|via Chris Pekoc|
Yesterday, I had to go pick Oliver up from school early and take him to our homeopath/naturopath. I pulled in front of the school and parked in the 5-minute loading zone, dashed inside, signed him out and then walked outside to wait for him to come down (the school is in a many-storied building in a very urban part of the city). You're not going to believe this, but the exact same woman who had tormented me the other day with her impervious refusal to acknowledge my emergency, was typing away on her hand-held device, giving me a ticket! I said, Wait a minute! This is a 5-minute loading zone, and I've been here for less than 2 minutes! You can't give me a ticket! She said, It's a loading zone and you're not loading, are you? I said, Yes, my son will be down in a moment. She said, Nope, I've already written you a ticket and then she handed it to me with a smile. I couldn't see her eyes because she was wearing those mirrored kind. I swear to the good lord above that she knew exactly who I was, that she remembered my car and just wanted to stick it to me. Once again, I refrained from calling her a foul name but did ask her for her name. She told me that it was on the ticket.
Her name is Ms. Chavez.
Evidently, Ms. Chavez is now part of what Kurt Vonnegut called my karass, a group of people who, often unknowingly, are working together to do God's will. The group can be thought of as the fingers that support a cat's cradle.
Either that, or I'm dealing with some interesting karma.
I fully intend to write a nice note to the parking authorities, whomever they are, and complain about Ms. Chavez. I understand that one has to be a hard ass to be a parking meter cop, but Ms. Chavez is a bitch and needs a complaint filed against her.
Now, let's listen to this and all calm down.