Parting Gift

The city of Asheville will give you a warning before you are given your first parking ticket. Everyone is granted one warning. That’s what I’d heard. I found it hard to believe. When my husband came home with an orange slip without a fine amount or violation number, I knew it to be true.

Remarkable. Charming. Genteel, even. How could it be that these words were popping into my head regarding a parking violation? The kindness was so foreign to me, it made me a little nervous and I looked out the front window to see if anyone had tailed my husband home.

No. Not so. A slap on the wrist, and enjoy your day.

New Jersey is another animal entirely. Jersey City, (the city with the most embarrassing name) sent a piece of threatening orange colored mail this week, informing me that my license has been revoked by a judge, and that if I didn’t pay my outstanding parking ticket, the state could issue a warrant for my arrest.

(Yes, I still have a Jersey license. There is a reason. I won’t go into it here. Thankfully that will change soon.)

My blood boiled as I recalled the event that set this threat in motion. This past autumn I drove the eleven hours north to attend some family and friend events over several days. I was having a lovely time visiting, hopping between guest rooms and pull out sofas, when I arrived at Cousin’s flat. I know the term “flat” doesn’t belong to us Americans, but it seems fitting to describe the tree-lined street filled with brownstones and iron gates on one of the most coveted streets in the neighborhood, The Heights. It’s a strange sprawling city, haunted by ghosts of industry days gone by. The buzz words, up and coming are often heard in descriptions of it, yet it seems that that’s been the news for quite some time now. There are hip areas, but still others exist where one might come across a billboard reading, “Please Don’t Abandon Your Baby” followed by a hotline phone number. But here on Ogden Avenue, which runs along the ridge of the palisades overlooking the Hudson River and Manhattan, Cousin’s flat is on the best street in town.

I arrived in the early evening, parked far down the block, and witnessed a stream of commuters walking up the Avenue. It had been awhile since I had been amidst a throng of commuters. It was something I used to move through. Belong to. The feeling of camaraderie between fellow worker bees. Sometimes it feels good to belong to something, even when you don’t like what you belong to. Standing there, I felt a longing for it, although I didn’t miss it. Baggy eyes passed me on their way home to burdening mortgages and overpriced cars. I thought about where I could’ve ended up had I kept on the tricky corporate path. I felt lucky, but alone.

Cousin too, seated on chocolate leather, fluffy sage bathroom towels, office with a garden view, seems wanting for something more. She does quite well in the home fashion industry. Her home sits on the second floor overlooking the street. The interior is done with her tasteful eye. Sleek and modern, but with warmth and color in just the right places. Hard wood floors and exposed brick walls. We drank Pinot Grigio and ate wonderful, delivered sushi. (There is no sushi delivery in the mountains of Appalachia…not that that is in the budget)

In the morning I was awakened by two small triangle noses touching the bottom of my feet. Angus and Matilda. Two Ferrell cats that now, after years of house living, are an old, curious blind couple. It was 8am and Cousin had already left for work. It was the first day after a series of events where I didn’t need to rush out of the house. I had carefully read the parking signs on the street: 2 hour parking without a city permit, 8am – 6pm. That meant my current spot was good until 10am. I could leave Jersey City for my next destination, or have a leisurely morning, move the car to a new spot, and leave when I was ready. I opted for second choice. Stupid girl.

I enjoyed coffee, played with the kitties, made phone calls. Even did some yoga and stretching for about 30 minutes in the sun drenched living room. At 9:50am, I went to the car to find a new spot. I found one easily. New spot would be good for two more hours, which I surely wouldn’t need. I was really having a great morning. Went back up, took a hot shower, bid adieu to the kitties and headed to the car at 11am.

The sight of the large orange envelope tucked into the windshield wiper made the mussels in my neck feel as if they’d been starched. I looked up and down for the parking official. Nowhere. This was a mistake! I had 2 hours! I had moved to a new spot! I stood for several minutes. Stunned. I felt humiliated in front of dog walkers and got into my car to read the violation. I was so angry and confused, that the words on the page were not making sense. “Do Not Attempt To Move Your Vehicle.” Do not move my vehicle? “Vehicle first spotted at 9am.” Ok, but in the other parking spot! Where was the dollar amount of the fine? Why can’t I read this fucking ticket? I stopped. Took a breath. Read it again. “Do Not Attempt To Move Your Vehicle,” followed by instructions to call the number at the bottom for payment. I sat. A trickle of sweat crept out of my temple. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. I got out of the car and walked around to the street side. There it fucking was. A lock on my back wheel.

