Really. I mean, I did eat them on occasion, as a child, when my mom packed them in my school lunches, and I've had a random Twinkie here or there since, but I have definitely eaten less than one hundred Twinkies in my lifetime. Maybe even as few as fifty.
So what happened the other day is beyond my understanding. I parked across the street from my friend Kathi's house when I showed up for our twice-weekly American Idol date, got out of my car, and started walking across the street. Completely innocently. I paused to let a car pass. And then, it happened. A faceless voice came out of the backseat.
"Lay off the Twinkies, Bitch!"
Now I realize that he didn't really think I eat too many Twinkies. He just tried, and failed, to come up with a creative way to call me fat. And I don't mind being called fat, really. I mean, it's true. I am fat. I choose not to think of that as a bad thing. Still don't like it much when someone screams about it out the window of a car, though, especially when they yell at me for eating Twinkies.
Now, if he had told me to lay off the pizza, maybe, or the french fries, or the general tso's chicken, or even the clubhouse sandwiches, it wouldn't have bothered me. I do eat those things, a lot. But why would he have assumed I eat Twinkies? What is it about fat people that makes thin people assume they all eat Twinkies? I just don't get it.
I'm so upset, I think I might go get myself some Twinkies. And if I can find that guy, I know exactly where I'm gonna put 'em.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day
The sun is shining. It's nearing 50 degrees. I'm wearing (probably prematurely) flip flops. I have a reason to smile again. Ahhh.
I love spring because it gives me hope. I get a shot of confidence, a boost of energy, a feeling of lightness surrounding me. But spring makes me sad, too.
All around me, people are in love. Spring does that. And it's the one part of spring I don't get to participate in. Love hits me in the face everywhere I look and somehow avoids me at the same time.
On the sidewalk, there are teenagers walking past with their arms wrapped around each other's waists. Couples sit down at a table in a restaurant, then lean over and kiss. Old people rub each other's shoulders and kiss each other's heads. Boys and girls chase each other around playgrounds, playing tag, just for the rush that comes with touching one another. And I watch from the sidelines, alone, the tears in my eyes glinting in the spring sun.
Rationally, I know that it shouldn't matter. I have good friends, and I have a good time with them. There are people who are attracted to me, I know. They're not people I get to spend time with in person, mostly, and the few that I do get to spend time with live too far away and are otherwise unavailable to me to be a part of my daily life, but they're there. But there is just no one in my life that I can touch, hold, rub, caress.
My craving for the sensation of skin on my skin, physical affection, is absolutely the only thing that makes me wish I was a thin, traditionally beautiful woman. Other than that, I am happy with who I am. I am fairly healthy, pretty energetic, and other than a bit of depression from time to time, overall a happy person. My only problem is that the general public is not as accepting of me as I am. The only reason I wish I was any different than I am.
But while this bright, bright sunshiny day makes me sad, it gives me hope, too. Maybe someday, I'll earn the right to be loved. Maybe. Springtime is ripe with maybe.
I love spring because it gives me hope. I get a shot of confidence, a boost of energy, a feeling of lightness surrounding me. But spring makes me sad, too.
All around me, people are in love. Spring does that. And it's the one part of spring I don't get to participate in. Love hits me in the face everywhere I look and somehow avoids me at the same time.
On the sidewalk, there are teenagers walking past with their arms wrapped around each other's waists. Couples sit down at a table in a restaurant, then lean over and kiss. Old people rub each other's shoulders and kiss each other's heads. Boys and girls chase each other around playgrounds, playing tag, just for the rush that comes with touching one another. And I watch from the sidelines, alone, the tears in my eyes glinting in the spring sun.
Rationally, I know that it shouldn't matter. I have good friends, and I have a good time with them. There are people who are attracted to me, I know. They're not people I get to spend time with in person, mostly, and the few that I do get to spend time with live too far away and are otherwise unavailable to me to be a part of my daily life, but they're there. But there is just no one in my life that I can touch, hold, rub, caress.
My craving for the sensation of skin on my skin, physical affection, is absolutely the only thing that makes me wish I was a thin, traditionally beautiful woman. Other than that, I am happy with who I am. I am fairly healthy, pretty energetic, and other than a bit of depression from time to time, overall a happy person. My only problem is that the general public is not as accepting of me as I am. The only reason I wish I was any different than I am.
