The diagram above will be handy later for the open-book quiz.
Our friend Tim came for a spontaneous visit this past weekend, and like any suburbanite worth their salt, we (along with our pals and also-married couple, Romina and Rick) decided to go to Cheeseburger in Paradise for dinner. We met up with Romina and Rick at their house, and Romina was nice enough to move her car out from in front of their house so that we could park there, crucial when only street parking is available. Then, all five of us hopped in Rick and Romina’s CR-V, excited for some fried pickles and Jimmy Buffett playing every hour, on the hour.
Now, this may surprise you, but Cheeseburger in Paradise apparently does not hire the most intelligent or physically balanced members of our fine species. In the process of delivering our drinks from the bar, all atop a tiny tray, our server spilled a good quarter of every drink on the tray, the floor, and Tim.
“Oh, darn,” she stated monotonously, as if Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation tipped over your Corona.
Of course, this round of drinks was not comped for sloppiness, nor were the other few rounds she managed to do…the exact same thing with. Learning from the mistakes you made like twenty minutes before? Apparently not an actual trait amongst America’s youth anymore.
When we got back to Rick and Romina’s house to hang out after dinner, Lance and I spotted a slip of paper underneath our windshield wiper. I was terrified it was a ticket, though I didn’t think parking tickets were, like, a thing in the suburbs. Instead, it was a note, which read:
“The only place we can park is in front of our house, so thanks for taking our parking spot.”
We were all dumbfounded, except Romina, who proceeded with a mix of rage and concern over her guests’ overall experience (damn, I forgot to fill out the comment card when we left her house!). Rick, the quintessential MAN’S MAN (don’t look at us), took it upon himself to track down this anonymous cranky neighbor and give him a piece of his mind.
The strangest part of this whole Notegate, though, was that the spot was directly in front of Rick and Romina’s house, not a neighbor’s, and is usually where Romina parks her own car. So, unless Romina has multiple personalities and spirited away from dinner to write a spiteful, passive aggressive Post-It, the whole thing makes little sense.
My other beef with this is: IT’S STREET PARKING. Street parking, unless there are city signs up that say otherwise, is for everybody to use on a first-come, first-serve basis. If you weren’t occupying that spot and somebody took it, you don’t get the right to be mad.
This entitled attitude always urked the crap out of me when we lived in Philly, especially during the winter. People would “hold” their on-street parking with lawn chairs or kiddie pools or other equally trashy things. Sure, I understand that you may have shoveled the snow out of that spot, but that action did not transfer the legal ownership of that piece of payment to you. You chose to live in a place that doesn’t have reserved parking, so you’ve forfeited your right to be demonstratively mad. You only get to rant and scream about the unjustness of it all from the comfort of your own car, not to my face, or…on a really intimidating piece of stationery.
[This post was bought to you by the 2013 Ford Fiesta. Actually, no, wait, it wasn’t, but if Ford wants to give one to me for loving our first one so much, uh…I’m not gonna turn it down.]