I got back in the car to make the call. They have all the power, I told myself. My tone of voice, right now, could determine how long they will make me wait. I conjured up sugar in my speech without a trace of resentment. After a $125 charge was made to my Visa, I was told that someone would show up within the hour to unlock my wheel, and issue me my parking ticket.

“My parking ticket?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am. This $125 charge is just to have them come unlock the wheel.”

Motherfuckers. “Okay. Thank you. Sir.”




A miserable, worn down city worker showed up to release my wheel. I could tell by his authoritative swagger that he was the dick who did this to me. Spreading his misery, filling his quota, and pretty much blatantly robbing me. He unlocked the wheel. Handed me a parking ticket for $40. I smile through closed teeth and drive away.

The ticket states that I have the option to show up in court. It gives me a date. I know I could fight it and probably win, even though there is no way to prove that I moved my car to a new spot. But the date is three weeks away. I’ll be back in North Carolina by then. I can’t drive 11 hours each way for a court date. I can’t fight it, but of course by paying it, it’s an admission of guilt. So I stew over it, and then…I forget about it. It gets lost in a pile.

That brings us back to the current piece of orange mail. Because of the lateness, the $40 ticket has now doubled to $80. I pay it online. Then I am told that to reinstate my license, I need to pay New Jersey $100. Plus $2.50 processing fees.

Grand total for Jersey City robbing me:
$125.00
$80.00
$100.00
$2.50
-----------
$307.50


That, my friends, is no southern hospitality.

New Year's II - The Waiting is the Hardest Part

So we fucked up the appetizer. I decided to make it a crust-less quiche (pure laziness, but grant me a circumstantial pass - the tiny outdated kitchen in our current rental house is uninspiring…)which was the first mistake. Then I doubled the recipe and poured the concoction into a larger rectangle baking dish. The idea was to cut it up into small bite sized squares one could eat without a fork. But with all the cheese, sour cream, egg, and without the support of crust, it was too spongy.

One of my husband’s fears is inconveniencing friends. Not a bad trait. Quite nice, in fact. So when he said, “You can’t eat this without a fork and a plate,” the look in his eyes betrayed his fear that we would be responsible for creating dirty dishes for our friends, who had clearly asked us to bring an appetizer – which implies finger food.

This fear of his, along with his love of food experimentation, linked elbows and the surgery on the tart sponge squares began. There was searing, freezing, and even a blast in the microwave. I left the room. Couldn't take it. When I finally did come back in, the remains of little Frankenstein tarts slumped on the counter. We had come full circle from my earlier statement, “Let’s pick something up.” Poor husband is now mad on two counts.

So we got dressed for the party and again, stopped at Third World Ingles. I consciously chose a frozen disk of shrimp, on pre-plattered plastic with a donut hole of cocktail sauce. (Let it also be known that it was frozen for the entire length of the party) My husband grimaced, I had forgotten that he thinks it’s unnatural for seafood to be eaten this far inland. But alas, we are running out of time…

When I consulted the mirror at home, I thought I was OK. When in doubt wear black, is how I’ve lived my life for the last twenty years. Everywhere we go we are still meeting new people, so the normal insecurities of how you will come across flash through the mind. At the store, I catch a glimpse of my reflection under the florescent lighting and look out of place. Over the top. Urban. Severe. Silly. Christ. A toothless man hanging around the apple sauce confirms my suspicion with his gawk as I tottle past him in elevated heels.

The store is packed like I’ve never seen it before. My old reliable self check line, jammed. I stay on it. It has to be faster than the other lines. I ask my husband if he minds getting the car while I deal with it because my feet are already killing me, walking on these pencils. He does. I heart my husband.

Then a series of events unfurled that, I am not proud to say, made my blood begin to boil. It seemed every scanner had an issue. It was some of the slowest button pushing I’ve ever witnessed. Also, who shops for their weekly staple items on New Year’s Eve? One accidentally broke open a bag of lentils, one stopped mid-scan to have a conversation with a three-year-old about a rotisserie chicken, one is looking for a store employee to help with a produce code, one forgot her wallet in her car – left for 5 FULL MINUTES. All the while, a rogue shopper clutching one item looks to cut the line, zig-zagging around looking for opportunity…he found it amidst the chaos. Now I'm pissed. The severely pointed toe of my pump begins to tap. I audibly huff.

