Hello? Pot? It's Kettle

As I parked my car in the HEB lot last week and sat there a moment revising my list, my seat and windshield started to vibrate.

Was this the unannounced arrival of a surprise hurricane?

A tornado? An earthquake?


I quickly realized the source of these vibrations and steady thomp, thumpitty, thomp (yo!) was emanating from the low rider car pulling into the spot immediately to my left. A young man, by himself, turned off the beat and exited his own personal dance club on wheels.

I noticed he had parked, well, backed into actually (what is the deal with this phenomenon anyway, does everyone feel the need to make a speedy getaway and backing out is too time consuming?) the spot reserved--and clearly marked with a sign--for customers with small children. Which is a nice gesture on HEB's part but I'm afraid people ignore and abuse their kind intentions.

Case in point, to my left, pulling up his shorts from their descent below his hips, oblivious to the sign, and currently shuffling along on his way into the store.

Now, I will most likely never say anything to anyone who parks in the wrong spot, even if it was the handicapped spot, at least not out loud.

I will however carry on a long winded, Smuggy Smuggerson judgmental diatribe in my head. And I might glare at them.

I am fierce.

Fast forward to this morning at approximately 8:27 am as I am screeching into the school parking lot on two smoking wheels.

Because I must, at all cost and possible endangerment to small children crossing the parking lot, avoid a tardy.



The only available spot near the back of the school was the one another parent was at that very critical moment exiting.

It was the handicapped spot.

In my head, instead of Smuggy Smuggerson talking there was Rationny Rationalizer telling me, "Well, M.'s dad parked there right before me and he's not handicapped, I'm only going to be there for a minute or less, there's no where else...Obi One Kanobi, you're my only hope and time is tick-tocking away."

So, yeah, I parked there.

It may have been my imagination (or fear? or shame?) but as Annelise bailed out from the back and made a run for the door and I scrambled along behind her, another mom walked right beside us, looked down at the glaring blue paint of the wheelchair sign under our car and back at me.


Was she smugly judging my crime in her head?

I don't know.


I deserved it.

Maybe I owe low rider an apology for my rash, silent, judgement after all.

Did I get my just desserts? Do you ever make smug, rash judgments and then have them bite you?


  1. Tee hee! This was pretty funny. I will confess that ONCE I used my handicapped plate without my boys. I was at the 4th grade field day at the high school and there was NO NO NO where to park. I had a cooler, etc. I parked there.

    But I do have a handicapped plate. I admit, I tried to pretend a bit that I had a limp. ;-)

    And yes. I never say anything, but I am a glarer.

  2. This describes me perfectly as well, "I will however carry on a long winded, Smuggy Smuggerson judgmental diatribe in my head. And I might glare at them.

    I am fierce."

  3. Oh my goodness, I am the queen of "smug, rash judgments" and I hate it about myself. I have to ask forgiveness what seems like at least 1000 times a day. Unfortunately, I am also the queen Rationny Rationalizer. I'm a rules girl all the way - as long as they don't apply to me. *sigh*

  4. I know, I always say I'm a rule follower--until I'm not.

  5. But...were your pants sagging? haha. Just couldn't resist. I am fierce, too. And also very guilty.


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