Category: Lifestyle

Help Me, hangTag – I’m Stuck in a Parkade with a Ten Dollar Bill

I prefer street parking.

No concrete, minus the curb. Those quaint parking metres? Accepting all forms of payment. Impark’s hangTag app. Love it. Forget the long lines. So long, waiters!

But parkades? They’re basically jails for vehicles.

In a previous post, I wrote about my fears: tornadoes, bees, and underground parkades. It’s parkades, period. Under or over. If vehicles were meant to be stacked, they’d have Lego on their roofs.

Last month, I was late for a routine appointment with my epileptologist. Technically, I was on time, but I couldn’t find street parking. Time dwindled, I was forced into a six-floor dungeon. The Emily Street parkade.

Maybe it had five or seven floors. I wasn’t going to count.

The clearance bar seemed so low, I ducked while entering. Driving at the pace of a turtle with a broken leg, I parked on the second floor. Or first. They label parkade levels weird. I rushed to my appointment. Then, I rushed back through falling snow to escape.

The pay station was in the basement aka ground level. Isn’t that like calling a napkin a bath towel?

A pay station is a simple concept. Pop in your ticket, pay the fee… a smidge over two hours tallied $8.70. No comment. And you know “no comment” means there’s a comment and it’s not appropriate.

That particular pay station accepted only 1980s-style payment: Visa, MasterCard, and cash. Surprisingly, no cheques. Debit? Ah, that’s cute. I pulled out a five dollar bill, and then I saw the sign. A real sign, not the song.

“This machine cannot accept bills at this time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Meh, no problem. In went my debit card.

“Cannot process payment.”

Right. Only Visa, MasterCard, and cash. I forgot with the stress from hearing the creaking with vehicles entering and exiting parkade. Can’t moisture from the snow soften concrete?

In went my MasterCard. Out came my MasterCard.

“Cannot process payment.”

That’s impossible! Because I just received an alert on my mobile saying the payment went through, you little theft. I tried again – I don’t recommend doing this unless you have zero choice. Again, “Cannot process payment.”

Visa. It accepts Visa. I don’t have a Visa. But I have Visa Debit. Which I tried out of pure desperation. Visa Debit cards don’t have a chip. But they have a strip.

The pay station hesitated, and I thought, “It’s working!” No, the machine was probably thinking “Are you kidding?” before spitting out the card.

Then, aha! I remembered there was another pay station on the first floor. I almost left a note for the next payee, “Save yourself! Go to the first floor,” but all I had was an unchecked lottery ticket from 2017. I thought leaving false hope in a parkade would be cruel.

I bypassed the elevators and raced to the stairs. I’m also not a fan of elevators. Close proximity. Sharing air. Touching icky buttons that someone probably licked. You’ll think twice next time, won’t you?

The first floor pay station was fully operational! I popped in my five dollar bill. Pushed a loonie into the coin slot, followed by my endless coin collection.

One time, I paid almost five dollars worth of parking with quarters, dimes, and nickels. The pay station at the St. Boniface Hospital was practically hoarse from saying, “Please insert payment.”

Back to the dungeon:

A coin was rejected. But I kept shovelling in the change until I hit lint. I was 10 cents short. Luckily, the rejected coin was a dime, and I tossed the 10er into the slot. But, no deal. And clang.

Well damn.

An American dime. Same size but lighter than the Canadian dime and refused by vending machines from coast to coast to coast. Ten cents prevented me from fleeing.

Now, came the tough part. I had a $10 bill from days of yore – or circa 2016. I wanted out, but whoa, let’s not go crazy. One does not break a 10 dollar bill due to an American dime.

It was Franklin D. Roosevelt verses Sir. John A. MacDonald. Showing the age of the bill, since Viola Desmond graces our modern $10 notes. I wasn’t going down without a fight! It was me verses a pay station!

I slowly dropped the dime into the slot. No. Then I tried a little hop. Think coin basketball. Or water pong.

While battling the seven-foot, slot-faced bandit, a woman came up behind me.

“Don’t you hate these things?” she said as I slammed that dime over and over into the pay station a gambler who thinks Vegas closes.

“Yes, especially when they don’t cooperate.” Yes, I talk to strangers. Defeated, I turned to her. “Would you have a Canadian dime? Mine’s American, and the machine won’t accept American coins.”

She laughed and opened her wallet. “Let’s see what I have.” She had only one dime. We giggled, and I swapped my 13 cents for her 10 cents. I shot the in dime and … ding, ding! We have a winner!” I practically hugged her, and I grabbed my “Get out of parkade free” card.

I raced to my vehicle, jumped in, and fled like the wind.

Problem was, when I arrived at the gate of freedom, I had to insert my parking ticket. Normally, I don’t have an issue reaching the intake slot from my vehicle. But that particular morning, I re-adjusted my seat. I’m not short, but I have short legs. While they need to touch the pedals, I can’t be too close to the steering wheel. That morning, I was too far from both.

I popped the vehicle into park and stepped outside. Insert, accepted, and the bar rose. I scampered into the vehicle, quickly re-adjusted my seat, and then I pressed the gas. It sounded like Sunday Cruise Night pressed their gas pedals in unison.

I forgot the vehicle was in park.

Regardless, as I rolled out of the parkade, I thought about the chain of events. What if I’d been on time for my appointment? What if my appointment was shorter? And if I went straight to the first floor pay station, and that woman hadn’t been behind me? And I waved the white flag and used the 10 dollar bill?

That’s taking the easy route. I like a challenge.

