, fo shizzle.  I loved it there.  I had just gotten a brand-new-to-me red convertible Pontiac Sunfire.  

I was always taught to respect other people’s belongings.  Apparently other people were not taught that lesson as well.  People would park on top of my Sunfire, or they would park in two spots – with limited parking that is a TOTAL douche move, then someone parked a motorcycle in one of the best parking spots and let it sit there the entire winter with a cover over it.  

Yes, this person parked their motorcycle in the middle of the best parking spot.  For three months.  Without moving it.  Obviously they had another car then?  You were only allowed one parking space per bedroom, so now you get two parking spaces?  With a one bedroom apartment?  It just wasn’t fair.  It used to make me so mad!  Then there were like 10 handicapped spaces.  Seriously?  Ten handicapped spaces seemed excessive – though they were always taken.  But then there was the a-hole who parked their car in a handicapped space with no handicapped sticker/permit AND with a flat tire.  And left it there for two months.  Now that’s just wrong.  Someone eventually flattened ALL the tires.  That’s what you get – KARMA baby! 

Four Lakes claimed to be really strict about their parking lots and they sure as shit would tow – unless they knew you.  Well, that’s just not fair.  I know life is sometimes not fair, but back when I was 22 I was WAY more bitchy than I am now.  This would piss me off every single day.  I would come home from work and see that motorcycle sitting there…again….in the best parking spot, and I would imagine tipping it over.  While I laughed. 

Then the Pontiac Grand Prix who could NEVER seem to park in between the two yellow lines, which are there to guide you into the parking space, and always somehow managed to be on top of my Sunfire – yeah, well one day I put gum on his windshield with a note telling him to learn how to park. 

Turns out that happened to be my neighbor’s car.  Turns out I happened to get friendly with my neighbor.  Turns out one day I was bitching about the douche bag who drives the maroon Grand Prix and he yelled, “That’s my car!” 

Followed by, “YOU were the one who put gum on my car?” 

I stood my ground though.  I told him, “You need to learn how to f’ing park.  This is a shared parking lot, have a little respect for your neighbors!” 

….and two weeks later Grand Prix and his roommates dubbed me “The Parking Attendant.” 

So be it.   

When I parked my car and would walk into the building Grand Prix and his roommates would yell from their balcony, “The Parking Attendant is home!” 

Assholes. 

I guess it was kind of funny.  Eventually it stuck.  

Don’t think for a second though that they didn’t ask me who the asshole was that parked illegally against the rocks for two nights in a row or who had the new Audi.  Yeah, they came to The Parking Attendant.  And I always knew. 

My office building, 5th Avenue Station

 

Fast forward to present day.  I’m a 31 year old woman.  I’ve grown and matured.  My days as The Parking Attendant are long behind me.  Frankly, I don’t have time to worry about you and your lack of parking skills, nor do I care.  I don’t have the energy to let these little insignificant things bother me anymore. 

I know what you’re thinking.  Yea right, Jen. 

Seriously though, for a long time I did retire The Parking Attendant.  Until recently. 

Where I work I’ve mentioned before that I have to park across the street in a large parking lot.  I have to cross Fifth Ave. in order to enter my building, 5th Avenue Station.  Fifth Avenue is a side street.  The speed limit is 25 mph.  BUT – my building also happens to be the train station.  So at 7:59 a.m. we’re all speeding in – to park and run to the train or to park and get to our office suites. 

I didn’t have a problem with it so much before.  Sure I wear 4” heels and carry a heavy purse, but I could deal with trying to cross the street like the poor innocent frog in the video game “Frogger.”  I could even deal with it when I would see the attorney bitches pull right into the parking lot and park in front of the building. 

Where we are SUPPOSED to park - across the street

 

WTF is this?  I questioned.  Why do the attorney bitches get special VIP parking?  Why don’t the attorney bitches have to park across the street and run their asses in their ugly business suits and high heels across the street like I have to?  Surely this isn’t fair.  

But, then I said to myself, “Jen, you’ve grown.  You’ve matured.  You’re far too busy to worry about the attorney bitches.  And further, with their tree trunk legs and cankles it’s easier for them to park in front of the building.  You, on the other hand, with your small shapely figure (ha ha) can surely walk across the street for extra exercise.” 

There.  It was settled. 

Until one month ago.  One month ago I parked my car across the street.  I struggled to cross Fifth Avenue Frogger-style with my Juicy Couture, my iced coffee, and a huge plastic bag full of stuff I needed for the office, like Kleenex, my week’s supply of yogurt, whatever else I threw in the bag. 

The fucking bag started ripping.  I almost dropped my coffee.  Then my purse fell off my shoulder.  Then I set everything down on the sidewalk to re-group.  Now I’m ready to cross the street.  Suddenly it’s god-damned Grand Central Station.  I’m standing there in my 4” heels, in my 3rd trimester with my belly extending beyond my feet and not one person would stop to let me cross the street. 

“Fuckers!”  I yelled, but no one heard. 

I stood there for probably three minutes.  Finally there was a break in the traffic.  I started to try to cross, but at that point I didn’t really walk anymore.  I waddle now.  I’m waddling across the street in 4” Steve Madden wedge heels (super cute, by the way) hoping that the car speeding towards me slows down because my plastic bag is ripping and my iced coffee is slipping out of my hand and I can’t walk any faster! 

Where the attorney bitches - and now me - park in front of the building

 

This is a disaster.  Speeding car does not slow down.  Waddler tries unsuccessfully to waddle faster. UGH! The frustration!  I get across the street and stand there for a minute cursing the world at this moment – F’ing drivers, Napervillians, pregnancy, Steve Madden wedges (you’ll be happy to know I’ve retired my heels for the remainder of my pregnancy) – and as I’m standing there – and did I mention it was raining?  I forgot that vital fact.  As I’m standing there – in the rain – ONE OF THE ATTORNEY BITCHES drives down Fifth Ave. and as God is my witness PULLS RIGHT INTO THE PARKING LOT JUST OUTSIDE THE BUILDING.  She parks in the best parking space.  She gets out of the car and runs into the building. 

Meanwhile, my pregnant ass is still struggling to waddle through the parking lot. 

What is this?  What. The. Fuck. Is this?  

That was the end of that.  Why should these bitches get to park right outside the building while I – 9 months pregnant – should have to walk across the street – nearly dying in the process?  I DON’T THINK SO.  

So, I broke the rules.  I am officially a rule breaker.  I now park in the parking lot just outside the building.  

I’m just waiting for the management company to say to me, “Jen, you can get towed for parking in this lot.  You are to park across the street, you know better.” 

And with that, I’ve already planned my response.  The Parking Attendant will say, “Over my fat pregnant body will I walk across the street while all the attorney bitches park right out front!  After my baby is born and I come back to work, then I will follow the rules.  Then I will go back to parking across the street – while they continue to park out front.  But, until then, no.  I’m parking in my own personal “expectant mother” spot.” 

And The Parking Attendant is back!

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