Let me just say that the Somerville parking police can kiss my ass. I got to my car this morning to find a ticket tucked under my wiper blade, despite the guest parking permit prominently displayed on my windshield. The $40 ticket was for “guest permit abuse.” Apparently it’s not kosher for me use my guest permit to park at Lunchboy’s house more than two nights a week.
Hence the “kiss my ass.” I used to think the Cambridge parking police were hardcore but this is insane. I live in Cambridge and if you have a parking permit in your car, they let you park wherever, whenever. My old roommate had a guest permit in her windshield for a year and a half and never got nailed for “guest permit abuse.” It’s a total load of crap. There’s never a lack of parking on Lunchboy’s street, so it’s not like I’m taking up any resident spaces. Most of the houses there have driveways anyway.
My theory is that this particular parking nazi lives on Lunchboy’s street. Why? Because he strikes at any time of day or night and he has no mercy. One friend parked there for a half hour in the middle of the afternoon when he came over to help set up the new grill and he got slapped with a ticket. Another person got ticketed at 10pm on a Friday night. Last week I got hit at 6am. This guy is nothing less than territorial. His boss must love his ass for pulling in so much revenue from tickets.
There are a couple of solutions to the problem. 1. switch guest permits; 2. park on the next street over where there are no permit restrictions; 3. bribe the parking officer; 4. get a Somerville parking sticker. The latter would require me to reregister my car in Somerville and change my address so I’d have proof of residency. Option 4 is what we like to call “forward-looking.” While there is some anxiety involved (because, well, you never know), even Mr. Spock would agree that it’s the most logical choice in the near term. I’m at Lunchboy’s house anywhere from 4-6 nights a week. We do our laundry, dry cleaning and food shopping together. My magazines are mailed to his address because someone in my apartment building started stealing them from the bulk mail bin. On the weekends I only go back to my place to get clothes and feed Scully. At some point we have to stop playing semantic games and face up to reality. Not that we haven’t discussed it—we have. But we agreed not to bring it up again until the spring. So in the end we’ll see. I’m still in no rush, though clearly the parking nazi has other ideas.
This, however, perked up my day. Whenever I tell people that I was Princess Leia for Halloween eight years running, people (ie boys) always ask, “Did you wear the gold bikini????” No, I didn’t but maybe now I will.