With Love
Issue date: 12/12/09 Section: Opinion
Dear Parking Services
I am sorry to inform you that I will no longer be illegally parking my car in the red restricted zone on campus. For the last two years, your parking attendants have managed to distribute my black Ford Escape $2,795 in parking tickets. At $65 a pop, that's 43 lifts of my car's wiper, gently tucking that cute ticket to sleep against my windshield.
Nothing brought a bigger smile to my face than leaving my parked car for less than five minutes and coming back to a fresh ticket.
When I came down with mono during freshman year there was no other choice but resorting to taking my Escape to class. As my ailing and feeble body made its way back to the car, saving me from what would have been a suicide mission across Cook Field, I was always greeted with you-know-what. After an hour and a half class, I was greeted by two separate tickets.
Thank you for your kind letter informing me that none of the appeals against the mono tickets were accepted. I tried my hardest to please you by even attaching my hospital record stating I was in no condition to walk over 50 feet. I hope you still have that stapled on a bulletin board somewhere in your offices. Perhaps next to my dignity?
It would be rude of me not to mention the two times my car was charmingly referred to as "booted." At only $500 per booting, ironically, both times happened around 4:50 pm - five minutes before Parking Services closes for the day - forcing me to abandon my car. I fondly remember the captivating dialogue I staged for you as I walked home in the fierce, snowy weather during each occasion. It was a splendid treat digging the booted tire out of the ice a day later.
Just to impress you, I did all the digging with my own bare hands and plastic, miniature ice scraper. As blood from my shattered knuckles began to drip onto the white snow, the strong and burly male attendant stood overhead informing me his only job was to remove the boot itself. He was a tremendous asset.
Friends and relatives often asked how I kept racking up all these parking tickets. Aside from Ditmer (technically not even a part of Miami's campus), I answered it was because of you, Parking Services. Knowing I wouldn't be able to afford shampoo and conditioner for the next five months created an added sensation, sending endorphins through my body each time I signed away thousands of dollars at the Bursar's Office.
Because of my donation of $2,795, rather than having clean hair, those fancy-looking glass encased bus stop benches were put in. Though I refuse to ever ride that despicable excuse for transportation, Miami students now have a place to shield their heads from rain, snow, sleet and flying monkeys as they wait for the Blue bus … no, wait … am I supposed to be on Green bus? Shit. Stop the bus! I pulled on the plastic rope. Now, stop the bus! Why can't you hear it ding? I almost broke the damn thing, pulling so hard. Let me out, crazy lady.
Parking Services, you are but mere shapes to me, rectangular pieces of delicate paper. Others would spit their dried out gum into you and toss you to the wayside. Not me. Instead I stored you in my warm, secure glove compartment. Now, it's only suitable for me to ritually burn you and scatter your ashes in the nearest toilet.
I bid you ado Parking Services. My car is now parked safely behind my off-campus house, devoid of presents adorning my windshield.
I am sorry to inform you that I will no longer be illegally parking my car in the red restricted zone on campus. For the last two years, your parking attendants have managed to distribute my black Ford Escape $2,795 in parking tickets. At $65 a pop, that's 43 lifts of my car's wiper, gently tucking that cute ticket to sleep against my windshield.
Nothing brought a bigger smile to my face than leaving my parked car for less than five minutes and coming back to a fresh ticket.
When I came down with mono during freshman year there was no other choice but resorting to taking my Escape to class. As my ailing and feeble body made its way back to the car, saving me from what would have been a suicide mission across Cook Field, I was always greeted with you-know-what. After an hour and a half class, I was greeted by two separate tickets.
Thank you for your kind letter informing me that none of the appeals against the mono tickets were accepted. I tried my hardest to please you by even attaching my hospital record stating I was in no condition to walk over 50 feet. I hope you still have that stapled on a bulletin board somewhere in your offices. Perhaps next to my dignity?
It would be rude of me not to mention the two times my car was charmingly referred to as "booted." At only $500 per booting, ironically, both times happened around 4:50 pm - five minutes before Parking Services closes for the day - forcing me to abandon my car. I fondly remember the captivating dialogue I staged for you as I walked home in the fierce, snowy weather during each occasion. It was a splendid treat digging the booted tire out of the ice a day later.
Just to impress you, I did all the digging with my own bare hands and plastic, miniature ice scraper. As blood from my shattered knuckles began to drip onto the white snow, the strong and burly male attendant stood overhead informing me his only job was to remove the boot itself. He was a tremendous asset.
Friends and relatives often asked how I kept racking up all these parking tickets. Aside from Ditmer (technically not even a part of Miami's campus), I answered it was because of you, Parking Services. Knowing I wouldn't be able to afford shampoo and conditioner for the next five months created an added sensation, sending endorphins through my body each time I signed away thousands of dollars at the Bursar's Office.
Because of my donation of $2,795, rather than having clean hair, those fancy-looking glass encased bus stop benches were put in. Though I refuse to ever ride that despicable excuse for transportation, Miami students now have a place to shield their heads from rain, snow, sleet and flying monkeys as they wait for the Blue bus … no, wait … am I supposed to be on Green bus? Shit. Stop the bus! I pulled on the plastic rope. Now, stop the bus! Why can't you hear it ding? I almost broke the damn thing, pulling so hard. Let me out, crazy lady.
Parking Services, you are but mere shapes to me, rectangular pieces of delicate paper. Others would spit their dried out gum into you and toss you to the wayside. Not me. Instead I stored you in my warm, secure glove compartment. Now, it's only suitable for me to ritually burn you and scatter your ashes in the nearest toilet.
I bid you ado Parking Services. My car is now parked safely behind my off-campus house, devoid of presents adorning my windshield.
with love,
Casey Ruben
Viewing Comments 1 - 1 of 1
lackwe
Bill
posted 1/09/10 @ 6:40 PM EST
There are so many mistakes in this letter it's hard to document all of them...
a) if the person was sick enough to warrant a medical parking pass, they can be applied to from parking services. (Continued…)
Post a Comment