Political Gridlock

Anyone who says “I’m jealous I can’t be in DC during the inauguration” is, as my Dad would say, delusional.

The inauguration is one week away and probably 1 % of the expected 4 million visitors have arrived, but I’m already annoyed. I’m used to over-crowding,  take any Saturday in Austin during football season, but the mess in downtown DC resembles that of NYC.

16th and L Streets NW

It took me an additional 10 to 15 minutes to get to work last week. Why? ‘Tis the inaugural season.

The major streets passing through downtown have been closed for days. Why? Because the two most powerful people in America, and possibly the world, are sleeping down the street from my office  -or- because some genius setting up grandstands for the parade decided the best time to work is between the hours of 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. Monday through Friday.

Either way, downtown streets crucial for my commute to work aren’t open to thru traffic. This has inspired some drivers to pull some pretty gutsy moves.

My favorite is when said bus drivers hook a left on a yellow-turning-red light, impeding the flow of cross traffic,  and block the intersection for the light’s entire cycle. Even more entertaining are the numerous annoyed drivers that lay on the horn, also for the light’s entire cycle. If drivers only knew that horn honking is about as effective as OU’s offense during a BCS bowl game.

However, drivers desperate to make it through a light only to be caught by another one a few feet ahead, have become reckless.

For example, my bus driver this morning had grown tired of catching every red light from Wisconsin Ave to 21st Street and decided to run one. All of a sudden I heard this loud bang, which resembled cars colliding, and I see this frightened cyclist pass by on the right. He seemed OK as he pushed his bike towards the font of the bus where the driver was sitting. Turns out he was fine and exchanged a few words with the driver before pedaling away.

But, as expected, the drivers stuck behind the bus were quick to punch their horns during the brief exchange with the fortunate biker.

After an hour on the jam-packed bus this morning, what could have been a biker death and nine blocks still to go, I deboarded the bus and walked to the office.

16th and L Streets NW

16th and L Streets NW

On an ordinary day I would have dealt with the morning madness and political gridlock but I just wasn’t in the mood today. My metro card only has $.50 on it, not enough to cover the $1.25 fare, and I forgot at least four times last week to re-load it. So, I spent 15 minutes this morning rummaging for change to pay the fare. I tore open every purse in my closet, searched through coin pouches for anything silver, looked under the beds, couches and tables, but no change. I did find an English coin, but it’s not so helpful here in America.

Btw DeVito, your purses don’t have any coins either. But you do have lots of gum. And I would have paid you back for anything I took.

I’m not sure how many days I can come 20 minutes late to work this week, before someone says something, but it might be time to find an alternate route to the office. Traffic is expected to get progressively worse, as more streets are shut down, and so is the morning temperature.

I could switch things up a lot and take the Circulator to Foggy Bottom Metro and take the Blue/Orange Line to the office. Total fare to work =$2.60’ish. But another frustrated co-worker said a sick kid on the Orange Line this morning caused a 20-minute delay.

Or I could take the D1 or D2 to Dupont Circle and take the Red Line the rest of the way. Total fare to work=$2.85.

Or I could take the D1 or D2 as far as I can, deboard before the gridlock, and walk the rest of the way. Total fare to work=$1.25 plus cold extremities.

Or I could suck it up, save some money, and walk the entire way to work.

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Filed under Bus, Dad, DeVito, Football, Metro, Politics

Maneuvering in Madrid

Hola, from Madrid, Spain!  Amanda has given me the great opportunity to bring an international flavor to her blog, so thanks to her I get to share one of many adventures from Madrid’s public transportation.

Of course, Thanksgiving was last Thursday, but, because Spain doesn’t celebrate my favorite holiday, my friends and I decided to celebrate that Saturday.  Also, as Spain doesn’t enjoy the great American dishes such as turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie, the hunt for these items was epic.  We traversed the city by none other than the great Madrid metro.

My apartmentmate and I had ordered a 25-pound turkey from the superchic department store that, oddly enough, has a superchic grocery store inside that sells superchic food such as whole turkeys.  When we got to the store, however, we saw the 25-pounder and decided to get the more practical 20-pound turkey.  After picking up other essential items, we were ready to go.

Fortunately, we had planned out how to manage the metro with our precious groceries.  Most tiny old ladies in Spain use little rolly carts when they do their grocery shopping, though the shopping part may be secondary, the primary purpose being to roll over people’s toes.  My friend Audrey has one of those carts.  She’s no tiny old lady.  It just came with the apartment – that and a porn channel after 8pm.  So, my apartmentmate and I borrowed the ever-trendy rolly cart.

