Infuriating, Infantile

Getting parking tickets makes my blood boil. First the rage is directed inward for having failed to properly read the sign and/or sufficiently feed the meter, and then I feel pissed at the Universe for not exempting me from the parking officer's scrutiny. In Denver, I'm finding, I rarely escape this scrutiny. I have received three parking tickets in the nearly nine months I've lived here, an amount that is outrageously high in my experience.

In other cities, meter maids (and meter men) frequently do their inspections on foot. This slows them down, so that if you see them approaching and you can move faster than they can, you can quickly move your car before they get a chance to ticket it. It also means that each meter maid, or man, covers less territory in a given amount of time than if they were in a vehicle, which lessens the probability that you'll get a ticket.

In Denver, the parking police drive around in mini-jeeps whose steering wheel is on the right side, making it easy for them to pull up alongside parked cars, check meters, issue tickets and place them on the driver's door of the offending car without having to pound the pavement.

I received my first ticket in the fall when, running late for a yoga class, I pulled into a space near the studio. There was a landscaping crew parked just up ahead and I assumed the spot was legitimate. Two hours later I discovered via a yellow envelope and white ticket tucked into the door of my Subaru that, in fact, I had parked on a residential-only stretch of pavement. There had been a sign, but I had not bothered to read it. The penalty? $25. Ouch.

My second screw up took place in winter. A friend had an art opening downtown and I arrived around 7pm and quickly found a parking spot. Thinking that meters only ran until 6pm, I went to the opening to say a quick hello. Fifteen minutes later I returned to my ticketed car; just up ahead I could see the police jeep slowly making its way up the street, ticketing nearly every car in sight. Had I left five minutes earlier, I would not have been saddled with a $25 fine. The meter, it turned out, ran until 8pm.

Chastened by these experiences, I've been making an effort to read the meters and parking signs with great diligence. In Denver, depending on the neighborhood, some meters go until 6pm, others 8pm and still others 10pm. Some meters have an hour limit, others a two hour limit, others just 30 minutes. At some meters 25 cents will buy you a luxurious hour of time, whereas that same quarter will only get you 15 minutes in other parts of the city.

About a month ago I went to an event downtown and was careful to feed the meter and to set the alarm clock on my cellphone to remind myself when I'd have to refill it. At the appointed time I ducked out of the event and returned to my vehicle and carefully deposited my remaining nickels (3 minutes each) and dimes (6 minutes) each to extend my lease on that space. At the end of the evening, I headed to my car and was dismayed to see that now familiar yellow envelope sticking out of the door to my car.

My meter still had 22 minutes on it. What the f---?

Exasperated, I read the ticket. It cited me for parking in two spaces at once. Impossible, I thought - there was a car in front of me and a car behind me, so I was not actually occupying two spaces. However, I had to concede that the front of my car poked a few inches past the parking meter. For this small incursion into another space they were going to fine me $25?

Infuriated, I decided to contest it.

Ticket in hand, I went to the office of the Parking Magistrate. I was asked to take a number; there was no dispensing machine, just a roll of perforated numbered slips of paper lying on a desk. I tore one off and took a seat. Minutes later I was escorted by a uniformed officer to one of the hearing rooms. I had imagined that the person who would hear my case would be sitting behind a desk, and would offer me a chair, and our heads would be at the same level as we'd have a friendly conversation about this mistakenly issued ticket.

Instead, I found myself standing behind a counter that came up to my chin, peering up into the face of the Parking Magistrate who sat in a tall chair and loomed over me. Suddenly I felt that I was three years old.

"Could you explain this ticket to me?" I squeaked. In hindsight, this was a bad strategy. What I really wanted was to have her dismiss the ticket or lower the fine, not to educate me about the arcana of Denver's parking rules.

The Magistrate explained why the ticket was issued. I tried to protest.

"But I was not occupying two spaces," I said.

"Well, you asked me to explain the ticket," she repeated, reminding me of what I had actually asked, as opposed to what I wish I had asked.

"It says clearly on the meter," the Magistrate continued, "that the front bumper must be aligned with the meter. Otherwise, you're in violation."

