The dark side of the moon

In spite of New Yorkers' reputation for rudeness, we have created an elaborate system of etiquette with regard to alternate parking. Basically, we all double-park on the side of the street that is not being cleaned. The police, and everyone else, tolerate this, because we generally leave notes in our windshields with addresses and/or cellphone numbers, in case the blocked-in individual needs to get out while the alternate is in effect. Additionally, it is understood that we will move our cars promptly at the appointed time, and probably a few minutes early. This system, generally speaking, works swimmingly, until some selfish bastard comes in and messes it all up.

This morning, our car was parked in a "Friday" spot. It being Thursday, we had an opportunity to move it to the other side of the street at the time that the Thursday parking restriction ended. In spite of needing to hunt around for an important file (which I have yet to find), I dutifully went to the car a few minutes prior to the appointed time, scanned the opposite side of the street and found My Perfect Parking Space, and prepared to nab it, only to find that I was almost completely blocked in. It would have taken the precision of a Swiss watch genetically combined with the brain and hands of a neurosurgeon in order to maneuver out of that spot.

So, I waited. Surely, the owner of the car would be along any minute.

I waited. Someone else nabbed the spot. No matter; there were still a few left.

And I waited and waited and waited. A kindly man finally came by; it looked like he was gesturing that he was going to move it.

"I'm sorry; it's not my car," he said. "But, if you'd like, I'll direct you out of the spot."

What seemed like 37 tense, sweaty minutes later, but was probably only about 6, I was on my way. The man had staved off oncoming traffic, had gotten me out of the spot uneventfully, and had bid me good day. God bless you, Nice Man, wherever you are.

Naturally, all the spots were gone by the time I got out. Except, of course, for the massive spot at the end of the block where parking is strictly prohibited for no apparent reason.

When all was said and done, I headed to the health-food store, where there were 7 employees chatting about how difficult their jobs were, yet nobody was available to help me get the bottle of fenugreek located on a shelf approximately four miles above sea level. The fenugreek is to increase my milk production, since it just sort of plummeted within the past few days, again, for no apparent reason. A minimally helpful breastfeeding book informed me that this can happen at around three or four months postpartum, and gave no further explanation. This is terribly inconvenient, as my children currently want to consume enough milk and/or formula each day to feed a small country, and I'd like as much of it to come from me as possible.

Today, I am having a lot of trouble finding my inner French girl.

So, instead, I think I am going to find my inner Irish girl, and have half a Guinness (good for lactation) while I pump. Judge not, lest ye be judged.