TIHL #20 How To Park in the *&#$*#&* Garage

I hate my garage. Those of you who know me didn't need to read further than the title of my posting to understand the depths of my frustration, since I don't even use a word that sounds remotely like #$&%$#* in my real life. For one thing, it measures a width only about 3 millimeters wider than my actual car. For the second thing, parking in it requires turning my car off, getting out, dropping the garage key at least 3 times whilst trying to insert it in the slot, and then using my complete supply of strength to raise the door. Then, I have to get back in my car, make six maneuvers backward and forward in order to arrive at the proper angle, and finally, 17 minutes later, proceed in. Next, I squeeze in my stomach enough to slide sideways out of the garage, generally carrying at least 3 bags which inevitably brush up against the dusty garage wall and get dirty. Then, as the piece de resistance, I have to set down my dirty bags to pull the door back down, and then drop the key three more times before the door is finally locked. I may have even growled at someone walking down the alley the last time I parked there. I think this garage may be my downfall as an Uptown girl.

A long time time ago, when I was a wee girl of 15, my Dad told me a lie. I was trying to learn how to drive, which did not come naturally to me, being as aspatial, nontechnical, directionally challenged, and generally ditsy as I am. I can't remember what prompted the comment, but I clearly remember my him saying, "Erinn, you cannot hit anything with the back of your car that you did not hit with the front. They are attached, and the back of the car follows the front." I discovered that this was a lie twice in the past week when I decided that half the paint on the side of my garage would actually look better on the exterior decor of my vehicle.

Last night I brought my formerly gray but now "new and improved with white-stripes" vehicle to my father to see if he could undo some of the damage that had befallen poor Daphne. (Incidentally, this is the name of my car.) He was, of course, completely exasperated with me, as fathers tend to be when daughters do stupid things with something as vitally important as a car, but agreed to try to buff off the paint. While he was doing this, I reminded him of the wise advice he had imparted to me at 15 years of age. "Well, yeah, if you're going straight!" he replied. Harrumph, maybe next time around he should state all conditions upon the rule before he gives it to his unsuspecting daughter as fact.

I have yet to decide what is worse, paying to park in front of your own home, or ruining the face of your car. I suppose it probably comes out about even in the end, as so many things do. However, I think paying would cause a lot less growling...