I had an errand at Exile today, to find more "wildflower" dye to touch up my hair, and as I approached Grace Street, I was annoyed to see one of those no-left-turn signs that are so ubiquitous in Richmond, but then remembered, oh wait, it's Saturday, so I can turn today, and I did. Then I was pulling up to the curb to park, and saw the meters, and was about to go for my wallet for some quarters when I remembered, it's Saturday, so that meant not having to feed the meter. Then after I got out of the car, I was all, no, dummy, it's not Saturday, you goof, and I went into the store.
Right, so in the store, I asked the clerk for the dye, handed over my purse (so as not to suffer from any of the well-posted curses that will supposedly befall shoplifters), rooted through vintage pins (I've never seen even one sailboat pin before, and they had two, in different sizes)(I didn't buy either), pondered the reasons people paint clowns and the reasons other people are afraid of clowns (FYI: don't go to the back of Exile this week if you're afraid of clowns), wished rotary phones sold for less than $25, searched for tin trays, dreamed up collections of mismatched glassware, picked up glasses, put them down, rifled through polyester shirts, and then went back to the counter to pay for my dye and one googly-eyed fish pin for Griff.
Back to the car - I realized that post-dispersion-of-Saturday-delusion, I hadn't fed the meter. No worries, I didn't get a ticket. Except that I did.
Because, dummy, apparently it is Tuesday, not Saturday, and people actually enforce those rules.
Although, in my defense, I was out shopping alone, in multiple stores, for hours, without my children, which is an awfully Saturdayish thing to be doing. Dan pointed out that he had worked this morning, but a) that infuses too much logic into the situation and b) working isn't exactly an anti-Saturdayish thing for him to be doing.
Oh, and later I told a shop clerk about my absent-minded SNAFU and while she seemed to find it charmingly human and amusing, her coworker looked at me as though I might suddenly go postal on the joint. Because, you know, you never can tell what a woman might do once she has forgotten what day of the week it is. Although in the coworker's defense, I was buying popsicle molds that look like soft-serve ice cream cones, which is, admittedly, a rather insane thing to be doing.
I would invest in Days of the Week underwear, but I don't think any of us want to know what kind of a disaster that might turn out to be.