We loaded everything up and headed for the metro.

Now, when Spaniards were building the metro, I think they specifically thought, “Why make this handicapped accessible?  Oh, God no.”  So there are no elevators, and escalators are few and far between.  I attempt descending the stairs with the old lady cart full of Thanksgiving goodies and a 20-pound bird.  Of course, I drop the cart.  It falls down the first flight of stairs, hits a landing, and teeters on the edge of the second flight of stairs.  I’m frozen.  I just watch our precious turkey falling from my grip and all I can think is, “Thank God it’s not a baby.”

The cart is ultimately recovered.  I manage my way through the turnstiles, onto the platform, and onto the train.  The train gets surprisingly crowded for a Friday afternoon, and before I know it, I’m pinned into the farthest corner from the door, clutching my old lady cart and far removed from my apartmentmate and partner in crime.  By the time we come to my stop, there are about 20 people between the door and me.  I cannot move with such a cumbersome tote, and a look of panic must have come over me.  A kind Spaniard sees my distress, and he deftly moves people aside, thus clearing a path for the rolly cart and me.  I get off the train, but before I could say “Gracias,” the doors close and my good samaritan is gone.

Ah, I felt like a Pilgrim in the New World, trying to maneuver myself, but ultimately relying on the wisdom of locals.  It’s just like the first Thanksgiving.  But hopefully my adventure won’t end in genocide.

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Filed under Metro, Shopping, T-Giving

Driver on the speed dial

According to Upper East Siders in Gossip Girl, you know you’ve made it, or really your parents made it, when your driver is on speed dial. In Austin, you know you’re a big shot when your favorite Cabbie is on your speed dial.

Sixth Street in Austin is a magical land. It’s a mile-long street solely devoted to drinking. Its neighbors, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Seventh and Eighth Streets, are also golden, but not nearly as shiny as Sixth Street. On Sixth, beer, liquor and wine flow out the wazoo, up and coming bands are rockin’ their socks off and the college crowd finally feels at home. You see everyone you hoped you’d see, those you didn’t want to see, and those you know look nothing like the picture on “their” 28-year-old sister’s ID.

There’s a hierarchy to Sixth Street. When you’re a freshmen, aka 18, you stick to “Dirty Sixth” the local version of AdMo. Door guys are less likely to question the newest trend in fake IDs and creepster men are more likely to buy you drinks. After all, it’s hard to explain to you parents why there’s a $55 charge at a place called “Treasure Island.”

Sophomores slowly inch their way away from IH-35 and start meddling in the less dirty waters at bars like “Dizzy Rooster” and “Paradise.” They’re feeling a bit gutsy and pushing their limits at “cooler bars” because they’re on the verge of turning 21 and convinced themselves they’ll look the exact same six months from now, when they’re actually 21.

Once you’ve hit 21 though, you cross over Guadalupe Street to “West Sixth,” the Austin version of Georgetown. The thing about Austin is that it’s not just a college town. It’s a huge government town, a breeding ground for young, attractive lawyers and other business folk. These professionals are a West Sixth staple. Hence why girls that are, as my fav Long Islander would say, “so over” college guys, flock there in herds. West Sixth is also more low key and had a Torchy’s Taco stand– a frequent late-night stop of mine. By the way, if you are looking for a good business concept, share your bar with a taco stand…Genius! 

Until graduation or you decide to leave Austin, West Sixth is where you’ll camp out. There is the occasional trip east to the Greek dance party at 311 and big beers at Logan’s.

The thing about Sixth Street is that it’s always a fiasco to get home after last call. If you’re smart, scratch that, coherent at 1:30 am, jetting right then is the best option. This way you can secure a cab before other people stumble outside. Or if you remember and are hanging around Dirty Sixth, then you can catch the “E-Bus” back to campus. The Entertainment Bus is the official late night party scene for people I would never want to hang out with. Pleather, see-through heels and fringe are always present.

But if you’ve opted to end your night west at Little Woodrows, J. Black’sor the Ranch, good luck getting home. The key to always having transportation is befriending the people who’ve made it and have a weird, yet convenient, relationship with Cabbies. (I know you’re shocked to know that I’m not one of these people.)

My friend Caroline has Doug on her speed dial and the guy will drive from anywhere to pick her and her friends, aka me, up. He’s what I call a life savior. Oddly enough, he is the sweetest, old, white man, and he adores Caroline and company. He’s not what I’d call a typical Cabbie.

