You may remember my rant after I was ticketed by the City of El Cerrito because they apparently didn’t realize they had to honor my disabled parking placard from Connecticut. For anyone who runs into the same situation, here is the relevant state code that allows you to use your out-of-state placard:

California Vehicle Code

22511.5 (b) A disabled person or disabled veteran is allowed to park a vehicle displaying a special disabled person license plate or placard issued by a foreign jurisdiction with the same parking privileges authorized in this code for any vehicle displaying a special license plate or a distinguishing placard issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles.

So there.

Generally I try not to piss and moan too much about having MS. It doesn’t really do much good, does it? Doesn’t change anything. But I was just reminded about how much having MS can really suck.

Yesterday I was having a somewhat tough day with my MS. I was sick on Monday with something Lawrence picked up at school, so I was still somewhat shaky, and my muscles were just not working well. But I decided to go to Trader Joe’s anyway, since the fridge was looking a little empty.

I parked in a handicapped space, as I usually do, my Connecticut disabled parking placard in plain sight. I’m seeing my neurologist today, partly because I need her to fill out the form that will allow me to get a California one.

So when I come out, pretty pooped after half an hour of shopping, I see a parking ticket stuck under my windshield wiper. On top of it, some kind soul had left a note saying, “This is very inhospitable – can’t they see you are a visitor and wouldn’t have a Calif. permit?” Bless you, whoever you are. The note didn’t stop me from bursting into tears, but I felt better that someone understood I’d been screwed.

The moron who wrote the ticket wrote at the bottom, “Unable to read expiration date.” Well, gee, do you think that might be because, as it says in big letters, it’s a “Lifetime Disabled Parking Permit”? I would guess that the expiration date is the day I die, you idiot!

Of course, as I found when I called the police department, the problem was that the traffic cop didn’t know anything about Connecticut disabled permits. In fact, the cop who was manning the traffic department desk didn’t realize that, by federal law, all states must accept disabled parking permits from other states as valid in their own state.

So now, of course, I have to respond to the ticket by writing a letter and inclosing a copy of my disabled permit. Because, you know, I have nothing better to do than waste my time educating people about their jobs.

Can you tell I’m pissed off? As I said to the cop I talked to on the phone, “I’m sure I’m not the first person who’s used their out of state disabled permit here.” (It didn’t actually come out as snotty in person as it does in print, by the way. I managed to rein in my bitchiness.) He was very pleasant, and tried to find information about the law. I finally told him that he could probably get the information from our local congressperson’s office.

I really hate being disabled sometimes. There’s so much paperwork.

Yes, I do refer to myself as a cripple occasionally. Although that’s only when I am being reminded by my MS that I’m not normal anymore. Nothing brings that home more than a trip to Costco.

I used to love shopping at warehouse clubs. I mean, if you’re a true blue shopper, how can you not love it? You never know exactly what you’re going to find (in huge quantities, mostly). It’s also so gratifying to actually be able to buy a just released hardcover book at a reasonable price. If George loses me in Costco, the first place he looks is in the book aisle. He’s always amused, too. I think he’s still trying to get used to a wife who prefers books over expensive clothing.

But these trips are something really different when you have MS. The place is huge, which means lots of walking, and the floors are hard, which means really painful walking after a while. And there’s nowhere to sit down. But we get our medicine there, and a lot of our food, so we have to go at least twice a month.

So I have a few choices. I can let George go by himself and give him a list. But that removes the serendipitous aspect of shopping for me. So that’s no good. I can go and stick it out as long as possible and then go wait in the car. That’s not a lot of fun, either. Or I can use one of their scooters.

I hate using scooters. First of all, I don’t look like I need one. I’m 44 and not (very) overweight. I don’t have any limbs in a cast. So I know everyone’s wondering why I’m sitting in it.

Secondly, of course Lawrence wants to sit in my lap when I’m riding one, which he can’t do, so it turns into a big fight.

And then there’s also the fact that they’re a pain in the ass to maneuver and you’re down so low that you can’t see anything.

Plus, people do not move out of your way. You would think they would, wouldn’t you? But they don’t. It’s the same thing when I use my cane. They see the cane, and instead of stopping or stepping aside, they push past me. I guess they don’t want to be slowed down.

It pisses me off, though. I really feel like smacking them across the shins with the cane. I mean, for crissake, you can’t wait two seconds to let me pass, you asshole?

Okay, I feel better now. But I’m still not using the scooter when we go to Costco. Maybe I’ll bring my cane and trip anyone who tries to push past me.