But while this bright, bright sunshiny day makes me sad, it gives me hope, too. Maybe someday, I'll earn the right to be loved. Maybe. Springtime is ripe with maybe.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Who Says Policemen Are Honorable?
It all started last Wednesday. I got pulled over on my way home from tutoring Daniel. I may or may not have been speeding (I won't admit to anything incriminating unless I'm sure I was partaking), but not horribly so, because I was WAY too close to the State Police post to do anything wrong.
So when I saw the trooper's car slow down, and then turn around, I experienced a moment of panic, and, I'll admit, some indignation as well. The speed limit is 25 and I was going maybe 30, 32 at most, and I was within sight of the 35 mph speed limit sign. I kept driving, very carefully, rather than pulling over right away, because I wasn't positive he was intending to pull me over. Then his lights went on. I pulled over. He got out and approached.
I got the usual: "Hello, ma'am. Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"Um, no?" I said, fairly calmly, I think, especially considering the fact that I was in a minor panic. I'm a "good kid." Always have been. So when I am accused of doing something wrong, I get scared. Even more so if I'm not aware of exactly what I did. My voice may have squeaked a little.
"You're not wearing your seatbelt."
Okay, so it wasn't speeding. But I looked down to find that I was distinctly wearing my seatbelt, albeit not properly. See, the damn thing doesn't fit. I'm bigger 'n the average bear, and the part the shoulder strap clicks into is broken on my car, so while the seatbelt works, that part spends most of its time slid down and buried in the seat, which ensures that the seatbelt has to stretch even farther. Besides which, I'm short, so the shoulder part hits me right across the neck and chokes me even with seatbelts that fit fine. So what I do is slide the shoulder part across my back, leaving just the lap part functioning, and click it into place. But I WAS wearing it!
"I am wearing it," I told him, indicating the securely fastened clasp.
"That's not what I saw," he said. "I could see both straps next to each other, telling me that you weren't wearing it."
"They're that way now, and I am wearing it," I told him quietly. "I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but I was wearing it."
"Don't lie to me."
"I-I'm not lying. See? I'm really sorry, I don't mean to show disrespect."
"Then don't lie to me."
"But-I'm-I was wearing it. I'm not going to argue with you." Shit. Wrong thing to say. What I meant was "I'm not going to argue with you because I can't see what you saw, nor can I prove what you saw, so I will bow down to your authority." What it sounded like was, "Obviously I'm right, so I'm not going to argue with you." You know, the way a parent tells a child that he or she is not going to get dragged into an argument.
"I mean, I can't prove what you saw. So there's no point in arguing, and I will just pretend whatever you say is the truth. But I promise you, I was wearing it," I told him.
"When was the last time you were pulled over?"
"Um--I guess it was about a year ago. I had just gotten this car and there was a burned out headlight that I got pulled over for a few times. I never got a ticket, though."
"And have you ever had a ticket before?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know, maybe three years ago."
"What for?"
And now in a very quiet voice: "Not wearing my seatbelt." I cleared my throat. "But I really wasn't wearing it that time!"
"Have you ever been arrested?"
"No. Never."
"Are you sure? If I look it up, that's what I'll find?"
"Yes!"
"You've never been arrested for possession of drugs?"
"God, no!"
"Do you have any drugs in the car now?"
"No, of course not."
"And you've never been arrested."
"That is correct."
"All right, then. Let me see your drivers' license, registration, and proof of insurance."
So I leaned over and got out my registration. I already had my license ready. But the proof of insurance? Shit.
"Here. I--um--I don't have my proof of insurance. I mean, I have insurance, and I have the proof, it's just at home because it came in the mail a couple days ago. It just takes effect today. So the one I have here is expired." I cringed and awaited my fate.
"You have to have insurance, you know."
"Yes, I know. I do. I just don't have the proof of insurance with me."
He went back to his car. I sat paralyzed with fear for several minutes. He finally came back.
"Okay, miss. Here." He handed me my things back, along with a ticket. "I wrote up a warning for the insurance. Bring your proof to the court house within ten days and show it to them and that will be dismissed. As for the ticket, I wrote you up for improperly wearing your seatbelt. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. It'll cost less--maybe 25 bucks. And it won't go on your insurance. Let me see." He looked at a pad of paper. "I can't find it on here--but I think it's like 25 bucks." he repeated. "Get that taken care of." And he was gone.
I slowly and carefully drove away. I wasn't happy, but it went better than it could have, right? Okay, fast forward to today, just over a week later.