When I made a trip to Austin last weekend I unknowingly was mingling with others who’ve made it, specifically Jeff Sherman. He’s the latest of EA’s important friends, as he bought us drinks all day and night and has a Cabbie on speed dial.

As 2 am rolled around and I realized there was no way we’re getting a cab I weighed my options. At this time of night walking 25 blocks home always seems like a good idea. You tell yourself it’s not really that far and can do it. Your stupid friends agree, and you start trekking. Half-way through you decide it’s not a good idea, try desperately to hail a cab-none are around or are all full-realize it’s a lost cause, and continue walking. I’ve done this more times than I care to remember. The only redeeming part is you get to walk through the Capitol grounds and it’s absolutely gorgeous.

Before I could suggest the walk home, super-suave Jeff came to the rescue. Jeff is one of those guys you always want around-he’s full of energy, funny, buys drinks and is good company. In an effort to impress myself and EA’s bro, Will, Jeff says, “Hang on guys, I’ll get us home,” and makes a call…..

Jeff: “D-MIIIILLLLLLEEER!!! What’s up bro, it’s your boy Jeff…… Hey man I need you and I know you need me…… Bro, can you pick me up. We’re at the Ranch……..Man don’t be doing this we’re at the Ranch…….Come on bro…..”

Within a minute, our yellow car had arrived, and I was thoroughly impressed. Another great thing about being BFF with a Cabbie is that when a cab arrives everyone flocks to it thinking it’s their ride home, when in actuality, it’s not. I love being the one that walks up to the cab leaving other hopeful hailers thinking, “who are they and why do they get the cab?” I pretend like I’m an Upper East Sider getting into my yellow limo.

“D-MIIIILLLLLLEEER” as Jeff calls him, is equally super-suave and was dressed to the nines. He was sporting a zip-up, mock turtleneck sweater and some strong smelling cologne and kind of reminded me of the Nutty Professor. I think because of his laugh. He and Jeff were clowning around, calling each other “bro,” asking who the ladies (me and EA) were, and acting like long lost friends. Obvi the first thing that entered my mind was, I can totally blog about this!


Jeff and D-MILLER

Jeff and D-MILLER

Jeff’s one of those guys that loves bicep smacks. Apparently “D-MILLER” doesn’t, but likes Jeff enough to laugh about it and be like, “Say man, you brusin’ me. I’m-a-gonna-be sore tomorrow. Just like them Aggies…They got their asses tattooed tonight!”

You can see why everyone loves D-MILLER.

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Filed under Bar, Cab, EA, Gossip Girl, K-Steve, Texas, Uncategorized

Karma: It always comes back around

I, too, play bus games. Whereas my guest blogger might be more obvious about hers, mine are more subtle.

My chariot to work comes around 8:15 every morning. On the cold mornings, which seem to be a daily occurrence, it’s hard to get out of bed and even harder to make it to the stop on time. I find myself regularly sprinting to the stop from my front door, purse, gym bag and lunch tote in hand. It’s quite the scene.

Five or six people usually beat me to the stop, and there usually aren’t that many open seats on the bus by the time it arrives. And I hate standing on the bus. Mostly because standing during the 45-minute commute makes my legs and feet tired, but partly because the bus driver is a maniac and I once fell into a passenger’s lap-whilst holding my purse, lunch tote and gym bag-when she turned the corner.

The trick to winning the game is stealth. People are always lined up, in the order in which they arrived at the stop, to board the bus once it comes. You have to act completely unaware of the “order” as you finagle your way through the crowd to the curb so you’re first to board and get one of the highly coveted and available seats. However, your opponents in the game are usually the same people day after day after day, which complicates the game. You don’t want them to pick up on what you’re doing, because let’s face it, I’d be really angry if I’d been waiting in the cold, someone cut me in line, and then I had to stand the entire way to work. With that said, there are ways to throw off your opponents.

-Pretend read a magazine when you get to the stop and casually inch your way closer to the front of the congregation.

-Re-read e-mails or texts on your phone while moving up in line. 

-Call someone and act really, really into the conversation, all the while walking around or looking up and down, but most importantly moving toward the curb.

Acting ditzy really helps. It leads people to think that you didn’t know what you were doing instead of what you’re actually doing–practicing bad bus etiquette. Sometimes letting two, maybe three, people board before you is OK. There’s usually a couple seats open and people are less likely to catch on if you mix it up.

