When undergrads are in the air, and bad parking jobs abound.
First, I love where we live. I arrived home on Friday night just before 11, to find that the students renting the house on the corner were throwing a thumping party. I grumbled a bit and then went to look up the number for the police. By the time I’d programmed the number into my phone, the music had stopped. I strongly suspect that one of the neighbors called in a complaint, because it was super quiet after that. Yay neighbors who are just as crotchety as I have apparently become!
As for the parking: Please note, people, that a Harvard Move In permit on your car’s dashboard is NOT the same as having a guest pass to park on our fair streets. In fact, Harvard doesn’t own all that many streets around here, and I have the number for the Parking and Transportation Department programmed into my phone.
Also, there are clearly new people on the block, because DEAR GOD the parking jobs. Your corolla does not need five feet in front and in back of it. But I have been through this before. This time Mr. Fizz suggested I write a haiku. So:
Dear Mister Asshat:
Your parking job sucks goat bum.
I have called you in.
Your very small car
is taking up two spaces;
you can park better.
I feel better already!