I gathered up my proof of insurance, made sure I had some cash on me, and went down the fines office at the court house to take care of it. I showed the girl behind the window my ticket, she dug out the original, and asked to see my proof of insurance. I showed it to her, she made a copy of it, and everything was okay. Then, the ticket. "$65," she told me.
"Are you sure? The officer said it would be less because he just wrote me up for wearing my seatbelt improperly."
"He did what? That's not--we don't have a $25 fine for anything. Um--let me check." She typed something on her keyboard, looked at her computer screen, and looked back at me. "I don't know what he was talking about. The code he used just came up as not wearing your seatbelt. There is no other code. There's no such thing as improperly weaaring your seatbelt. $65."
"Oh. He--he lie--that's not what he said."
"I'm sorry. That's all I can do is charge you for that. Do you want to accept?"
Near tears, I couldn't think of anything else to do. If I did not accept, that would mean a court date, and who knows how that would go. Could just be bad, with me looking like I was desperately lying, how word against mine. So, I signed it and made a payment of $25, the rest to be paid next week. I left in tears. Tears of anger.
Now I just have to decide what I'm going to do. Pay it off and let it go? Get the officer's name and file a complaint? And I'm one of the good kids! Ugh. I don't have the energy for this.
So when I saw the trooper's car slow down, and then turn around, I experienced a moment of panic, and, I'll admit, some indignation as well. The speed limit is 25 and I was going maybe 30, 32 at most, and I was within sight of the 35 mph speed limit sign. I kept driving, very carefully, rather than pulling over right away, because I wasn't positive he was intending to pull me over. Then his lights went on. I pulled over. He got out and approached.
I got the usual: "Hello, ma'am. Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"Um, no?" I said, fairly calmly, I think, especially considering the fact that I was in a minor panic. I'm a "good kid." Always have been. So when I am accused of doing something wrong, I get scared. Even more so if I'm not aware of exactly what I did. My voice may have squeaked a little.
"You're not wearing your seatbelt."
Okay, so it wasn't speeding. But I looked down to find that I was distinctly wearing my seatbelt, albeit not properly. See, the damn thing doesn't fit. I'm bigger 'n the average bear, and the part the shoulder strap clicks into is broken on my car, so while the seatbelt works, that part spends most of its time slid down and buried in the seat, which ensures that the seatbelt has to stretch even farther. Besides which, I'm short, so the shoulder part hits me right across the neck and chokes me even with seatbelts that fit fine. So what I do is slide the shoulder part across my back, leaving just the lap part functioning, and click it into place. But I WAS wearing it!
"I am wearing it," I told him, indicating the securely fastened clasp.
"That's not what I saw," he said. "I could see both straps next to each other, telling me that you weren't wearing it."
"They're that way now, and I am wearing it," I told him quietly. "I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but I was wearing it."
"Don't lie to me."
"I-I'm not lying. See? I'm really sorry, I don't mean to show disrespect."
"Then don't lie to me."
"But-I'm-I was wearing it. I'm not going to argue with you." Shit. Wrong thing to say. What I meant was "I'm not going to argue with you because I can't see what you saw, nor can I prove what you saw, so I will bow down to your authority." What it sounded like was, "Obviously I'm right, so I'm not going to argue with you." You know, the way a parent tells a child that he or she is not going to get dragged into an argument.
"I mean, I can't prove what you saw. So there's no point in arguing, and I will just pretend whatever you say is the truth. But I promise you, I was wearing it," I told him.
"When was the last time you were pulled over?"
"Um--I guess it was about a year ago. I had just gotten this car and there was a burned out headlight that I got pulled over for a few times. I never got a ticket, though."
"And have you ever had a ticket before?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know, maybe three years ago."
"What for?"
And now in a very quiet voice: "Not wearing my seatbelt." I cleared my throat. "But I really wasn't wearing it that time!"
"Have you ever been arrested?"
"No. Never."
"Are you sure? If I look it up, that's what I'll find?"
"Yes!"
"You've never been arrested for possession of drugs?"
"God, no!"
"Do you have any drugs in the car now?"
"No, of course not."
"And you've never been arrested."
"That is correct."
"All right, then. Let me see your drivers' license, registration, and proof of insurance."
So I leaned over and got out my registration. I already had my license ready. But the proof of insurance? Shit.
"Here. I--um--I don't have my proof of insurance. I mean, I have insurance, and I have the proof, it's just at home because it came in the mail a couple days ago. It just takes effect today. So the one I have here is expired." I cringed and awaited my fate.
