31 and holding - Birthday #1

Last weekend was birthday weekend for me, so I thought I'd share a few of the things we did.
First off was Friday night bingo and bowling. Seriously.

I had no idea that people still regularly played bingo. Our group of 12 got there late, dressed like freshmen in college (yes, that was the costume code), and struggled to find a seat quietly while trying to catch up on all the numbers we'd already missed on the first card.

Bingo lesson #1: You have to bring your own bingo marker. They charge $1.50 for them at the hall.

From 31st Birthday

Bingo Lesson #2: You apparently don't just have to get "bingo" anymore. For the first game, when we had no idea what was going on, RL got an actual bingo right away, and ran up to the front to show the lady calling the numbers. No bingo, you have to make the letter "P" on your card. The next one was a musical note or something. Confusing.

From 31st Birthday

Bingo Lesson #3: They kept saying something about a "pickle bar" and everyone in our group thought that meant there were actual pickles for sale. Pickles are actually like scratch tickets that you can buy for a dollar. Weird.

Bingo Lesson #4: You have to be very, very quiet. We actually got shushed once, even though I was very proud of my friends for keeping it to loud whispers. Apparently the two times the woman calls it, the video of the ball coming up, and the two boards that flash the number are not enough for the bingoers. Must have total silence.

From 31st Birthday

Bingo Lesson #5: The only people that win are the ones that have like a gazillion boards in front of them. We only had one board. None of us won. Not even Q, who had a lot.

From 31st Birthday

By the end, we were all ready to go (my friend Tim even said something like, "I think I'm dying a slow death" in the middle of a game). Off to the bowling alley next door! We magically got three lanes together, I was not the worst bowler, and there were cupcakes. Awesome.

From 31st Birthday

Me + Bus = Abusive Relationship

For some reason this semester is the first time I've had to wrangle the 9am buses, along with a mazillion other students, to get me to school on time. I've been conning RL into dropping me off more often than not, but when I do end up taking the bus, it's frustrating.

Case in point: I leave the house at 8:45 yesterday morning, get to the bus stop five minutes later. Of course the last "Dash" bus has just passed, so I settle in to wait for another 15 minutes. When the bus comes 20 minutes later (did I mention that this bus is always late?), about 20 other people have joined me at the stop. So late busdriver lets about three people on, says "I'm full!" and drives off.

I stand in disbelief, trying to figure out what I should do. What happens if the next bus comes in 15 minutes and the same thing happens? The other bus that takes me to campus leaves from the other side of this four-lane road, and it's a dicey prospect because I don't know the schedule. Should I run home and drive to school? Finally, a bus comes that can take me as far as Broadway, so I hop on, hoping to get to another bus on Broadway. Of course, that bus passes right before I get to that stop.

At this point I really can't believe my bad luck. Now I'm totally screwed, because there's only the one bus that goes right down Broadway. Except...the Dash! Amazingly, the original bus I should have just sat at the stop and waited for shows up just a few minutes later, not full. I board the bus, passing all the people I had just left at the previous stop, the people who were patient and not freaking out. I felt a little sheepish, but I don't think they noticed.

The moral of the story is: the Dash, 75% of the time, gets me where I need to go without drama. The other 25% it pushes my buttons and makes me nervous, only to show up to save the day just in time. What kind of a weird relationship is this?

My Visit to the Doctor

It's been awhile since I've been, so I saved up a couple issues to talk to her about (which was fairly disconcerting at the start of the appointment. Front Desk Guy: "Did you tell us you had more than one issue? Because we only have a set amount of time. You might have to come back for another appointment. She only has 15 minutes with you." Then I got to my exam room and go through it all again with the actual doctor: "Did you tell them you had more than one issue? Because we only have a set amount of time. You might have to come back for another appointment. I only have 15 minutes with you." Meanwhile, she got to the office 5 minutes early, and ultimately, we had plenty of time to talk about all of my issues.)

So, all that to say that I have some weird glob of tissue in my eye that seems to be growing scarily close to my iris. The doctor walked in, looked at me and said, "It's a pinquinilla." The doctor knew exactly what it was! She even had one of her own! And I'm not going to go blind! What a relief when a doctor can show you exactly what you're suffering from and can tell you that it's totally benign. She pulled out her book to show me "worst-case scenarios" of said eye infliction.