"So, even though I was not depriving anyone of a space, I'm still being fined?" I was still squeaking, as if my adult self had left the room leaving a youngster to deal with this situation. A little voice in my head told me to shut up and get out of there before I shredded my dignity any further. I did not listen to it.

"But I've lived or visited dozens of cities and I've never seen such a thing before," I protested. Did I really think she was going to let me get out of this?

"Well, this is the law in Denver. You might not like it, but that's what it is."

"I don't like it," I said, feeling like a toddler as soon as the words exited my lips.

I went to the cashier's office and paid the $25 on my credit card, wishing I had simply mailed in a check and saved myself the aggravation and embarrassment.

Interruption, Indignity

Although it has happened to me a few times already, I still haven't quite gotten used to the fact that - in Colorado - when I ask a server at a restaurant to please pack up the remainder of my meal, they do not whisk my plate away and return with a tidy little box filled with my food. Rather, they bring an empty box to the table, and it is up to me to transfer the contents of my plate into a styrofoam carton or a paper container. The process of packing up my meal interrupts whatever conversation I'm having with my dining companion, not to mention that accidentally spilling food or clumsily handling it in front of watchful eyes feels like an indignity.

I find this Colorado custom a bit irritating, and perhaps that is why I've repeatedly suppressed the memory of it. Indeed, last Thursday I had lunch at a local French restaurant and found myself scooping half of my chocolate pot de creme into a paper box. My companion stared as the dark brown dessert plop-plopped into the take-out carton where it looked significantly less appetizing than it had just seconds before in its cute white ramekin. By Friday evening I had already buried this painful episode deep in my psyche and, as a result, was newly and unpleasantly surprised when I was presented with a small box for storing half a plate of drunken noodles. Mercifully, all the food fit, but having to again peform the ritual of scooping food and scraping my plate in front of someone I had just recently met was just not fun. Next time, I might have to either order less or just eat more.

Intact, Incense

Yesterday morning my relocube, a large metal storage unit containing most of my earthly possessions, was delivered to my parking spot near the apartment building I now live in. The driver, a man with pale skin, a white beard, twinkly eyes and a laid back manner, was the same person who had brought my studio relocube a few weeks earlier. Seeing him again was like seeing an old friend. As had happened previously, not only did he spend several minutes with me discussing the optimum positioning of my cube for easiest unloading, he also lingered for some small talk after he had used his forklift to deposit the cube in the perfect spot. Despite his full day of deliveries and pickups, this man did not act as if he were in a hurry. He seemed quite relaxed, unlike most delivery people I had encountered on the East Coast.

Then I got on Craigslist to find some movers to unload the cube. By mid-afternoon the crew showed up; the first guy to arrive, a 36-year old fellow with craggy good looks, a pack of cigarettes in the sleeve of his shirt and a prosthetic leg from a drunk-driving accident in his teens, apologized for his somewhat disheveled appearance, saying that he hadn't been planning to work that day. It didn't bother me that he showed up in jeans and a t-shirt (he's moving stuff, after all), but as he worked up a sweat carting boxes up to my apartment it became clear that he probably hadn't showered in the preceding few days. His exertions released an increasingly foul odor in my apartment. I turned the ceiling fan on the highest speed and opened all the windows, hoping that would help. This man was also ingratiatingly and somewhat aggressively polite, insisting on calling me Ma'am at every opportunity despite my protestations.

"Whatever you say, Ma'am"
"No problem, Ma'am"
"Where should I put this, Ma'am?"
"We'll take care of everything, Ma'am"
"Thank you, Ma'am"
"Ma'am, do you mind if I take this call?"

After being Ma'am-ed to death over the course of nearly three hours I wanted to strangle him...except that would have meant touching him.

Since then I've unpacked about two-thirds of the boxes and so far all of my belongings are intact, even if the containers they were in got somewhat bit bent out of shape. It's been a month since I've seen all of my stuff and in the meantime I had forgotten exactly what I had put in the relocube. Imagine my delight and relief a few minutes ago when I opened a box and discovered some cones of frangipani incense I purchased in Thailand a few years ago.

Things are starting to smell a lot better around here.