"You have to have insurance, you know."
"Yes, I know. I do. I just don't have the proof of insurance with me."
He went back to his car. I sat paralyzed with fear for several minutes. He finally came back.
"Okay, miss. Here." He handed me my things back, along with a ticket. "I wrote up a warning for the insurance. Bring your proof to the court house within ten days and show it to them and that will be dismissed. As for the ticket, I wrote you up for improperly wearing your seatbelt. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. It'll cost less--maybe 25 bucks. And it won't go on your insurance. Let me see." He looked at a pad of paper. "I can't find it on here--but I think it's like 25 bucks." he repeated. "Get that taken care of." And he was gone.
I slowly and carefully drove away. I wasn't happy, but it went better than it could have, right? Okay, fast forward to today, just over a week later.
I gathered up my proof of insurance, made sure I had some cash on me, and went down the fines office at the court house to take care of it. I showed the girl behind the window my ticket, she dug out the original, and asked to see my proof of insurance. I showed it to her, she made a copy of it, and everything was okay. Then, the ticket. "$65," she told me.
"Are you sure? The officer said it would be less because he just wrote me up for wearing my seatbelt improperly."
"He did what? That's not--we don't have a $25 fine for anything. Um--let me check." She typed something on her keyboard, looked at her computer screen, and looked back at me. "I don't know what he was talking about. The code he used just came up as not wearing your seatbelt. There is no other code. There's no such thing as improperly weaaring your seatbelt. $65."
"Oh. He--he lie--that's not what he said."
"I'm sorry. That's all I can do is charge you for that. Do you want to accept?"
Near tears, I couldn't think of anything else to do. If I did not accept, that would mean a court date, and who knows how that would go. Could just be bad, with me looking like I was desperately lying, how word against mine. So, I signed it and made a payment of $25, the rest to be paid next week. I left in tears. Tears of anger.
Now I just have to decide what I'm going to do. Pay it off and let it go? Get the officer's name and file a complaint? And I'm one of the good kids! Ugh. I don't have the energy for this.
Monday, March 9, 2009
On The Road To Somewhere Good
We slept until noon, then quietly showered and packed, in a very subdued sort of way. It had been a long few days, at that point, and even though we'd slept for a good eight or nine hours, we were a bit groggy, still.
Chris finished packing up the car while I went to check out just before 2 o'clock. I told the girl what room I was in and she looked at her computer and told me I owed her three hundred and some dollars. This was a surprise to me. A good one, because I was expecting to owe five hundred and some. I just smiled dumbly and handed her my credit card. When I got outside and looked at the bill, I saw that they had charged me $109 for each night. Funny, because on my reservation reminder, it distinctly said that the room cost $109 for the first night and $209 for each of the other two. Of course, it also distinctly said that I was supposed to have a room with two beds, and when we had gotten there, they tried to stick us in a room with one bed. I'm assuming when the girl changed my room, she somehow changed the price, too. Whatever. Worked for me.
And then we were on our way. An hour later, we made our first stop. Frederick, Maryland: Home of Schifferstadt. (Or something like that.) Our friend Jilly is the director of a really cool museum that is actually a house that was built in 17-something. She took us all through the place, showed us everything, told us all about it. We were thinking about having lunch with her, but she was getting back from a late lunch just as we got there, and we were anxious to be on our way, so we didn't to wait around for dinnertime. Good thing we didn't, too. She gave us directions to a restaurant she figured we should try for lunch, but it was on a road that hadn't been in existence whenever my GPS was last programmed, so we drove past where the GPS said it was supposed to be about a hundred times before we decided a tire place wasn't going to magically turn into a pizza place any time soon and went to a Waffle House, home of worse-than-frozen waffles but also home of quick and fairly cheap food. We filled up on gas afterwards, purchased several inauguration day newspapers and a couple of flasks of water, and were on our way. After we drove through Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and part of Illinois, we finally made it to the Fairfield Inn in St. Charles, begged and pleaded for late checkout, and drifted into slumber, at about 3 am. It was another very, very, very, very (etc.) long day.
We got up in time to take a dip in the pool, I took another collection of pictures of Chris, and we checked out, then headed to an outlet mall to pass the time until 5, when we could eat at Al Capone's Hideaway and Steakhouse. It was the second time I'd been there-ever since the first time, I'd been anxious to show it off to someone, 'cause it's a super cool place. I had the best prime rib EVER and enjoyed the scenery and the gift shop.