The weird thing was that she kept saying "pinquinilla." Then when she showed me in the medical book, it was spelled "pinguecula." Does this seem at all like the correct pronunciation for this word? There's no Q, no second N. But she was so confident in her pronunciation that I'm pretty sure she's dyslexic. Great, smartypants doctor has issues.

Well, after the whole eye globule affair, she told me I could only pick one more affliction to deal with today ("because of time constraints"). So I showed her my pinky finger that I jammed playing kickball. It hurts when I bend it certain ways, and the joints healed up funny. She looks at it and, finally, says I probably broke it!

Now, I have never broken a bone in my life. To have broken it playing kickball, of all glorious things, means that I am true hard-core kickballer. I even re-jammed it a week after I jammed it the first time....and KEPT PLAYING!!!

Obviously, I'm looking for a little credit. Since RL's x-rays at the hospital came up with an old fracture in his pelvis that he didn't even know he had, I feel like I deserve a little slap on the back for sacrificing my body. For kickball. Just don't slap too hard. I have a broken finger, you know.

two, no three, random musings

First, i'm in a five-week summer class with some fellow grad students on media ethics. exciting! actually, it is really interesting. in our class is one of the research-track students, a guy from chile. I give him a lot of credit--it's hard writing journalistically in a language not your own.

Anyway, mr. chile came to the first day of class with one of those blue-velcro-soft-cast type things on his foot. When i asked him what happened, he said, "oh, it's really a silly story." Apparently he broke his toe while "taking a nap." His leg fell asleep, and when he woke up, he jumped out of bed too quick and jammed his toe. I tried really hard not to laugh when he told me, but I immediately came home and told RL, who decided he would start telling people that was how he broke his neck. "Well I was taking a nap you see..."

Second, I just started a job waiting tables at a little Mexican restaurant. On Sunday i was there for nine hours (way too long for grandma tplate), and got to meet a variety of very young hostesses and bussers. One of the hostesses, Iris, was telling me that she had tried to quit a few weeks ago, but just kept coming back. "This place is awful. Everyone backstabs and talks about each other. You think you won't get sucked in but you will." Uhhh, ok? Note to self: Don't tell this girl anything.

She told me she was 16 and I asked her if this was her first job. "Oh no, I have a lot of responsibility. I go to school and cosmetology school. Yeah, I've got big aspirations. (Read: I'm not planning on working in a restaurant for the rest of my life and I'm silently judging you right now for your decision to work here at your advanced age.)" Wow! Good for you! I'm pretty hopeful that I won't be in a restaurant for the rest of the my life either. The kicker came when she asked me how old I was. "How old do you think I am?" She said she really didn't know. I told her I was 30. "Oh," she said. "Well that's not that bad." Thanks sweetie.

Finally, I was on the bus home today and noticed this sign. I think it's funny for a variety of reasons.



1) Shouldn't you designate an area TO stand, not an area to NOT stand? I thought that was the point of designating something. As in, "please park only in designated areas." I had to read it a few times to understand the logic.

2) Wouldn't it have been easier to say please don't stand in the yellow area? Instead of having to draw a big arrow to show what you're talking about?

3) And what is Mr. Naked Man doing leaning against that door anyway? Is he trying to look cool? And I'm pretty sure that no person would ever be able to maintain that pose while on a jerky bus. The moral of the story is, don't be Joe Cool. Joe Cool could die when the bus takes a sharp corner, especially embarassed by his nakedness and the fact that he failed to stand in an undesignated area.

RTD Denver, if you need any more signage help, you know where to find me.

lessons from a farm

I met some cows today. They were really fricking cute. I don't think people know how cute cows are. They're like horses, only smaller and fuzzier and have cuter noses.

I also met some chickens, and a herding dog that barked at the chickens until they moved out of the road, out of harm's way. Apparently this herding technique works, even though the chickens are all pissy as they're obeying mr. shepherd dog.

Did I mention I was on a farm? I went to meet some delightful people who do biodynamic farming for a CSA up east of Loveland. They grow food all summer long, then can things and ferment things and put things in "clamps" which is a sort of natural outdoor refrigerator that keeps large amounts of produce fresh. At this point in the season they have only a small bit of onions and leeks and radishes, but they're preparing for the summer season of growing.