But before I could become the crazy lady in black screaming with road rage like angst at the Third World Ingles, my ear picks up the conversations around me – other people like me – waiting. “Happy New Year,” I hear.

I feel like a jerk. I am a jerk. New Year’s resolution #2: Be in the moment. Enjoy the ride. Life’s too short for this crap. Evolve your patience. Slow down! I turn to the lady behind me and smile. “Happy New Year,” I say.

Video

Happy 2009 to you and yours.

New Year's I - Greetings and Salutations

For New Year's Eve, my husband and I were gearing up for a party at the home of good friends who live across town. Our assignment was simple: bring booze, and an appetizer.

Out of the two of us, my husband lays claim to being the cook. He’s good. I’m not bad. I’m more efficient, cleaning as I go and using recipes. He’s more experimental and leaves a big mess. He just wants it more than I do. Gets more pleasure out of it, I suppose.

Originally I had said to him, “So what should we pick up?”

He’s annoyed. “Let’s make something,” he says.

We decide on a Vidalia onion tart (pie sized) because it fits our New Year agenda of making conscious choices, like trying to be vegetarian and nixing the American consumer mentality of, let’s pick something up. Yes! We would be better. We would make something homemade with care and fresh ingredients.

“We need to act like the people we want to be” he said.

Okay. He's right. I'm lame for even suggesting we pick something up.

I get our ingredients at Ingles, our supermarket. Our neighbors have told us that the locals call it Wingles, for West Asheville Ingles. And yet others call it, Third World Ingles, because it hasn't been updated like other Ingles in the city. No lush sprayed vegetables, gigantic aisles and all the other crap we don't need and that only keeps the price of food too high. In short, it’s old school shopping like when people were more fucking normal.

To me, our Third World Ingles is a Shangri-La compared to The Met at 2nd Avenue and 6th Street in Manhattan where we used to shop. The Met. I shopped there for a decade. Even the name is horrid. It’s a dimly lit room where five meager aisles hold the bare essentials for existence. Two carts cannot simultaneously pass. The canned goods are covered with a layer of dust and hair. A sullen cat or four patrol the corners for running vermin. Checkout staff curse and huff if you come to the register with unpriced food. I’m not soft when it comes to shopping at the grocery. I can do Third World Ingles easily, I think. They don’t have Vidalia onions, so I settle for some sweet onions. I’m thankful for it.

I learned my first week in town, that the self check register at Third World Ingles is the right choice for me. On my own, I can scan at a pace that won’t offend anyone, don’t have to make small talk with the cashier, and the line is always the shortest.

I do most anything to avoid small talk here in the south because I don’t get it. I’m trying to wrap my head around it. In the north, if niceties are to be used at all, it’s Hi or Hello, a smile or nod. Not ever a question. Never, How are you? I’ve learned, while twisting in the wind, that fine is not a sufficient answer. I think I insulted a cashier my first week in town by answering, fine, the word hung in the air with my unsure upward inflection, eyes glued to my wallet. She looked at me so expectantly and then, like I had let her down. From what I can gather, again, still trying to figure this out, you are expected to re-ask the same question. Fine, how are you? Actually, no. That’s not right. It’s more dragged out. Oh I’m just fine, thank you, and how are you today? Really, it’s ludicrous considering we’re not really asking real questions or stating real answers. Why bother with the oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange? I’m more comfortable with Hi or a simple smile or nod. Perfect. Done. In. Out. Next?

It’s not that I don’t like the cashier or think she is unworthy of speaking to. On the contrary, I respect her privacy. Here she is, working. I respect her space. Space is something we have less of up north. More people. More cars. More noise. Perhaps here, people crave more interaction because there are less people? I wonder if I will evolve into a person who doesn’t crave my space and privacy now that I need to fight for it less. Will I eventually be wandering over to the grocery store to engage in conversation?

Like learning to bow a greeting in China, or cheek kiss a greeting in Italy, I need to learn the ways of the sourthern culture greeting if I am to make my way. My first New Year's resolution is to stop going to the self check line and start practice talking to live cashiers.