And then, finally, we were on our way home for good. Five more hours of half-awake driving and I was stumbling around in Chris's driveway to move my junk from Chris's car to mine and the I was driving home and at long, long last, I was home and sinking into my own bed. It felt soooooooooooooooooooo good. I slept. A lot. And when I woke up, it was definitely a brighter day.
Barack Obama was our president, I was no longer sleep-deprived, and, not to sound like a campaign cliche, there was an aura of hope in the world. It was a long journey--the campaign and our trip to Washington both--but we survived and were better, stronger, somehow more alive. Life is good.
Chris finished packing up the car while I went to check out just before 2 o'clock. I told the girl what room I was in and she looked at her computer and told me I owed her three hundred and some dollars. This was a surprise to me. A good one, because I was expecting to owe five hundred and some. I just smiled dumbly and handed her my credit card. When I got outside and looked at the bill, I saw that they had charged me $109 for each night. Funny, because on my reservation reminder, it distinctly said that the room cost $109 for the first night and $209 for each of the other two. Of course, it also distinctly said that I was supposed to have a room with two beds, and when we had gotten there, they tried to stick us in a room with one bed. I'm assuming when the girl changed my room, she somehow changed the price, too. Whatever. Worked for me.
And then we were on our way. An hour later, we made our first stop. Frederick, Maryland: Home of Schifferstadt. (Or something like that.) Our friend Jilly is the director of a really cool museum that is actually a house that was built in 17-something. She took us all through the place, showed us everything, told us all about it. We were thinking about having lunch with her, but she was getting back from a late lunch just as we got there, and we were anxious to be on our way, so we didn't to wait around for dinnertime. Good thing we didn't, too. She gave us directions to a restaurant she figured we should try for lunch, but it was on a road that hadn't been in existence whenever my GPS was last programmed, so we drove past where the GPS said it was supposed to be about a hundred times before we decided a tire place wasn't going to magically turn into a pizza place any time soon and went to a Waffle House, home of worse-than-frozen waffles but also home of quick and fairly cheap food. We filled up on gas afterwards, purchased several inauguration day newspapers and a couple of flasks of water, and were on our way. After we drove through Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and part of Illinois, we finally made it to the Fairfield Inn in St. Charles, begged and pleaded for late checkout, and drifted into slumber, at about 3 am. It was another very, very, very, very (etc.) long day.
We got up in time to take a dip in the pool, I took another collection of pictures of Chris, and we checked out, then headed to an outlet mall to pass the time until 5, when we could eat at Al Capone's Hideaway and Steakhouse. It was the second time I'd been there-ever since the first time, I'd been anxious to show it off to someone, 'cause it's a super cool place. I had the best prime rib EVER and enjoyed the scenery and the gift shop.
And then, finally, we were on our way home for good. Five more hours of half-awake driving and I was stumbling around in Chris's driveway to move my junk from Chris's car to mine and the I was driving home and at long, long last, I was home and sinking into my own bed. It felt soooooooooooooooooooo good. I slept. A lot. And when I woke up, it was definitely a brighter day.
Barack Obama was our president, I was no longer sleep-deprived, and, not to sound like a campaign cliche, there was an aura of hope in the world. It was a long journey--the campaign and our trip to Washington both--but we survived and were better, stronger, somehow more alive. Life is good.
It's Been A While
since I could hold my head up high...
Okay, not really. It's actually been a while since I logged in to Blogger. But once I typed my title, the lyrics of that damn song stuck themselves firmly in my head. I don't even like the song that much.
I will just pick up where I left off, though, at the Michigan Inaugural Ball the night of President Obama's inauguration. (Although, before I continue, I will pause to say I am very proud of what he's been up to, and therefore very proud of myself for working so hard to get him where he is. Not that it was all my doing, of course, but I did what I could!)
So anyway, like I was saying, we made our way from the Museum to some unknown-to-us busy street where we could see, every so often, a taxi making its way by. I was, as usual, walking several feet behind Chris and struggling to keep up. Next to us, there was another fairly fit and healthy man walking ahead of another woman with a figure similar to my own who seemed to be in the same situation. As we were nearing a corner, two cabs saw us and skidded to a halt. The woman headed toward one. The man headed toward the other. I thought about racing the woman to the cab she was headed for, but she was roughly half the distance I was away from it, and although I was pretty sure I was younger and somewhat more agile than she was, I wasn't sure it was enough to make up for the distance. No problem, though, because Chris artfully dodged in front of the man and ducked under him to stick his head into the other taxi. I hobble-ran over to him and bent down so I could hear what was going on.
