In Which Madi Rants About Parking and Almost Dies (not in that order)

Know what I did last weekend? I went surfing. With dolphins. DOLPHINS, internet.

I suppose for the sake of honesty I should mention that when I surfed, it didn't look like this:



Nope. It looked like me in a borrowed swimsuit, spread-eagled on the nose of a very nice man's board while gasping for air and coughing up saltwater after having just been caught in a riptide. That's what I get for going swimming on a Sunday. Oh, and for forgetting every time I go near the ocean that I don't know how to swim. Every. dang. time.

The dolphin part didn't come to my attention until after I had already been rescued by my helpful surfer friend. Had I known I was swimming with dolphins, I would have just asked one of them to take me back to shore. Obviously.

Do I even need to insert here that swimming in the ocean in San Francisco is something that only squealing 11-year-olds and people in wetsuits do? Katie and Layna and I are neither of those things, of course, but we are hearty Midwest/Mountain West/Northwest-ern girls and we will not be deterred by arctic waters. Heave ho.

Oh, San Francisco. I love you so very much, I will even go swimming in your frigid, frigid waters. But your parking situation? It's really getting me down.

Parking here is a nightmare. Which is the exact opposite of what our dear buddy Sean (whose apartment we are subleasing) told us. It's free! he said. It's so easy! he said. The farthest I ever had to park from the house was a block away! he said.

Lies, you web-found fiend! Lies!

Luckily, Sean is actually a super nice guy and is paying for both our parking tickets (hooray for valor!). And I dutifully move our car every two hours, just like the signs say I should, making sure to go at least one-eighth of a mile from my last parking spot each time, just like the law says I should, and getting out of the car five times to make sure I am not in any way within a red area when I've finally found a spot, just like my paranoia says I should. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Tomorrow, David is taking it to the garage by his work where it will be handily, expensively stowed away for the remainder of our time here (three cheers for victory!)