I know I am getting old because I am making angry phone calls regarding things I would not normally care about, like people parking in my spot.
We are allowed two parking spots per unit in our development, one of which is actually labeled with the unit number. Next to that one is an unlabeled spot, and this process repeats throughout the parking lot like a finely tuned system. If you don’t understand, here is a diagram: (pretend this is the parking lot) 341, unlabeled, 342, unlabeled, 343, unlabeled, 344, unlabeled, mailbox. You cannot park in the mailbox.
Now, most of the normal citizens in our development use their labeled spot, and the empty spot NEXT to that one for their allotted two spaces. It’s kind of like the labeled spot is the husband, and the unlabeled spot is the wife. Or vice versa. All friends and family must park in visitor parking, which can also be described as “not my spot.” But the people who live below us continue to park in MY unlabeled spot (in our house, the labeled spot is the wife).
Just the other day, this girl (for identities sake, let’s call her “some bitch”) was parked in my spot. How did I know it was the friend of my neighbor, you ask? Well, I’m glad you asked. My neighbor’s car has a sticker promoting a website on the back windshield – pinkmafia.com, or something like that (I actually know the real site, but am hesitant to print it out of fear that she will Google her way onto my blog, and then slash my tires). I know this because I often stare very hard at her car when SHE is parked in my spot, as if I am going to kill it. I have visited this website, and have discovered that it is a collection of female t-shirts with various sayings such as “I banged the drummer,” and “The guitarist knocked me up.” Yes, it is a site that caters to rock groupies who are looking for t-shirts to adequately describe their sex lives. And no, I’m not kidding. Also, I have determined that the headquarters for the Pink Mafia Enterprises is actually IN my parking spot, because her car is always there.
Anyway, like I was saying, this time it was a different car in my spot, but it had the same website on the back. I had to park in visitor parking, a stranger in my own development. Now, I have actually approached the office of our development about this situation. I specified that I did not want to make a big deal of it – I only asked for them to be kicked out of their house and left to rot on the street for the vultures. They responded, via letter, three months later saying that I should go to the Condo Association meeting on Friday night to voice my concerns. Now, let me tell you something. I feel like an old fart as it is for taking time out of my day to complain that somebody is parked in my spot. I’m 27 years old. If I ever found myself at a Development Board meeting on a Friday night, drinking fruit punch from a plastic cup while sitting in a folding chair, just so I could mention, in a public setting, the vast inconvenience of having to walk an extra five feet to my front door because someone else is inconsiderate, you can shoot me. Seriously – feel free.
All of this got me thinking – what am I doing? What kind of person have I turned into that I am filing official complaints about where other people park their car? Don’t I have more important things to worry about, like what time happy hour starts? When I was in college somebody could throw up on my pants and I would laugh it off – now I’m worried about THIS? I mean, just yesterday I called the development front office AGAIN to complain that our lawn hadn’t been cut for an extensive period of time. Now, granted, the grass was so high that I was hearing voices saying, “If you build it, he will come,” but who the heck cares?! I have physically been out on that lawn a total of two (2) times in the two years I have lived there, and the fact that it hasn’t been cut in a while shouldn’t really concern me, especially considering that it has been 115 degrees around here lately, and going out on the lawn would be like venturing into the rainforest.
I know sometimes it takes complaints and complainers to get things done, but I need to get my priorities straight. The last thing I want to do is turn into an old fart just because I pay a mortgage. Look at my friend Pete – just recently he admitted to me that when he is working on the front lawn, and cars drive down his street too fast, he stops working so he can go out into the street to angrily shake his fist. Man - back in the day that was US driving too fast, and we had five kilos in the trunk. Times have changed. I’m not sure but I think he started giving out pennies for Halloween too.
So I am not going to concern myself with meaningless problems anymore. No more angry phone calls. If I pull into our lot, and my spot is occupied by a car pimping some pink mafia crap on the back windshield, I’ll laugh it off. I mean – if I ever get the opportunity to confront this person, I’ll calmly say, “Excuse me miss? Yeah, listen…I hate to be a bother, but when you’re done banging the drummer, would you mind moving you vehicle into the visitor parking lot, so I can get into my house in time to pay the mortgage that earns me the right to park in the spot that you’re in? That would be great, thanks.”
And chances are, we’ll get to know each other, and I’ll walk away saying, “You know what – that is some bitch.”
