Every once in a while, I like to do something really wild and crazy like forget to pay a parking ticket. Did I say forget? I probably meant willfully ignore.

Well, gentle reader, no more. I have been suitably chastened. The sight of a city meter maid/man-maid in orange vest and sensible walking shorts is enough to make me circle the block until I find a legit spot. No more toying with fate and 15-minute zones.

That's because I spent two-and-a-half hours on my day off getting my vehicle tabs renewed, all due to an old parking ticket. Allow me to share. Did I say share? I probably meant whine uncontrollably.

10 a.m. Wake up. Eat huge triple berry muffin from Corina Bakery. Feel like the world is on my side. Listen to Sera Cahoone. Hum all the way to Fife.

10:20. Emissions testing! How quaint! I pay 15 dollars for a woman to put a sensor somewhere in my vehicle for approximately 30 seconds. I am still eating the muffin, so it's all fine.

10:40. Creep down Tacoma Avenue trying to decipher the signage outside the County-City Building. There appear to be many courts in one building. But will anyone inside take my money for my parking ticket? Circle the block three times to find a safe spot. Walk. Sweat.

11:02. Ask security guard/metal detector attendant if I can pay my ticket inside. Smile. Place purse in X-ray machine. Set off detector with my metal-buckled boots. Apologize. Smile.

[More:]

11:10. Ride up to the eighth floor. I'm feeling rather flush with accomplishment upon seeing workers sitting in little glass booths. They surely want to take my 55 dollars. I present my paperwork to a woman, who informs me that the ticket cannot – as had been stated on my letter from the city – be paid at the court. Nay, it must be paid to some company with some initials located in Nevada. I have never been to Nevada. She hands me a business card.

11:25. I call. Nevadans are very nice, but they too, cannot take my money. I must go to my bank, purchase a money order in the exact amount ($84.17! My ticket has mated with some late fees), drive to Lakewood, locate the local Nevada-based initialed company office, and pay it.

11:45. The muffin is gone.

12:20. Find office. I feel kind of naughty, like a biker chick, going to something called an "Infractions Division." I never even smoked in high school. I savor a frisson of bad-girl-ness.

12:26. I have paid! I'm free! Free to go to the DMV. To wait in line.

12:40. The DMV is, of course, across town on South 35th. As I pass endless pho shops and carlots, I ponder how much CO2 my car has emitted since this morning. I wonder if I should have it re-checked.

12:59. I take a number. I sit. I wait. I pay. I get my new tabs. I buy a bottle of water from the snack bar. I drink it all in five minutes. Bureaucracy makes me thirsty.

1:05. I admire my 1-inch-by-1-inch 90 dollar sticker. I call everyone I know. My sticker, I say. If only you could see it.