I guess the bus karma gods decided I’d won enough games-I’ve been playing since September-and it was time for a change-up.

I was Circulating home last week but having some trouble staying in my seat. The man next to me took up 1.5 seats, not the normal 1 seat, so I was forced to teeter on my half seat. Luckily my long legs helped brace myself during sharp turns and I managed to stay on the seat until the jerk deboarded.

Usually the person on the aisle stands up or swings their legs around to let the window passenger out. Before I could get out of his way, he had CRAWLED over me and knocked me off my seat. And he was a grown man, like 50’ish. For the record, it wasn’t that he wasn’t fat and needed 1.5 seats, he was just rude. So once again, my gym bag contents spilled out on the floor of the bus, my purse dumped over and it looked like I was doing a back bend on the floor of the bus while trying to hold myself up, super awkward.

I just sort of stayed in my back bend position for a few seconds in disbelief of what just happened. Honestly, what kind of adult crawls over another bus passenger? Is it too hard to say excuse me or can I please get out?

On Thursday I had a prime seat on a Southwest flight from Dallas to Austin. I checked in on Wednesday and was in boarding group “A” so there was no need to play my bus games with other Longhorn passengers. (By the way, the ENTIRE plane was full of loyal ‘Horns fans. Pretty awesome!) My aisle seat in row 8 would significantly cut the deplaning time and lengthen my EA reunion time. As luck would have it, some old lady wanted to sit in the middle seat and for fear she would try to crawl over me, I said “I’ll just take the middle if that’s OK with you?” She was thrilled, I was not. But my karma was about to swing back in my favor.

I ordered a $4 Miller Light for the 50 minute flight. It was a bold move because by the time the plane is airborne, drinks are served, and service items are collected for landing, you only have about 25 minutes of drinking. And apparently row 9 is the start of the other flight attendant’s territory. So I had to wait for my flight attendant to serve the 8 rows of 6 passengers in front of me, before I could order my drink, which meant I’d have to down my $4 beer in a matter of minutes. I was still stuffed from brunch and didn’t think I could stomach it. But like a champ, I did.

I guess I got double karma points for giving my seat to the old lady, because the flight attendant never asked me for $4. And we all know I didn’t offer it to her.

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Filed under Airport, Bus, EA, Football, Texas

You win some, you lose some

First up, thanks a jillion to Amanda for letting me guest blog here at humor to go. It’s my favorite site in all the Internet, and today I’m lucky enough to have my own public transit antics to share.

I love the bus — maybe not quite so much as Amanda, but I love it all the same. Depending on the weather, my choice in footwear and my general laziness (i.e., how many times I hit the snooze button in the morning), I quite often end up taking the N22 to work instead of riding my bike or walking. According to wmata.com, my second-favorite site in all the Internet, the N22 should stop and let me off at the corner of 1st Street and Louisiana Avenue, which is conveniently positioned half a block from my office. But as I quite abruptly discovered during my very first trip on the N22 several months ago, there is no actual bus stop at the corner of 1st Street and Louisiana Avenue, and very few bus drivers are willing to argue with you (that is, me) about the virtual existence of a bus stop on wmata.com, even if there are visual aids (an iphone with Internet access) involved — believe me, I’ve tried. So anyway, after my first rude awakening — when I got ready to hop off the bus and realized it wasn’t stopping — I’ve started playing a little game every time I ride the N22: Can I get the bus driver to let me off at the stop that “isn’t a stop?”

It’s a fun game. If you ever ride the N22, I recommend you try it. I have occupied many a morning devising clever ways to convince the driver to let me off at the non-stop. If I get on the 8:03 bus, it’s a no-brainer. The driver — my favorite of all bus drivers in all the world — is awesome. He just pulls over and lets me off without my even having to ask. I love being remembered for my bus-riding skillz. But riding the 8:03 has its downsides. For one, it means I’m already 3 minutes late for work when I hop on — much less when I arrive. So I try to avoid this scenario in all but the direst of snooze-related emergencies.

Then, there are the female bus drivers. Awesome. Hard-core. Cool and tough. But nice about letting you off at the non-stop? Nope. I don’t even try. I also never try with the crotchety old dude who wouldn’t let me off even when DC was experiencing a New Orleans-style torrential downpour. Needless to say, that morning I showed up to work looking like I had just stepped out of the shower.

But there are a handful of others I can play my game with. Sometimes I win. Sometimes they do. I think we’re about neck-and-neck after today’s ride.

