Parking Spot 15

I am a rule follower. My husband, not so much. After years of putting it off, I purchased a parking spot in my apartment building’s garage. For $150 a month, I have decreased my stress level, saved money on gas, and no longer have to stalk innocent people walking to their cars.
Living in Long Beach, a town that hugs the Atlantic Ocean year-round, is a unique experience. A virtual ghost town in the winter and an overpopulated hot spot in the summer, parking is one of the town’s biggest issues. Other issues that I personally believe rival this one are the corrupt police and carefree bikers that ride through town with a death wish. I live in the eastern part of Long Beach. It tends to be more residential and removed from the heart of town. Because of my absolute location, parking is cut throat not just among the residents which include a return of Snow birds and seasonal renters, but amongst the people who have the nerve to come to the beach, especially during the weekends. There have been times when I have driven around for an hour in search of a spot that required me to change into hiking boots so I could ease the trek back to my apartment, as Havainas are not exactly the most sensible hiking shoes. SO RIDICULOUS.
The weekends seemed to be the major thorn in my side; I was a hostage in my own town, unable to go the gym or do any number or mundane errands for fear that I would never find a parking spot if I left. It was time to take the plunge and I am still not over how much less frustrated I could have been all of these years if I would have just had the damn parking spot all along.

So now, imagine how my husband must feel when he is circling the neighborhood for a place to park. Two weeks ago, he had had it. So, he parked in Parking Spot 15. I told him not to, as he had parked in someone’s spot before and had a giant orange sticker on his car warning of a future towing and an impound. The best part of that story was when I went down to move his car and the owner of the spot was down there too, ripping me a new one. Good times. About a month ago, my super, Johnny, calls me asking if I knew who was parked in the (at the time) vacant spot next to mine. “Oh—maybe Josh. I told him not to park there. Is there a problem?” Of course, a new resident was about to move in and Johnny, ever so helpful, was showing he or she where their spot would be. Talk about being a good neighbor—there was a silver Honda Accord with a banged up bumper already in the spot that this person had started paying rent on. Let’s call this strike two. Now, getting back to Spot 15. The following day, I see that I have a missed call from Johnny. I call him back and the building manager answers, referring to me as Mrs. Shapiro and not Ms. Wasserman as my lease reads. Hmmm…I wonder how he knew that…So, he asks: “Was your husband parked in the garage last night?”
Me: Yes, but I told him not to.
Building Manager (with creepy, ringlet ponytail): Well, the tenant who owns the spot was very upset.
Me: I am sure. My husband never listens to me. I am not sure if you listen to the women in your life, but clearly, Mr. Shapiro does not.
Building Manager: If this happens again, your husband’s car will be towed and impounded.
Me: Okay—that is fair. It is not his spot. I apologize.

How did this guy know my married name? I then recalled filling out paperwork that included the license plate info of any cars that would possibly park in spot 14 (mine) and who they were registered to—me… Lisa Shapiro.

The day after this, I receive one of those annoying “Sorry we missed you” postcards from the mail carrier in my door. And no, there is no way the guy was sorry—he won’t even make eye contact with anyone and farts like a beast every time our paths cross in the lobby. Any time I get a notice that a registered
letter is waiting for me, I immediately think it is the IRS. They are hot for us (my husband, me by default).

As usual, the post office has a long ass line and they cannot locate the letter. When they finally find it, the return address is “Parking Spot 15” with the address of my building. No name, no apartment number. Written in improper letter format with HORRIFIC grammar, is a letter explaining how this person, lives in the city full time and the one day he or she was coming here to meet with a contractor, they could not park in their spot. As a result, they drove around for an hour looking for parking. I, Ms. Shapiro, was warned that my vehicle would be towed and impounded if it happened again, as it was their right to park in their spot.

I totally agree. But, I was PISSED!!!! Here is why:

1. The car is registered to me, but I did not park there. I hate taking the blame for something I did not do.
2. On a weekday morning, no matter what the season, there is ample parking. This person did not drive around for an hour.
3. Their grammar was horrific and therefore, I cannot take them seriously. If you are going to bring out the big guns, use the grammar check device on the computer.

4. My husband did park in this person’s spot—100% wrong. The verbal warning from the building manager was enough. Did I mention they placed a nasty note in Josh’s windshield (well earned). Did they think that by sending me a letter that cost $15 overnight and certify, I would be shaking in my boots? For all intense purposes, Josh was wrong, but I do not believe parking in someone’s spot renders a certified threat of punishment. A bit over the top, even for me.

AND, here is the main reason I was pissed:

5. This person, knowing my name and address, including my apartment number (FYI—if you ever decide to visit, my former married name is on listed on the building registry), did not have the balls to sign their name on the letter. SERIOUSLY a WIMPY move.

My mature response, prior to writing this very mature blog rant, was to write my own counter attack on a ripped piece of paper and in large black marker. Why a marker? A parent once told my friend that her use of a Sharpie while grading made her appear scary and mean. Yes—true story---markers are scary, especially when used by teachers in schools. But really, it was the only writing implement I could find and in an effort to channel my irritation at my husband and the post office for taking so damn long, I wrote a note to Wimpy Parking Spot Owner 15. I felt much better after. Then, I threw it out. After all, this person knows where I live.

So much for following the rules.