Overheard in the locker room today (September 17): "I need to start taking vitamin D. I have terrible seasonal affective disorder."
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Adam was helping his mom with something this afternoon, so I had to go alone to the farmer's market. The sun was blazing, and I was having a difficult time negotiating the crowds, selecting and paying for produce, and carrying my purchases—including crushable items like tomatoes and strawberries. All of which is to say I was relieved to get back to my car, where I found a parking ticket.
I am what's known as a "rules person," in that I respect rules at almost all costs, so this was upsetting. And baffling, because the block allowed for 75 minutes of parking, and I was there for less than an hour. My defense:
• I parked at 3:40 p.m. I walked the one block to the market, tried to buy avocados at 3:45 p.m., and was rebuffed because the market bell hadn't run. I killed the 15 minutes by strolling a bit.
• Could I have been in a loading zone? No. After I parallel-parked—flawlessly—I opened the passenger door to make sure I was near the curb. That's only relevant because I also noticed that the curb wasn't painted green or yellow, signifying a much smaller parking limit.
• I finished loading up my car at 4:28 p.m. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me to photograph the ticket alongside my clock while I was driving on the 101 freeway.
I tried to contest it as soon as I got home, of course, but my citation wasn't in the system yet. How do you prove you weren't somewhere?
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You know you're somewhere rural when....