They also raise dairy cows (only seasonally, because when the green grass to feed the dairy cows dries up, the milk doesn't taste as good), and slaughter a few at the end. It was traumatic for me to stare at the big beautiful eyes of these little calves and know that someday they would be dinner. But I completely respect the fact that these farmers put everything they have into raising these little buggers, and give thanks for the life they give in the end. Really, it's the only way it should be.

The couple who run this farm literally live off of it. The woman told me that when they run out of the veggies they have in a few weeks, she'll go harvest dandelion greens and wild asparagus for supper. Of course they have their canned goods and their frozen meats, but for them, not having spinach in the fridge doesn't mean a trip to the grocery store. Can you imagine?

Toward the end of our talk, I went into their house alone hoping to use their restroom. I walked in and saw two toilets--one conventional, and one compost. There was a little sign next to it explaining how to do it (complete with a bucket of sawdust), but I just couldn't bring myself. So I held it. I'm such a wuss.

After two hours, part of me was ready to get out of the country, to get back to a place where I can have my spinach any time of the year. But on my drive home, I was uber-conscious of the semi trucks full of building equipment blazing past me on the highway. So many trucks ready to build so many more houses, destroying the prairie for ugly housing developments with ridiculous names like "Sweetgrass" and "Prairie View."

It feels like it's too late to go back to living like those folks do. Too late for me I guess, because I really enjoy spinach in January.

love song

It's hard not to fall in love with Boulder on days like today.

Sixty degrees means finally going outside without a jacket. It means people riding their bikes, walking everywhere. Boys and girls holding hands. Soccer games and frisbees. And wearing shoes with no socks.

After months of air dry and heavy with nothing but snow and cold, finally, today, a waft of milkweed, my favorite Boulder scent. It's always reminded me of my mother.

The sky is, as usual, an incredible shade of blue. The warmth of the day contradicts the snow-flecked ever-present hills. The windows are open, and there's not a drop of snow on the ground.

I ride the bus and sense the energy of excitement, of potential, that everyone must be feeling.

I do research for my classes and discover that despite the horrors of the world, despite poverty and factory farms and violence, there are people doing amazing things. Teaching children how to plant gardens, get their hands dirty, live from the land. People learning, traveling, sharing. And people rallying around their candidates, putting more time and energy into democracy than we ever thought possible.

It's about to be spring. Isn't it time we used this newfound energy to do something?

On days like today, it's hard not to fall in love with life.

why i'm annoyed today

I had a nice, relaxing yet productive weekend, and even enjoyed some time out with the girls on Saturday night. The Superbowl was even fun!

But now it's Monday, and the crap has set in. I've got a story deadline for school tomorrow night, so this morning I got up and got to it. I had done all I could before the weekend (because honestly, when you're calling professional sources, they're not going to talk to you on the weekend. No one bothered to remind my professor of this, however, when she gave us this ridiculous deadline.). I was feeling good before class today because I had found a perfect source and emailed and called him. I really thought it was going to be one of those days where everything worked out perfectly.

Turns out, I was wrong. Not only am I getting sick (throat yuckiness), but I missed the bus to school by about one minute this morning, and the next one was late. That equalled me standing in the snow, feeling sick, wasting time that I should have been spending on this article.

Finally got to class, heard another two journalism professionals tell us just how hard (and poorly compensated) this job is. Great! Class let out early, so I went to my internship and worked for a couple of hours on the article (which is also for the internship. Shh.).

Was actually feeling like I had made some progress, interviewed a woman, got some other good contacts....then I realized that because of the stupid PC I work on there, the changes I had made had somehow not saved. I've done this before on this computer, so I should know that when you download something from an email and don't save it right away on your desktop, it disappears. Ludicrous!! I did all this work, hit save, and then couldn't find the document for the life of me. Called IT who was no help, and then just frantically tried to remember the quotes this woman had just given me.

When I had done all I could do, I left for the day, not even helped by the piece of toffee my nice co-worker shared. I walked out of the office and could see the bus waiting, but knew that there was no way I was running on the snowy sidewalks with a sore throat. So I managed to miss that bus by about one minute too. Then I'm standing waiting for the next one, and some crazy man (maybe not crazy, maybe just Tourrette's) walks up and starts yelling nonsense at everyone.

Then I started thinking, if I had Tourrette's and couldn't control what I say, wouldn't I try to tell people? Would I wear a sign? Something like, "Please ignore my offensive rantings, I really can't help it"? Just a thought.

