Lovely Rita

I have it on good authority that Paul McCartney turned 70 this week. I wonder if this is the golden year in which his transformation into Lady Elaine Fairchild is complete. Probably he threw himself a mad do at the Museum-Go-Round and plotted with King Friday about how to further scare the peewillikers out of small children. Are you picking this up? Are you getting me here?

Well, look at this.
And now look at this.
I rest my case. Sweet dreams.

Sir Lady Paul Elaine Fairchild McCartney has been on my mind a lot today. I have been picturing him galloping about on his mighty steed in a suit of vegetarian armor. I have been a little bit stunned that the last remaining Beatle is 70. Oh wait, there's Ringo. He still remains, too. I listen to him narrate Thomas the Tank Engine in my house nearly once a week. (Although, I prefer Alec Baldwin's oral interpretations of those wily little Sodor engines.) Was Ringo ever really a Beatle? Poor, maligned Ringo.

Mostly I've been humming Lovely Rita. It's a happy place in which I have chosen to reside.
Rita yelled in my face today.
Got right in it and gave me a proper scolding.
Her indignant spittle touched my cheek.

Oh, lovely Rita, meter maid.
Where would I be without you.
Give us a wink and make me think of you (lovely Rita, meter maid.)
Lovely Rita meter maid. Rita meter maid.

And so on.

I did not ask her to "give us a wink", because I'm quite certain that she would instead have opted to "give us a slap." I think her outburst had less to do with my measly seventy-five cents in the meter and more to do with the fact that she was missing her Paulie's birthday shindig at the Museum-Go-Round.

That's really what I think.

How often does your long lost Beatle-y love turn 70 and throw down with the Neighborhood of Make Believe? Not very often. And you get stuck hoofing around checking for expired parking in dark blue polyester in the suddenly hot sun? It totally sucks to have to work when you know Bob Dog is sipping shandies with the Queen and Mick Jagger is there hanging with Henrietta Pussycat (and you just know that Henrietta is boring Mick to tears with her whole "Mew mew mew mew" shtick) and Daniel Striped Tiger is probably cringing and crying into his beer someplace because he can't work up the courage to just go and say hi to Pippa Middleton. These are not the kinds of things one wants to miss. I bet she'd even heard that Chris and Gwyneth might show up. Of course Mr. McFeely will be all "Speedy delivery!" and want to tell poor Rita all about it tomorrow.

So, Lovely Rita, meter maid. I forgive you for being a little short of temper today. I will forgive the yelling, the space invasion, even the flying spittle. I know it sucks to have to work while your friends are partying. I hope that Sir Lady Paul saves you some cake or something. Besides, I love a woman who takes her job seriously. It's probably tedious. Nobody is excited to see you coming. "Hey Rita, Meter Maid! Thank you for the $44 ticket for being 2 minutes over my time. I love what you've done with the chalk on my tire! Keep up the good work!"

I hope Lovely Rita gets to catch the last trolley to the party tonight. I hope she gets a chance to kick off her sensible shoes and hang with Lady Aberlin. I hope she can tell her pals about the idiot who ran down the street with her hands full of Hooligan and candy to beg for mercy. And maybe, just maybe, Sir Lady Paul Elaine Fairchild McCartney's face will light up when he sees her and he will wrestle the microphone away from Ringo for long enough to sing her song for her.

Lovely Rita, meter maid.
Nothing can come between us.
When it gets dark, I tow your heart away.