"Hey, can you take us to Baltimore?" Chris asked the driver. Chris and I climbed into the backseat without bothering to wait for an answer.
"Uh, yah, Mon," the driver said, but he didn't sound too certain. He did not begin to drive. We waited. Finally, he shrugged. "It going to cost you," he told us. "Maybe one hundred dollar." Chris looked at me. I looked out the window. There was no way I was going to get back out into the cold, and there was no way I was going to walk any farther, and our only other option was to hang out on the street all night anyway.
"Yeah, that's fine," I told the cabbie. Fine might not have been the best word, but it was the best one I could think of. And we were off.
I'm petty sure he wasn't really watching the road, because he was on his cell phone calling every other cabbie in the company, in Washington, maybe in the world, to tell them to head down toward the museums. And then he asked us which way we were going.
"Do I go east/west/north/south/whatever on 1234567890?" he asked us. That's not really what he said, of course--he just asked about one particular direction on one particular highway. He may as well have been speaking whatever his native language was, though, because we didn't have a clue. It's not like we were seasoned DC residents or something. We just nodded in agreement because we figured, confused as he seemed, he probably had a better idea than we did, and whatever Interstate he mentioned sounded familiar and I was pretty sure it actually did run through Baltimore. It took us almost an hour to get there, even though several of the bridges in and out of Washington that had been closed for security reasons earlier in the day were open by then. Traffic was slightly insane, and it was, after all, a good fifty miles.
The cabbie, also, was slightly insane. As he chatted on his phone in barely discernible English, he came within inches of sideswiping at least 47 cars. I really didn't care. It was 2 am and I'd been up since 4 am, and I ached from hiding out in Union Station all day, and I was cold, and I just wanted to be asleep or not aware that I wasn't asleep, so dead along the highway somewhere would have worked for me, too. But that didn't happen, and in retrospect, that's probably a good thing.
Finally, after we had reassured the driver 79 times that we were parked in a parking garage near where the Orioles play, which HE figured out based on what we told him, giving us the impression that he knew where he was taking us, we could see Baltimore in the distance. And the cabbie had questions.
"What lane you want me drive in?"
Um... not a good question, since it was almost 24 hours since we'd slept and we didn't have a clue in the first place.
"Whatever one you want to," Chris told him. "Uh, middle is good?" So that's where we drove. The cabbie asked us a million questions and we kept our eyes peeled for familiar sights. Finally, we saw a hotel that looked like the one we'd seen when we parked, and as we drew nearer, we could see the parking garage Chris's car was in. "HERE!" Chris yelled. "TURN HERE! Right! Right lane! Turn!" And the cabbie barely avoided a thirteen-car pile up as he slid into the right lane and onto the ramp. A few turns twists and we were stopped in front of the parking garage. I threw a handful of money--a hundred and ten dollar handful of money--at him and disembarked.
"Hey!" he yelled.
"What?" Chris asked, as he, himself, disembarked.
"She gypped me!"
Chris looked at me. I looked back, indignantly.
"I gave him a hundred and ten bucks," I said. "If that's not enough..."
"She gave ya a hundred and ten bucks."
The cabbie recounted. He nodded in agreement, so Chris slammed the door and the cabbie drove away in a cloud of dust. Or maybe there was no dust and the fogginess was just in my sleep-deprived eyes. We staggered into the garage, stumbled into the elevator, guessed at what floor we were on, stabbed at the elevator buttons, and were pleasantly surprised to see Chris's car in front of us when the doors slid open. A few minutes later, we were on our way back to the hotel and a mere 23 hours after we had woken up, we collapsed into our beds and slept. We had arranged for late checkout, so we didn't have to get up until noon. Ahhhhh.
Okay, not really. It's actually been a while since I logged in to Blogger. But once I typed my title, the lyrics of that damn song stuck themselves firmly in my head. I don't even like the song that much.
I will just pick up where I left off, though, at the Michigan Inaugural Ball the night of President Obama's inauguration. (Although, before I continue, I will pause to say I am very proud of what he's been up to, and therefore very proud of myself for working so hard to get him where he is. Not that it was all my doing, of course, but I did what I could!)