The biggest bummer is that tonight is supposed to be Date Night for RL and I, and the dumping snow and throat yuckiness are making me think that's just not going to happen.

At least there's Tuesday...right?

This just in...

I got on the bus today, and seated in front of me was a man on his cell phone. Soon after I sat down, he pulled the cord to request a stop. When the bus driver stopped, the guy kindly got off his cell phone long enough to say, "Oh sorry, I pulled it for the wrong reason." Then he got back to his phone conversation.

At first I thought he must have meant he pulled it for the wrong stop, and that he would be getting off at the next one. But no. He was on the bus all the way to the end with me.

So I spent the entire bus ride trying to figure out what the hell other reason you would have for pulling the bus cord other than to request a stop. It's like that Lewis Black bit about overhearing a waitress at the IHOP saying "If it weren't for my horse, I never would have spent that year in college." In his words, don't even try to understand what that means or your brain will explode! So I tried to keep calm as I went over the options.

Did he just get excited and have to pull something? Does he have a tic? Was he about to fall out of his chair and grabbed onto the nearest thing?

This is the kind of language you use when you get into relationships you know you shouldn't be in: I did it for the wrong reason! Or steal some kid's milk money on the playground to get in with the cool kids*: I did it for the wrong reason! This is not the kind of language you use on the bus.

+++++++
*Please note I have never, ever done this.

Choose wisely, my friend

At the risk of sounding blasphemous, I have to tell you a story. The other night RL and I went over to our friends-that-are-now-our-neighbors' house on a Friday night for a little campfire action. We had a few beers (I had my wine) and started a cornhole tournament. Well, RL and I were doing pretty well, and managed to make it to the final round against the formidable duo (the party hosts who we always lose to by just a smidge).

For some reason, someone decided that before the final round could begin we should do a little shot of tequila. There were a good number of us there, so the kitchen's entire shot glass collection all came out for the event. There were tall ones and short ones, shiny ones and dull ones.

As we gathered round the ole tequila to choose our shots, it dawned on me that this choice was like finding the Holy Grail. You know, like in Indiana Jones when he only has one chance to find Jesus' cup or his face would melt off? Sometimes I make these connections in my head and I'm not sure if anyone else if going to be on the same page as me. But I risked it.

Me: Choose wisely everyone. Think about what Jesus would drink out of.
Partygoer: You mean WWJDOO?

Hilarity ensues. Yes, WWJDOO. It's just funny thinking about Jesus standing around at a party drinking tequila out of a carefully chosen shot glass.

In other alcohol-related funnies, I flew Southwest to Chicago last weekend. The feisty flight attendant was taking our drink orders and the woman two seats down from me asked me what kind of red wine they had.
"Red," he said.
"Is it like a Cabernet?" she said.
"Um, it's red," he said.
"But is it--"
"It's red!" he snaps.
"Okay," says the passenger, resigning herself to drinking whatever the heck this guy was going to put in front of her.

This is Southwest people. Don't expect any frills.

Grad school is just like college, only different

So I’m almost done with my first week of graduate school. It’s been a big week of firsts for me, since I took the bus for the first time (well, in Boulder), got lost on campus (had to ask a freshman for directions), and met a lot of new people.

Last week was actually the first time we met everyone, as we all sat through an entire day of orientation talks by just about every group on campus (no Womynists though. What kind of a PC campus is this?). By the end of this long day we were all sort of bonded in our common tiredness and looking forward to our short-by-comparison 2.5 hour classes.

But it was fun getting to know everyone, and, well, sizing each other up. Journalism is a practical degree, but only about half of the people have actual journalism experience. There’s that one woman who was working as an associate producer for Martha Stewart Living in NYC, another one who’s been writing for a newspaper in Argentina, and still another who’s making her own documentaries.

And then there are the brand new college grads, who have for some reason decided that two more years of school is the way to go right now. There’s the 50-year-old woman with three kids who wants to do something new and interesting, and the Jersey girl who, after getting to the orientation 30 minutes late, asked five million stupid questions in that irritating Jersey girl way. Later she proceeded to eat a bag of chips while sitting right behind me, crunching her way through a kind of important talk by the Dean. (Note to self: Do not sit near to Jersey girl in future classes.)

