Friday, October 01, 2010
Thanks, A Lot
Yesterday I had court out in Lake County, which is always sort of a trial. Don't get me wrong, the courthouse out there is certainly less of a zoo than the Daley Center, and the people are about ten thousand times more pleasant (the girl running the x-ray actually smiled at me and the guy with the metal detector called me "sir" in a non sarcastic manner), but the drive is kind of a nightmare. It's not really all that far, but it seems to perpetually be rush hour, and the last twenty miles or so are on one of those divided highways that sort of lose their highway quality by putting stoplights every couple of miles or so. So it ended up being like a five-hour trip there and back.
But the capper to my incredible day had to be when I pulled into the exit lane of the parking garage by my office and found that I didn't have the parking card (which I had just paid in the lobby) anywhere on me. I checked every pocket I had. I checked every pocket in my bag. I checked every compartment in the car. I got out of the car, rolled the seats all the way forward and back and checked under them. I checked the trunk. It was nowhere to be found.
It was at this point that the sassy garage attendant became involved. I showed her my receipt from ten minutes before I met her (because yes, of course I wouldn't lose the receipt, just the actual piece of paper I needed to get the fuck out of that garage), but apparently that wasn't enough to prove to her that I wasn't some bizarre garage con man. She insisted that she would go down to the lobby and check to see if I left the parking car there, and then disappeared for about six years. She was, of course, wholly unsuccessful.
At this point, I decided to abandon my car and walk back up through the garage to see if I'd dropped the card somewhere, rather than live the rest of my life in that garage. And sure enough, there it was, on the ground right behind my spot. As I finally drove out of the garage, the parking attendant raised her arms in triumph, as though she had actually done something. She also called me "sweetheart." I'm not totally sure, but I think we might be engaged.
Yesterday I had court out in Lake County, which is always sort of a trial. Don't get me wrong, the courthouse out there is certainly less of a zoo than the Daley Center, and the people are about ten thousand times more pleasant (the girl running the x-ray actually smiled at me and the guy with the metal detector called me "sir" in a non sarcastic manner), but the drive is kind of a nightmare. It's not really all that far, but it seems to perpetually be rush hour, and the last twenty miles or so are on one of those divided highways that sort of lose their highway quality by putting stoplights every couple of miles or so. So it ended up being like a five-hour trip there and back.
But the capper to my incredible day had to be when I pulled into the exit lane of the parking garage by my office and found that I didn't have the parking card (which I had just paid in the lobby) anywhere on me. I checked every pocket I had. I checked every pocket in my bag. I checked every compartment in the car. I got out of the car, rolled the seats all the way forward and back and checked under them. I checked the trunk. It was nowhere to be found.
It was at this point that the sassy garage attendant became involved. I showed her my receipt from ten minutes before I met her (because yes, of course I wouldn't lose the receipt, just the actual piece of paper I needed to get the fuck out of that garage), but apparently that wasn't enough to prove to her that I wasn't some bizarre garage con man. She insisted that she would go down to the lobby and check to see if I left the parking car there, and then disappeared for about six years. She was, of course, wholly unsuccessful.
At this point, I decided to abandon my car and walk back up through the garage to see if I'd dropped the card somewhere, rather than live the rest of my life in that garage. And sure enough, there it was, on the ground right behind my spot. As I finally drove out of the garage, the parking attendant raised her arms in triumph, as though she had actually done something. She also called me "sweetheart." I'm not totally sure, but I think we might be engaged.