My good friend Roxy is an avid shopper. And she totes me around to lots of shopping events because she knows the only time I’ll go shopping with her is if there are free drinks involved. So last night, I attended one of these free boozy events. And I fell victim — as I always do — to the cleverest marketing ploy of them all: Give customers free champagne and they become big spenders. So I bought some shoes, which in some ways I needed because I did need some new black work pumps. But I’m not sure that patent-leather, peep-toe, top-stitched 3-inch Mary Janes equal black work pumps. Still, I bought them and decided to wear them to work today.

Post-free champy and shopping mornings usually require an extra snooze or two, so needless to say, it was an N22 kind of morning. It wasn’t quite an 8:03 morning, so I couldn’t count on my BFF bus driver to let me off at “our stop.” Instead, I got to play the game. And play the game I did. I got on at my stop, and much to my delight, it was a new driver — fresh meat to test my ploys, if you will. As I was paying my fare, the driver looked down and said “nice shoes.” And that was it. I knew I had won. See, my friend Roxy, in addition to being an avid shopper, is also an avid blogger. And she recently clued the “blog-o-sphere” in to a little-known fact: When a guy says “nice shoes,” he could care less about your footwear. He’s commenting on your legs. So I smiled coyly and said “thanks” and scampered off to my seat. When it came time to get off at my non-stop, I didn’t even have to bat an eyelash or break out my Southern accent. He just grinned and pulled the bus to the curb. Do I feel guilty about using my womanly wiles to get what I want? Typically. But not when it comes to winning my non-stop bus game. Score for me.


Filed under Bus, Roxy, Shopping

I blame the cold

I made two faux pas last night. Both of which I swore I’d never do.

After dining on some DC Mexican food-which was just as disappointing as all the other Mexican food I’ve tried in this city-I thought I’d outsmart the public transit system and take the $1 Circulator from Union Station to Glover Park instead of paying for the Metro to Foggy Bottom and then the bus to my ‘hood.

Post what I guess you could call margaritas and a burrito, my very nice friend Howell drove me out of her way to the station, where I anxiously waited for the bus in 30-ish degree weather. My new wool pants kept my legs warm, but the cute short-sleeves top and lightweight, three-quarter sleeve sweater that tied the ensemble together, weren’t so warm. In Texas we sacrifice warmth for looking cute, but apparently things aren’t the same up here. I was smart enough to bring a coat I’ve outgrown, but the inch or so of space, from where the coat sleeves fall and my wrists start, was quickly going numb. As were my feet. My tootsies were red and loosing feeling so I didn’t realize they were all jammed inside the toe box of my high heels.

After seeing three Circulators drive by in the opposite direction, and none of them coming in my direction, and a good 30 minutes in the cold, I decided to shamefully walk to the Red Line stop in Union Station. I really thought my plan was foolproof. It was quite the effort…The tingly feeling in my feet made it hard to walk.    

The heated rail car felt amazing. I wished I had my Uggswith me to defrost my poor toes, but I didn’t think to put them in my purse when I left for work at 8 a.m. Oh how I longed for warm shoes. I must have had a partial brain freeze while waiting for the bus that never came, because I completely forgot I was toting around my workout clothes. I planned on hitting up the elliptical machine and stationary bike, before an impromptu dinner was planned, after work. With nowhere to stash my 99 cent, Safeway’s finest, Susan G. Komen “Support the Cause” reusable grocery bag turned gym bag-by the way, thanks DeVito for letting me use it-it accompanied my on my night out.

And luckily there were socks and running shoes in my bag! I was, once again, “that girl” on the Metro and took my heels off to trade them for socks and tennies–faux pas number one. I swore I’d never be the girl I make fun of who wears tennis shoes with her work clothes for the commute to the office, then changes into work appropriate shoes upon arrival. MC and I loathed this girl we interned with over the summer for many reasons, but specifically because she wore a suit, panty hose, socks AND tennis shoes to work. Really, who does that? Panty hose AND socks? And tennis shoes with a suit? I was wearing super cute pants yesterday, so socks and shoes were less noticeable.

Anyway, when I was quickly rummaging through my “gym bag” to get my shoes, which were at the bottom, I made a mess. Somehow my socks, sports bra and running tights all came out of my bag when I tried to pull my shoes out. So there I was, without shoes on, trying to pick up my clothes while the rail car came to a screeching halt. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to walk up the train while its coming to a stop, but the gravitational pull can be pretty strong. Trying to bend down to pick up clothes, while gravity pulls you in all sorts of directions, is an entirely different experience.

