Parked

My travels today found Mom and me in search for water-proof fleece, rain coats, and other camping essentials for Kevin’s end-of-year school trip. Inspired by the beautiful weather, thoughts of a pleasant drive, and absolute necessity for the items by tomorrow morning, we drove off to the local L.L. Bean store for some much needed shopping.

Now Mom and I possess two different philosophies in terms of parking our car:

My philosophy:

  1. Locate the first available parking spot, preferably as far away from other vehicles.
  2. Pull into spot.
  3. Put car in park and remove key from ignition.
  4. Hike the two miles to your destination (Frankly I need the exercise, and we all should try to walk more)

Mom’s philosophy:

  1. Drive around through the maze of parked cars for the closest spot possible.
  2. If you pass more than ten parked cars, you have gone too far.
  3. If no parking spots are available, continue circling the parking lot like vultures until someone leaves.
  4. Upon finding a spot extremely close in proximity to your destination, pull in.
  5. Put car in park DO NOT TURN OFF IGNITION
  6. Look about you and wait twenty minutes, if you see anyone pulling out of a parking spot closer to the mall, quickly leave the secured spot and jump to the closer one.
  7. Repeat until parked adjacent to handicapped spots. Then if the mall is not closed, shop.

Honestly — with only a little exaggeration — Mom loves to capture that “close” spot. It’s the competitive streak in her, that blood-thirsty Celtic-warrior stare that melds onto her face whenever we play volleyball or softball. A trait we ironically share as years of video gaming have unearthed the battle-lust in my genes as well (particularly at Mario Kart and Tekken). Losing to Dasad’s Ryu in Street Fighter, usually prompts hours of intense training afterwards and a few hurried matches with my younger less battle-hardened cousins. The fact that few of them have played the game before or even know what buttons to push, bite, or gum is inconsequential at this point. I simply need the victory, the knockout, that cybernetic affirmation that I am still a man.

Yet when it comes to parking, I simply do not possess my mother’s patience. No sooner would I pull into a parking spot ten rows from the entrance to Nordstroms, then a Honda begins pulling out several rows ahead and Mom would shoot me that expectant disappointed look, suggesting “We could have parked closer if we hadn’t rushed.” Yes and we could, losing gas and shopping time in the process. However I do not say this. One thing I have learned in all my years of parking and gaming, sometimes the best victory demands a timely retreat. And no dishonor can be found in yielding to the chidings of your mother from time to time. Indeed it is good for them to vent now and again. Our two miles walks to the mall are rarely silent.

“Ooh . . . Murph, honey, you missed that spot. If I sat down here so that no other cars could enter, and you ran back to the car . . .”

“Come on, Mom . . .” I sigh, promising to grab myself and her a large mall-bought fruitshake before the afternoon ends. After all we need something to sustain us for the long hike back to the car . . .

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In which Murph considers current events and polygamy . . .

This morning I had the opportunity to listen in on the news, having just finished visiting the Wednesday webcomics, anime reviews, and movie news and now absently searching Google for something . . . anything that could distract me for another five minutes. I overheard another interview with the mothers from the polygamist compound. I say “another” as just the night before the same interview had appeared on the late late news, and no doubt for the sake of morning people or people like me who try very hard not to watch much television, they re-aired the footage yet again for completeness sake.

It was the voices that startled me from my escapist romp through the internet, by all that is holy . . . those voices. The sounds of their pleas possessed the tones of disembodied voices, a forlorn spirit haunting an old abandon nursery. The high-pitched moans were denying something, refusing to answer questions about their own marriage, the age they were given over to men nearly three-times their age. Hearing their refusals and adamant demands for their children’s return baffled me. The pleas of the possessed. The arguments of the brainwashed cult. I did not know whether I should laugh or cry.