1-800-ENTITLED

It's true, sometimes the SJG gets a little testy, especially with people who test my low reserve of patience.  Why these people appear out of nowhere, why these people are planted at the mid-point of an otherwise lovely day, I can't tell you, but I assume it's all part of a right-handed conspiracy:  "Let's eff with the lefty's equilibrium."  Take yesterday's mid-point disturbance, which naturally, I'm choosing to take very personally, mainly because it happened to me.  I parked my car in a residential neighborhood near an elementary school.  Finding parking in this particular crowded neighborhood is nearly impossible.  On the rare occasion that I do find a parking spot there, I tend to get out of the car and dance in celebration and gratitude.  "I found a spot, bitches!  I found a spot!"  Then I check every sign, read every restriction, call 1-800-LAWYER to make sure my car won't be towed or ticketed while I'm getting my hair cut, and proceed to my destination in an legally-endorsed way.

Life in suburbia.  Such a challenge for the SJG.  What happened next? I'm so glad you asked.  Spoiler alert:  An exchange of unpleasantries. See what I did there?  I hooked you.  Keep reading.  This blog is over soon.  I have things to do, like plan what to wear for my court appearance.  Just kidding.  Or not?  So, I got my hair cut by the leader of the SJG Beauty Team, I paid at the front desk, and schlepped back to my car in the residential neighborhood where, as I was soon to learn, bitchy gals roam free, and I'm not just talking about myself.  The school was getting out early, which meant swarms of little people and parents and cars on the streets, the sort of situation the SJG loves to avoid.  I've done carpool.  I've done the school thing.  For years and years.  I don't need to revisit the commotion of afternoon pick-up.

But in this frenzied moment, I just had to suck it up, swear a little under my breath -- there were children present! -- and hurry to my vehicle.  At the end of the hill, where I'd parked, however, my vehicle had vanished. This, I took as a very bad sign.  Where I thought I'd parked, was a suburban vehicle, instead. Momentarily, I assumed I'd lost my mind. Had I parked on another street?  I kept walking, bravely, hoping the mirage would clear and there would be my vehicle.  I was just about to call 1-800-LAWYER when I realized the source of my confusion. The big-ass van was double-parked in front of my car.  Oh!  No wonder I couldn't see it.  In time for Mother's Day, a youngish mother had blocked my car, offering her children an important lesson in entitlement.  At this juncture of relief and WTF, I blurted out, "You can't park there.  I can't get out."  I know, I know.  I could've said, with a proper English accent, "Excuse me, mum.  Might you move your big-arse car?  Ta!"  But I didn't.

Calgon, take me away from this situation

The driver came back with the kind of sarcasm I'm not used to, and I know from sarcasm.  It was a New Age banter of, "Oh, really?  I'm not allowed to park here?  I'm not parked.  You are."  I gave her my signature look of what-a-bitch, got in my car and waited for her to leave, since I couldn't until she did.  As I sat there, she kept waving at me, another strange gesture, not the one I was tempted to offer her in exchange.  She appeared to be spouting all sorts of empowering messages at me, but I didn't hear them.  Wisely, my windows were up. And she continued to wave at me!  Before she drove away, and as she drove away.  More waving!  As if to say, "Bye bye!  Now you can leave! Was that so terrible?  Waiting two seconds?  Do you feel good about the negativity you just spewed into the universe while I picked up my children?"  Hmm.  Let me think about that.  All I felt was annoyed and baffled by her passive-aggressive behavior.   Next time, I'll just park in the lot and pay the seven dollars.  Aggravation like this, I don't need.