Are we really that lazy?

A week or so ago my husband and I hit up the grocery store, fistfuls of coupons and our favorite fabric shopping bags clutched tightly in our hands. We like to have contests of guesstimating how much cash we saved on our purchase.

Yeah, we're cheap. I know.

Now that I'm a blissfully no-longer-nauseous but get that fried chicken away from me or I'll kill you pregnant lady, I'm able to go out and about without hurking up what little food I could get down three hours ago.

We drove into the parking lot where I discovered two reserved parking spots for expectant mothers. "Aw!" I squealed in my hormonal voice. "I think we should park there!"

Too late. K had parked the truck and was halfway out the door, dragging my bloated behind with him. (Ok, so that's not what really happened; I actually tripped out of the truck on my own) We walked by the parking spots, and as I got closer I saw that you have to apply for a parking permit with the store...and prove that you're pregnant. REALLY? Ok, I can understand that they need to be restricted spots, but to prove to the store you're expecting a watermelon in the next 6 months? We also noted something else:

Right next to the pregnant parking spot? A regular parking spot. By 'applying' for a permit, you're saving a whopping 2.5 feet in your trip to the store. Sorry, but I'm not giving out my personal information to a grocery store just so I can park my car a hair closer to the door.