Today I had to go to the state university for an event I was covering for work. After driving around to three different parking lots that were all reserved for students with permits, I went to the “visitors” parking area where I was told I’d have to pay a dollar for each hour I was parked there or buy a parking permit.

“Jesus Christ you are joking me,” I barked at the gate attendant. “Question: When you’re not managing this hut you work in, do you carry cash?”

“Uhhh…” he responded, not sure how he should answer that.

“I didn’t think so. No one carries cash. Unless you take debit, I think I should be able to park here and not pay. My job’s at stake here.” I looked at my imaginary watch (for emphasis) and sighed dramatically.

“I was supposed to be parked 10 minutes ago. And now I’m going to break a sweat trying to hustle across a campus I am unfamiliar with to an event I know nothing about because you’re telling me I owe the meter somewhere in the neighborhood of three dollars.” I was on a roll, so I kept talking, trying to rally some pity. But it just came off wrong. The only feeling I probably inspired was contempt.

“I went to a private school that I paid to go to and I never paid my parking tickets there, so if you think I’m going to pay parking tickets to a school I didn’t even bother applying to, you are mistaken!”

“I’m really sorry ma’am,” the attendant shrugged. He looked…abused. I’m sure he said ma’am to be nice because I was the first person who hadn’t shouted profanity at him all day (a miracle even for me), but when someone calls me ma’am, it makes me just about as mad when I don’t get carded for buying alcohol. I asked the cashier at Costco if he wanted to see my ID when I got a couple of bottles of wine there the other day. His answer of no might as well have been him slapping me in the face. It HURT.

“FINE!” I growled at the attendant. “Even if you did take debit, I probably don’t even have three dollars in my account. So the joke would’ve been on you when you when you had to eat the fee!”

Actually the joke would’ve been on me because I would’ve been the one eating an overdraft fee, but I drove away before could correct me. I found a meter with eleven minutes on it and put the 90 cents I found swimming in my purse in. I was slated to be at the event for three hours. The meter told me my car could only be there for 51 minutes. I left a note on my car for the meter maid who would no doubt write me a ticket. It read:

“I only have 2 quarters. Sorry you don’t offer free parking for visitors who have to come here for work. If you want to talk to me about not paying the ticket you’re writing me you can find me in the courtyard. I’m wearing a red dress. And I’ll be happy to argue with you. xoxo Melia”

I knew I was going to get a ticket. Think about it, this is what meter maids get paid for. They get off on writing tickets-they love it. The highlight of a meter maid’s day is seeing someone weep over the ticket they just wrote. It’s probably the only authority they have in life. I’d enjoy writing tickets too if I lived in my parents’ basement and the bulk of my social interactions are through “Call of Duty.”

When I got back to my car, the familiar envelope with PARKING CITATION printed on it in big black letters was waiting for me on top of my handwritten note. As if it’s not embarrassing enough to have envelope on your windshield in a metered parking lot. Everyone knows what it is. But they have to announce in bold what’s on the inside of the envelope-as if I don’t already know. I got in my car and opened it and on the inside of the envelope there was a note for me.

“Not all of us are jerks. -42” The citation was a warning. Free pass. That’s not even the topper. In the comments section it says: meter out of order. Parking Cop #42, I LOVE YOU.

True story.