Anything Lime

And I just want to yell “STOP DOING THAT!”

Having lived the last three years in various apartments, I’ve become acquainted with the ins and outs of apartment living. From the strange fliers or Chinese take-out menus that mysteriously appear wedged into the doorways, to the bizarre quirks of the neighbors, there are various annoyances that can drive any person to buy a house. None of these things annoys me more than “The Mailbox Park.” For those of you who don’t know what it is I’m talking about, The Mailbox Park is the maneuver people make when they think they’re exempt from the rules of the road because they’re only parking only long enough to check their mail. They pull up in front of six spaces — sideways — music blaring, doors open. Then they justify it by slowly strolling over to their respective boxes, nodding to everyone they pass as if in an attempt to say, “Just getting my mail, bro.”

Parking is one of THE MOST FUNDAMENTAL parts of driving. Go, stop, park. That’s it. So why is it that people are completely unable to park when it comes time to check the mail?

This has been an annoyance of mine for years, but it has never bothered me as much as it did yesterday. I pulled up to the mailboxes, or as I like to call it, the mail station, which is a gazebo-shaped structure in a high-traffic area on our property. On either side of the mail station are visitor parking spots. Oversize, convenient parking spaces. So how is it that, when you drive a Chevy Beretta, you can manage to take up the entire disabled parking section, have one wheel on a speed bump in the middle of the road, nearly take out a group of ducks strolling near their pond, fling open your door into a group of children skipping along the sidewalk and then feel NO EMBARRASSMENT AT ALL for stopping traffic, taking up way too many spaces when people need them and sauntering to and from your mailbox. No, really, go ahead. We’ll wait.

So yesterday I came home from a great day at work, luckily. Not for me, but for the guys who pulled up to the mail station just after me. Seriously, because if I hadn’t been spraying rays of sunshine out of my bum, I might have rigged some sort of weapon on the fly and taken these dudes the fuck out.

I had parked — correctly, as all humans should — in one of the visitor spaces. There was a car parked to the left side of me, and nothing but the mailbox hut was to the right. I was unlocking my box when two cars came to a stop. The first parked parallel (and by parallel I mean crookedly slanted across the front part of the mailboxes and blocking the road), and the second driver followed suit, parking rudely in the middle of fricken nowhere RIGHT BEHIND MY CAR blocking me in completely.

Hmmm… if I just walk, loudly, back to my car, maybe they’ll see I’m annoyed and move.

No such luck. They slapped hands and greeted each other, no doubt pretending I didn’t exist.

I leaned on my car, glaring at them, until they were finally done. They didn’t say sorry, they didn’t tell me they liked my outfit, nothing. No words. They just drove away.

I got in my car angrily and hoped that the mailboxes they had just emptied had been filled with annoying bills.

Times like that make me wish my Jetta were a dump truck full of manure.

Slap hands about this, bitch!


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  1. * ashley says:

    I’m disappointed… you let those guys get away without even delivering a mere roundhouse kick to the side of the head, or a punch in the throat.
    Next time, Whit. Next time.

    | Reply Posted 10 years, 2 months ago
  2. * anythinglime says:

    I’m not proud.

    | Reply Posted 10 years, 2 months ago
  3. * samueltolmanmills says:

    Definitely kick-in-the-neck worthy.

    I talk such a big game, but if I were in that situation I probably wouldn’t have said anything either. I’m kind of a pansy.

    … although the other day I did assert myself more than usual (I’m getting better). And even though it only involved exchanging a dollar for four quarters, I was a little proud of myself.

    I needed quarters for the air machine so I could put air in Ashley’s tires. So I go into the gas station, and I select an air pressure gauge (because we needed one anyway), and hand the dude at the counter a fiver. He rings me up, and as he’s getting my change together I ask if I could have four quarters instead of a dollar bill— not an unreasonable request, if you ask me. So he mumbles something about quarters (I couldn’t understand him because of his thick accent) and hands me 2 dollar bills and some change, apparently hoping that I’d forget I needed the four quarters. I stood there, a little annoyed, and said, “I asked you for four quarters.” He pulled four quarters out of the drawer and held them up, looked me in the eye and said, “This is all I have.” First of all, I refuse to believe that a gas station that handles billions of transactions a day has only four quarters available. I guarantee that ass bag had a whole gaggle of those little paper quarter tubes just waiting to be cracked open— he just didn’t want to go to the trouble. Second of all, I am currently in line… I am the customer in need of those four quarters… if you don’t give them to me, SOMEONE is going to get them— right? So why the fuck not me? I need them NOW. I didn’t even speak to this man. I simply stared at him and put on my best “What’s your point?” face.

    He totally crumbled. I could almost taste the defeat in his heart as he was dropping the quarters into my hand. On my way out the door I held my head high, and if I were a lesser person I might have audible spoken the word that was resounding inside my head: BITCH.

    | Reply Posted 10 years, 2 months ago

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