My favorite part of the day was on the bus ride home. I got surrounded by undergrads, who were sharing their own stories of life at school. Two boys/men sitting right next to me were chuckling about all of the freshmen who were wandering lost around campus, huddling around school maps trying to find their way to class. Then the subject turned to food, and boy/man #1 says “we’ve got to get some real food to eat. I mean, all we’ve been eating is ramen, hot dogs, ramen, pop tarts, and more ramen.” Ah yes, the foods of the undergraduate gods. Thank god I’m not one of them anymore.

Wednesday: My No Good Very Bad Day

Today I:
1) Woke up on the wrong side of the bed (apparently);
2) Stubbed my toe;
3) Dropped a plastic jar of hummus on the ground and broke it; and
4) Pissed my cat off, to which she responded by scratching me. Repeatedly.
And that was before I left the house.

When I did leave the house I got in the car to run some errands, namely getting a wedding present ready to send. I had already re-hot-glued the homemade present (it had come apart after sitting in my hot car for an hour), and was finally ready to get it in a box and ship it off. Since I didn’t have any boxes lying around (one of the downsides to not having an office job—no access to random stuff like that), I thought I’d just go to a nearby packaging store and get them to find a box and fill it with peanuts.

The clerk at the store takes some measurements and asks how I want to send it. “Cheap!” I respond. He says the cheapest he can do is FedEx Ground, and that’s $21. The cheapest is $21?!!?? “Half of that is the box, and half is the shipping,” he assures me.

Unfortunately I’m not really prepared to pay $10 for a cardboard box. Nuh-uh, I say, and walk out of the store, resolving to find my own box and stuff some newspaper into it, like all normal shipping people. As I’m driving home, I remember that the liquor store around the corner always has boxes to give away. I stop and pick one up, and am delighted to find a Sierra Nevada box (the happy couple that I’m sending this to love this beer, and they just got married in the Sierra Nevadas. What could be cuter?).

I bring my little box home, happy I have saved myself $10, when it dawns on me that you can’t send liquor boxes through the mail. Even if they don’t have liquor in them. Erg.

Frustrated, I set aside that project, and get ready for a bike ride to run a few more errands. I run around the house, looking worriedly at the darkening sky, and resolve to ride no matter what. Then of course, the moment I step out of the garage, the rain starts. I linger for a few minutes, go back to the house, linger for a few more minutes, and the rain dwindles.

Now that the rain’s gone, the bike ride is hot—and rather humid. But I make my way to campus, and get right to the building I was looking for. Success! Except for the fact that I’ve forgotten my bike lock (rookie mistake). From what I’ve heard, leaving your bike unlocked on campus is not the best idea. So I leave it where I can see it from the windows of the card office, where I’m about to get my picture taken for my school ID, envisioning a scenario in which my bike gets stolen and my bad day turns into a really bad day.

In the card office, I learn that the computers are down all over campus, and I might have to wait awhile. Fine, I think, I’ll go check on my bike, and stop by the career services office. There I learn that they can’t really help me, and I probably should head over to the student employment office across campus. Great, I think. Another errand. I walk back outside and check on my bike (still there) and head back to the card office. They look at me sadly, say they’ll do their best, and apologize. I decide to wait it out, as long as I can see my bike. Finally, miraculously, they are able to print me a card. The sad news is that sweaty bike ride does not equal terribly attractive ID photo. I shrug, take my card, and get back on my bike.

I ride up the hill, stop at a light and wait to cross. Suddenly a big truck passes, and in a split second something has flown off the top of the truck and hit me in the leg. It was a mushroom, of all things, a big one. Thank goodness it wasn’t a chunk of cheese, or, god forbid, a steak.

By this point I have to laugh at how ridiculous the situation is. I’ve just been hit by an errant mushroom on Broadway. What? I giggle to myself the whole way home, where I swap my bike for my car to get to my next appointment. The next appointment is a haircut, which I think is at 3 o’clock. It’s not—it’s at 2:30, so by the time I get there my girl is on her next client. Looks like I’ll have to wait awhile til she’s free again.

Finally, errands done, bangs trimmed, I go home and collapse. The day’s not over yet, but apart from the hurricane-like hailstorm outside, I think the evening’s got to get better.

My Kickball Team, or How I Spend My Monday Nights

Last Monday night my kickball team came dangerously close to ruining our one-loss-per-season streak. Against a team that hadn’t WON a single game. And who were fairly skeezy kickball players. That's right, skeezy.

