It hadn’t been the best day. My pay had been cut, and then I put a serious dent in Pseudo Date Day by almost crying, having a panic attack or bursting into flames while watching a movie.
You know how it is: someone tries to take your mind off of a bad situation by getting you out of the house, and the result is just you pissing all over someone’s attempts to cheer you up. Then you feel even worse because you’re screwing up someone’s attempts to be nice. It’s a swirling spiral of suck, and mine was still bubbling just beneath the surface.
I didn’t actually have a panic attack in the movie theater. I didn’t even really do any proper crying at lunch. However, lunch ended up getting spent discussing work troubles instead of discussing puppies and rainbows or whatever you’re supposed to talk about when the sun is shining and you don’t care how many calories are in your Chinese food.
I think there was a huge part of my boyfriend that really wasn’t interested in discussing work trouble for an entire meal, but we’ll have to agree to disagree on that. You have a new problem to walk through? Fuck yeah. That makes me feel useful and needed, like you care about whatever advice I might give. Like I’m useful for something other than making ugly banner ads and mowing the yard. We can cover last night’s episode of Mythbusters later. Or never. Never works just fine for that.
So, we’d seen a movie and had lunch and were sitting in front of Whole Foods eating post-lunch tiny tarts when we both notice the parking lot across the way.
As you may have guessed from the fact that we were eating outside whole Foods, we were in the more bourgeois part of town. It’s that area where everyone hates to go because the people there all drive luxury cars and think that THEIR errands are way more important than yours. That area where beige brick buildings are practically mandated and women in Life is Good shirts gather to drink $5 lattes and complain about their plastic surgeons, the wait time for the valet at the mall and how there’s no proper cell phone pocket in the new line of Vuitton purses.
As for the aforementioned parking lot, it was barely big enough for two rows of parking and 2 lanes of traffic, 1.25 of which was being occupied by a woman in a Soccer Mom Assault Vehicle (S.M.A.V.) who had decided that it would be much easier to block traffic than pull into one of the three available spots.
As people pulled up behind her, she would wave them around, not realizing that attempts to go around would result in other drivers being wide open for head-on collisions with people turning the corner into the lot.
“I can’t believe she’s just SITTING there.”
“I kind of wish someone would yell at her.”
“Dude. Dare to dream.”
So, while munching on our tiny tarts, we forgot about work drama and enjoyed the reality tv. One by one, cars pulled up behind the SMAV. One by one, they would honk or stare as they maneuvered around. Eventually, one car just pulled up next to the SMAV…
“YOU CAN’T PARK HERE!” Yelled a man in the passenger seat, his wife leaning over from the wheel to add two cents the boyfriend and I couldn’t hear.
The woman in the SMAV paused her phone conversation to offer some reply, but it didn’t matter. As the man and his wife drove away, the man stuck his head out of the car in order to keep yelling. The car behind the man and his wife followed suit to a lesser degree.
“Oh shit! Awesome!!” (The boyfriend and I are wishing we had DVRed this particular episode.)
The SMAV finally gives up and pulls into one of those three parking spots and its driver emerges, huffy, hot and bothered. Honestly, we’d never seen such angry swinging of purse and whipping of mom bob. As the boyfriend and I did imaginary voice over of her phone conversation (“Well, Beth, I swear! What IS the world coming to? I just came down here to exchange little Madison’s yoga pants and now this!”) the woman disappeared into a shoe store.
Having sated our needs for Chinese food, tiny tarts AND street justice, the boyfriend and I headed back to the East Side.
Since I live on the East Side, I wrote a blog about the whole thing. Passive-aggressive blogging: it’s how we roll.