The driver of this truck and trailer has blocked me in, blocked my good friend DB out of her spot, and another neighbor is blocked out of her space, too! Oh hell NO. That’s dangerous business, right there.
After 15 minutes, I have observed that the truck owner has manhandled out of the condo one measly nightstand that I could have loaded up by myself with no problem.
I hope that something else that is super heavy is loaded up before long and it’s worth blocking three working women’s parking spaces because when one or both of those two women come home and can’t park, there’s going to be some trouble out there.
I’m waiting by my kitchen window for one of them to arrive and frown at the truck and trailer parked rudely in the way — my friend April won’t be able to get into the parking spot belonging to her. Sure, she could park in the guest area and walk a few extra steps, but at quitting time, no one wants to walk a few extra steps. You’ve walked around all day in shoes that are gorgeous and make your legs look awesome, but when 5:30 p.m. rolls around and you are ready to get out of those rotten criminal b**tards called designer shoes, every step is like walking 6.27 miles on shards of glass.
That truck owner better get ready. His lunch better be packed in a Gilligan’s Island lunch box with a matching thermos, because in a show of solidarity for working women wearing pretty shoes all day, I’m going to grab my purse and run out screaming like a banshee, “Move the truck…get that trailer out of my way!! I have a broken nail — it’s an emergency and have to get to the salon before it closes!!!”
If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll reverse that pathetic parking job he’s done and run for his life.