But next year? I’m checking all my change.

~~~
Photo credits: Pixabay

Tim Thurston – A Tribute to My Red River College Counsellor

In 2015, I wrote this post on the 15th anniversary of my Red River College counsellor’s death. Tim Thurston died on October 1, 2000. He was 49 years old. After writing this post, I felt at peace. Finally, I could talk about Tim without breaking down. He made an impact on countless RRC students and staff. And we’re forever grateful for our time with Tim. 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s a sense of abandonment when a person dies.

You feel lost. Alone. Despondent. Shattered. Broken. Unable to continue.

October 1st, 2015 marks 15 years since my Red River College counsellor, Tim Thurston, died of a heart attack. He was 49.

On the first anniversary of Tim’s death, I wrote him a letter and poured out my feelings. How I was angry with him for dying. Mad he left me. Mad he was gone. Mad he wasn’t at my wedding.

Yeah, I was mad.

On the 15th anniversary, I’m paying tribute to Tim in another letter.

This is the reason I broke down in journalism as we discussed announcing deaths on social media. The reason “Fly and be Free” were in the credits of my Creative Communications documentary. And the reason I’m into boats and nautical themes. I even have a similar (though much smaller) boat in a bottle as Tim had his office.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Tim,

I’m no longer mad, but it’s still hard to believe you’re gone.

As time goes on though, I realize people don’t say “goodbye.” They just leave. They die. But maybe the words we need to hear aren’t “goodbye.”

Tim Thurston, undated photo. Credit, Winnipeg Tribune: Jon Thordarson

It hurt how I found out about your death. If we had Facebook or Twitter back then, maybe someone would’ve contacted me, and I won’t have missed your service. But we didn’t have Facebook or Twitter.

In 2000 – a poster on a bulletin board was our Twitter.

When I saw that poster – 11 days after your death – I bolted into Student Services and almost passed out. Your office was empty – and your boat in a bottle was gone.

“Sail your own ship, Tammy,” as you’d mildly nudge towards the bottle. “Ships aren’t meant to be anchored down.”

You reminded me of a slightly toned-down version of Sean Maguire – Robin Williams’ character from Good Will Hunting. You never held anything back. If you felt I needed to hear it – I was going to hear it. You were honest with me. That’s what I miss most – your blunt honesty.

When Robin Williams died – on my wedding anniversary in 2014 – I felt like I lost you again.

But you weren’t Sean Maguire. Or Robin Williams.

You were Tim Thurston. You liked George Carlin and the Blue Bombers. You used to play football, and turned to coaching.

You were my confidant, and we had serious conversations about world issues and politics. And some not so serious conversation about my silly crushes. You encouraged me. You cheered for me. You prepared me for my Creative Communications interview. You consoled me when I wasn’t accepted, but you weren’t one for pity-parties.

“Put this behind you and move on,” you said. “You can try again next year. Focus on what you can do now.”

Tim, you helped people see beyond their potential. You were human in a world where the majority of us are faking it. You entered my life on October 23, 1998 – when I felt lost, alone and invisible at Red River College. And you saw me laugh; saw me cry; made me laugh; and made me cry.

In my previous letter written on October 1, 2001, I was mad at you because you left me without saying goodbye.

Years later, I realize it’s not the goodbye that’s important.

You and I agreed to talk after fall exams. It was the end of September, and exams ran until mid-October. On September 28, 2000, I learned my math result, I raced to your office and through your door.

“Tim! I got my math mark.”

By the look on your face, and the expression on my face, you knew … this was good.

“And?”

“B plus!”

“Yes,” you said, and you pumped both arms in the air, which caught me off guard. You were ecstatic and asked if I had time to talk. I plunked into the chair at the round table – where I sat after I learned about your death.

Our conversation began to wind down, and when I left your last words to me were: “Fly and be free.”

It took awhile, but I realized your final words meant more than goodbye.

Sometimes it’s not goodbye we need to hear, but it’s the person’s last words we should remember.

Anchors aweigh, Tim.

Always,
Tammy

Owning Your Birthday When You’re Alone

In about eight hours, something different will happen.

Not completely different, just different.

For the first time in 20 years, I’ll be alone on my birthday. I have a ritual where I wake up and yell, “It’s my birfday! It’s myyyy birfday!” and then I break into song. Thank goodness the neighbours have moved out.

But no one will smile and say, “Yes, it is,” and then serve me breakfast in bed. And then lunch. And make me dinner. My birthday’s tend to revolve around food. I won’t go to Hecla or Hnausa dock for a photoshoot. Or have a scavenger hunt around the house or mall . Which I found rather stressful. If I owned last year’s birthday, I’m grasping this year’s like a cuddly teddy bear.

But some things never change.

Continue reading “Owning Your Birthday When You’re Alone”

Next Time You Pass a Car Wash and You Hear a Beep – It’s Probably Me

Last night, I ran out of coffee.

So, I rose with the sun. I accomplished some writing stuff, and then I slapped on a houndstooth hat and drove to the Arborg Co-op.

Which is the main part of the story.

At the till, I chatted with the cashier, and then I walked along the yellow-brick road to my dirt-caked vehicle. Why was I driving a vehicle caked with dirt?

With Def Leppard blaring, I headed to the Arborg Co-op Gas Station’s car wash. I drove into the bay, and I washed my Kia. With a wand. For the first time.

I’ve never wand-washed a vehicle. It was either a hand wash or drive through car washed. Needless to say, this was a new experience.

Continue reading “Next Time You Pass a Car Wash and You Hear a Beep – It’s Probably Me”