Fast forward to 45 minutes later.
B2B and I are exiting the photographer's office to find the meter maid (he's a man named J. Thomas, but attacking his masculinity consoles me) typing in a ticket. I yell from the steps, "Hold on! That meter is not working." His response? "It's flashing red. That means it's expired."
Me: Yes! But I put a quarter in and nothing happened.
Dick head meter maid: mmm hmmm. (uninterested in my protest)
Me: Yeah. Here let me show you.
So I pulled some change from my pocket and proceeded to put a nickel in the meter. Sure as hell, five minutes popped up.
DHMM: Seems to be working fine.
Me: Well, it didn't just before nine.
DHMM: (while now printing the ticket) I can't help you. You can call the number on the top and tell them your story.
Me: I will.
Me: Great. You're awesome. (Then under my breath as he walked off) Dick head meter maid.
So I called the number. Talked to a very nice lady named Sharon. She told me to write what happed on the ticket, mail it in, and they'd look into the matter.
But I would like to reiterate that J. Thomas is a dick head meter maid.
I told you that to tell you this.
Later that day, B2B and I were at Kroger. As we left I noticed this.
That's right! Friggin' fake mustaches for a mere fifty cents. But looking into my pocket contents, guess what I found. Only one quarter, because I wasted my other one on a Cincinnati parking meter that didnt' work. Which would have been fine, except the dick head meter made, J. Thomas, still gave me a ticket. So I got a ticket and did not have the funds for a fake mustache.
I hope for better in 2010 (but not for J. Thomas: Dick Head Meter Maid).