Incensed

I'm normally not a political or news junkie but the results of the Iowa caucuses piqued my interest in the campaigns and in the press coverage of them. And so I was rather astonished and incensed to see the extent to which Hillary Clinton was and is being savaged by the media, including the New York Times, which until now I thought was somewhat balanced and objective, even for a liberal paper [except that it has hired William Kristol].

It is one thing for the Times' female columnists - I'm thinking of Maureen Dowd - to practically trash the woman for leaking a tear and showing some emotion (of course, if Hillary doesn't show any emotion, she gets beaten up for that, too). Columnists do get to write their own opinions, no matter how nasty. But there was a Times' headline on Wednesday, "Clinton Escapes to Fight Another Day" which struck me as being more of a comment on the media's incorrect forecast of an early demise of her campaign, rather than a reflection of the facts and perspective. No, she didn't win Iowa, but my goodness, it was only the first of many contests!

Skimming the major papers and the blogosphere, and not terribly methodically, the predominant tone towards Mrs. Clinton appears to be one of derision. The lack of respect in the newspapers for her attempts to get elected, and make history, is staggering. I'm not suggesting that people vote for her simply because she could be our first female president. But it would be a huge improvement if the media would stop circling her like a pack of vultures, eager to snack off of her political death, and would start writing articles that would educate voters about where the candidates stand on different issues.

Irritatory

I've learned through books and seminars on personal growth that when we find another person particularly irritating or annoying, it's because this person embodies or displays a characteristic or trait that we also possess but that we haven't fully accepted in ourselves. It's also the case that we tend to admire people who embody traits that we believe we possess but that we haven't fully developed or realized. The rest of the world can thus be seen as a mirror, providing continuous reflections of all of our parts, even the shadowy bits that reside below our conscious awareness most of the time.

To be more specific, there is a woman I occasionally interact with who irritates me....a lot...probably because in some important ways we are very much alike, a situation that irritates me even more. She likes to be visible and an attention-getter in group settings (um...so do I sometimes), she likes to appoint herself in charge, and she has a tendency to make confident pronouncements to people about things they should do, books they should read, people they should talk to, as if she possesses great clarity about what each individual needs to do to make a quantum improvement in their life.

Um...I've been guilty of that, too.

And I also know, from the one real conversation I've had with her, that - like me - she struggles a bit with relating to her family and to feeling comfortable among them.

Today I attended a Simchat Bat ceremony (the female version of a bris) where the baby girl is officially named and welcomed into her family and Jewish community. Unlike a circumcision, this event does not involve any medical procedures, unless - God forbid! - one of the guests has a mishap while overindulging in bagels, lox and whitefish salad and needs the Heimlich maneuver or, worse, CPR.

After the baby was officially named and welcomed with song, poetry and wine, I enjoyed some delicious treats and pleasant conversation with some old and new acquaintances on the back patio. Coming inside the house to warm up and find a hot beverage, I noticed that this woman had arrived in the meantime, long after the ceremony was over. She behaved as if she had been there the entire time, welcoming those of us who were coming indoors after an hour of relaxed chatting as if we were late to the party.

While talking with someone else as I warmed up with a cup of coffee (I don't normally drink the stuff, but I was quite chilled), this woman made eye contact with me and said, "There's something I have to tell you," in a tone (with matching facial expression, including dramatically raised eyebrows) that suggested that her forthcoming revelation would change my life.

Hmmm. What could it be? I slowly sipped my coffee, unable to reciprocate her apparent intensity.

"There's a mosaic exhibit you should see," she insisted.

"Actually, I had work in the exhibit," I replied. "It was really a fantastic show."

"Oh!" she said. "Is it still on?"

"It closed yesterday," I informed her.

"Oh, well I'd love to see your work sometime!" she exclaimed.

"Sure," I told her. "Come by my studio!"

I have to assume she meant well and was trying to connect with me, but her style of delivery was, as the title of this posting indicates, irritating. Being on the receiving end of such a blast of advice didn't feel so great, it was as if she was bestowing something upon me, rather than trying to engage me in a conversation and assess my receptivity. A valuable experience for me to remember the next time I feel that irrepressible urge to give a friend or acquaintance a piece of life changing advice.