The $92 parking ticket that broke my 23-year San Francisco marriage.

I drive across the bay bridge from my east bay home in the drizzling rain, grateful to return to the doctor for an important medical appointment. Instead of paying $10 an hour for parking at the medical offices (you read that correctly) I allowed enough time to encircle the blocks from Van Ness to Post and Larkin, knowing I could likely find a meter to feed with my phone or credit card. Must have been my prayer to the parking gods, I actually found a spot in minutes. “I will not even risk a ticket,” I mentally affirm, carefully studying…