I should start by saying this is how we spend our Monday nights: dressing in silly costumes, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, and running the bases with all we’ve got. And our team rocks. We refuse to create a batting order, give out an award each week for the person who has most sacrificed their body for the game (read: bleeding most profusely), and generally try not to take it too seriously.

Until we meet another team that does take it too seriously. This last team was pretty good, but they also played pretty dirty. The pitcher was hurling balls at our batters so fast that we barely had a chance to kick. One runner took out our second basewoman as he was rounding the base. And one husky woman kept trying to lead off the base (this is what we call cheating).

After I saw that, I knew I had to keep an eye on her. She was one of those ex-softball player types, and reminded me of Velda, Shelley Long’s troop leader foe from Troop Beverly Hills (don’t pretend like you don’t know who I’m talking about). Velda, as I’ll call her, bossed her team around, edged in off of the grass when the girls kicked (also cheating), and generally made me mad. I’m sure I sounded like a little whiny brat when I was trying to get someone—anyone—to pay attention to my pleas to watch as she led off. But kickball is about having fun! It’s not about cheating! I’ll whine if I have to to protect the integrity of this game!

In the fifth inning my mom, who was in the stands, began cheering for me as I walked up to the plate. “Do a Leckonby!” she yelled, referencing my boyfriend’s earlier two-run-producing kick. Thanks Mom, I always love to be held up to someone else’s standard of athleticism, especially my boyfriend's. The resulting kick was a pop fly—right into Velda’s arms. Erg.

The thing with our team is that we have a lot of fun, but only because we manage to beat almost everyone. If we didn’t keep winning, I can’t imagine we would have such a good time. We cheer every time one of our players slides into a base unnecessarily (hence the bleeding), makes a diving catch, or pegs out an opposing player with a great throw (you can do that in kickball! If only that was legal in softball). Oh yes, the glories of kickball are many, especially when your third basemen is wearing a Twinkie costume.

You and me and the parking spot we fight over

When I lived in Chicago parking was a big deal. My apartment near Wrigley Field had such limited parking that I literally planned my life around not going out with the car past 7pm on weeknights, 5pm on the weekends. Later, when I lived in a more normal neighborhood, I relaxed my parking policies, but was still thrilled when I could find a spot on my block.

Now I live in an apartment/townhouse complex in uber-relaxed Colorado, and there’s almost always a whole blockful of parking right in front of my house. You’d think this would make me happy to no end. And it does. But in addition to the plentiful street parking, there’s also a parking lot, right next to my house. We have one reserved parking spot in said lot, and there’s a great unreserved spot right next to it. Now, to be honest, this spot is actually an extra few steps to my front door than the almost-always available street spot in front of the house. The difference is that the street spot’s much harder to get out of, as the u-turn required to leave the complex necessitates a several point turn.

Small details, right? It would be, except that now it’s a matter of honor.

A few months ago, a blond-bearded hippie in a rusty grey Jetta started parking in my lot spot. Being the hippie that he is, he only uses his car once in awhile. This means that when his car’s parked somewhere, it’s parked somewhere.

Last weekend was a perfect example of my annoyance with this situation. I left my house for a few hours, clearly noting that the Jetta was parked in a lot across the street (where Hippie’s house actually is).

When I came home his spot across the street was empty. But my beloved spot was not. Convinced that he had seen me leave the house and stealthily slipped out to move his car into my spot, just to piss me off, I nearly shook my fists into the air (in the general direction of his house). The Jetta then sat there for days.

But today, the game changed. Coming home from work, I rounded the corner to my house, and saw it: the beloved parking spot was free. Ha ha! I had beaten him at his own game! I had chosen the perfect moment to arrive at home, during Hippie’s one miniscule outing of the week, and could reclaim the glorious slot.

But wait, what was that in my rearview mirror? It looks like a Jetta. A grey, rusting Jetta. Could it be? Had I actually cut it this close? I glance back and see him glaring at me, knowing he knows that I am his foe and I have won.

Instinctively I speed up, wanting to eliminate any possibility that he could sneak by me in the next 300 yards and take the spot out from under me. I slow towards the lot, making sure my turn signal is on and Hippie knows where I’m going. That’s right buddy! It’s mine!

He pulls into the lot across the street, and I work hard at looking casual as I exit the car, covertly glancing over as he makes his own way home. As I enter the house, I breathe a sigh of relief. For the moment, I am the parking lot queen. And boy, does it feel good.