After I collected my belongings and exited the train I re-entered winter at Dupont Circle. My tennis shoes with work clothes ensemble was about to make its debut and I hoped I didn’t see anyone I knew.

Work clothes and running shoes

Work clothes and running shoes

The great thing about the ground-level Metro station in Dupont Circle is that it’s bowl shaped. So, when I’m waiting for the bus late at night or in this case, trying to stay warm, I can walk in circles. Over and over and over and over until the bus arrives. Walking in circles has kept me awake many late nights on the weekend, which in turn has kept me from missing several D2s.

The bus must have gotten lost or something because it was 15 minutes late to the stop, which meant I had to wait in the cold than I expected. I could feel my toes going numb again and that tingly feeling was back. I could only imagine how much worse it would have been had I still been wearing heels. As the clock pushed 11 p.m., remind you this journey home had taken nearly two hours, I turned tired and grumpy and I cursed the bus–faux pas number two. I love the bus and never thought I’d live to the day where I wished anything bad upon it or said anything bad about it.

The Cicrulator was a tease and the D2 a disappointment, and I cracked.

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Filed under Bus, DeVito, Health, Howell, MC, Metro, Mexican, Texas

Snoozing equals losing

I’ve never really felt for narcoleptics until recently. Last night to be exact.

After a Wednesday night show at the 9:30 Club, I began my voyage home. Robert Earl Keen tunes still echoed in my head, and I now, more than ever, miss Texas. It didn’t help that the concert venue smelled like home made biscuits-the kind my mom used to make. I’m not sure why this familiar scent was present last night, but my guess is REK wanted to give the DC club at Texas vibe.

I didn’t realize how late it had gotten by the time the concert ended, we finished our brews and Cari and I got REK’s autograph-that’s right!-but apparently it was borderline Wednesday night/Thursday morn’. All the while walking to the metro I contemplated which combinations of public transit I was going to take home.

My options included:

-Take the green/yellow line a couple stops to Gallery Pl-Chinatown then hop on the Circulator to Glover Park

-Take the green/yellow line to Gallery Pl-Chinatown, transfer to the Red Line and get off at Farragut North, then catch either the Circulator or 30s bus to GP

As the train approached the platform I realized it was the last one of the night. I wasn’t sure what that meant for my connection, specifically would I make the last Red Line train, but I decided I’d chance it. Luckily, I made the connection, but my luck quickly changed. I guess just to be sure everyone makes the last train and nobody gets left inside the train station, the trains park for a while at the platforms. Between the heated train at a complete stand still, my sleepiness, the brews we threw back before, during and after the show, and the Texas-shaped hole in my heart, I sort of fell asleep. Except, not sort of, I did.

So all the planning and figuring out how I was going to go home was no longer helpful when I woke up at the Woodley Park metro station. Fortunately, though, I’m familiar with the area from summer shenanigans. The only problem was there were no more trains to take me back to where I came from, so I had to walk to Dupont Circle to catch the D2 bus, which I was praying was still running.

I made it to the stop just as the next to last bus was driving off. The final bus as it turned out, didn’t come for another 20 minutes. So, naturally, I called EA-the best listener in the world-and we reminisced about our little blue house and determined a future roommate sitch is definitely in order. When the final bus came, I boarded and was on my way home. EA demanded we hang up and I talk to the boy on the bus with the same “9:30” hand stamp as me, because she wanted something interesting to happen so I could blog about it. I complied, but the excessively hot bus put me to sleep before I could holler at him. I think by this time it was around 12:45 a.m. so I didn’t feel so lame falling asleep, twice.

I was wearing these new pants my mom bought me, essentially because I wanted to wear my cowgirl boots to the concert, which meant I had to wear them to work because there was no time to go home and change, and if I wore the dressy pants I could get away with wearing the boots to work and still look professional. The only thing is that the pants are slick and so are the leather seats on the bus. So when the bus turned the sharp corner onto my street (but I didn’t know it was my street because I was asleep) I sort of slided off the seat, thus waking up just in time to get off the bus and go home.

I’m so fortunate that between the laws of gravity and some other freak chances, I made it home in one piece. But this makes me wonder about narcoleptics and what happens if they fall asleep on the metro and miss their stop? Hopefully they’re not punctual people to begin with so others don’t think much of it when they’re late for dates.

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Filed under Bar, Bus, Cari, EA, Health, Metro, Mom, Music, Texas