So anyway, like I was saying, we made our way from the Museum to some unknown-to-us busy street where we could see, every so often, a taxi making its way by. I was, as usual, walking several feet behind Chris and struggling to keep up. Next to us, there was another fairly fit and healthy man walking ahead of another woman with a figure similar to my own who seemed to be in the same situation. As we were nearing a corner, two cabs saw us and skidded to a halt. The woman headed toward one. The man headed toward the other. I thought about racing the woman to the cab she was headed for, but she was roughly half the distance I was away from it, and although I was pretty sure I was younger and somewhat more agile than she was, I wasn't sure it was enough to make up for the distance. No problem, though, because Chris artfully dodged in front of the man and ducked under him to stick his head into the other taxi. I hobble-ran over to him and bent down so I could hear what was going on.
"Hey, can you take us to Baltimore?" Chris asked the driver. Chris and I climbed into the backseat without bothering to wait for an answer.
"Uh, yah, Mon," the driver said, but he didn't sound too certain. He did not begin to drive. We waited. Finally, he shrugged. "It going to cost you," he told us. "Maybe one hundred dollar." Chris looked at me. I looked out the window. There was no way I was going to get back out into the cold, and there was no way I was going to walk any farther, and our only other option was to hang out on the street all night anyway.
"Yeah, that's fine," I told the cabbie. Fine might not have been the best word, but it was the best one I could think of. And we were off.
I'm petty sure he wasn't really watching the road, because he was on his cell phone calling every other cabbie in the company, in Washington, maybe in the world, to tell them to head down toward the museums. And then he asked us which way we were going.
"Do I go east/west/north/south/whatever on 1234567890?" he asked us. That's not really what he said, of course--he just asked about one particular direction on one particular highway. He may as well have been speaking whatever his native language was, though, because we didn't have a clue. It's not like we were seasoned DC residents or something. We just nodded in agreement because we figured, confused as he seemed, he probably had a better idea than we did, and whatever Interstate he mentioned sounded familiar and I was pretty sure it actually did run through Baltimore. It took us almost an hour to get there, even though several of the bridges in and out of Washington that had been closed for security reasons earlier in the day were open by then. Traffic was slightly insane, and it was, after all, a good fifty miles.
The cabbie, also, was slightly insane. As he chatted on his phone in barely discernible English, he came within inches of sideswiping at least 47 cars. I really didn't care. It was 2 am and I'd been up since 4 am, and I ached from hiding out in Union Station all day, and I was cold, and I just wanted to be asleep or not aware that I wasn't asleep, so dead along the highway somewhere would have worked for me, too. But that didn't happen, and in retrospect, that's probably a good thing.
Finally, after we had reassured the driver 79 times that we were parked in a parking garage near where the Orioles play, which HE figured out based on what we told him, giving us the impression that he knew where he was taking us, we could see Baltimore in the distance. And the cabbie had questions.
"What lane you want me drive in?"
Um... not a good question, since it was almost 24 hours since we'd slept and we didn't have a clue in the first place.
"Whatever one you want to," Chris told him. "Uh, middle is good?" So that's where we drove. The cabbie asked us a million questions and we kept our eyes peeled for familiar sights. Finally, we saw a hotel that looked like the one we'd seen when we parked, and as we drew nearer, we could see the parking garage Chris's car was in. "HERE!" Chris yelled. "TURN HERE! Right! Right lane! Turn!" And the cabbie barely avoided a thirteen-car pile up as he slid into the right lane and onto the ramp. A few turns twists and we were stopped in front of the parking garage. I threw a handful of money--a hundred and ten dollar handful of money--at him and disembarked.
"Hey!" he yelled.
"What?" Chris asked, as he, himself, disembarked.
"She gypped me!"
Chris looked at me. I looked back, indignantly.
"I gave him a hundred and ten bucks," I said. "If that's not enough..."
"She gave ya a hundred and ten bucks."
The cabbie recounted. He nodded in agreement, so Chris slammed the door and the cabbie drove away in a cloud of dust. Or maybe there was no dust and the fogginess was just in my sleep-deprived eyes. We staggered into the garage, stumbled into the elevator, guessed at what floor we were on, stabbed at the elevator buttons, and were pleasantly surprised to see Chris's car in front of us when the doors slid open. A few minutes later, we were on our way back to the hotel and a mere 23 hours after we had woken up, we collapsed into our beds and slept. We had arranged for late checkout, so we didn't have to get up until noon. Ahhhhh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
