August 11, 2010
Unacceptable
You must really think I’m stupid, WMATA.
You must also think that my dry cleaners could REALLY use some more business. I suspect they are most grateful.
Because here’s the thing. I walk to the Metro every day, and this summer, the parking lot has been taking a lot longer to get full. And while this might be the result of increased “green” commuting to the metro station, it’s probably also because there are slightly fewer people riding in the summer, especially on Mondays and Fridays. People take vacations in the summer, and it is the one thing that makes summertime commuting bearable, because it increases the personal space zone by roughly 1/2″ all the way around.
Or it used to, before you surreptitiously started running fewer trains.
Maybe you thought we wouldn’t notice, those of us living along the Orange Line. Maybe you thought we’d stand on the platform waiting 8 minutes for a train that we wouldn’t be able to fit on, and think that this was normal for a line that’s supposed to have trains every 3-4 minutes during rush hour – trains with 8 cars! And yes, I know there’s a budget shortfall, and I get that reducing service is one way to compensate for such things. But.
BUT, you didn’t decide to do that. NO. You raised fares, and raised them substantially. And you said you were doing this so that there would NOT be a reduction in service.
So how is it that I’m waiting 8 minutes just to get to the front of the line to board the train, then another 6 minutes for the next train, where the car I get on has minimal or no air conditioning (this, by the way, has already happened THREE times this week, and it’s only Wednesday morning). I get on just a few stops from the end, and the trains are very nearly full by the time they get to me.
This is ridiculous. At this point, I’m beginning to understand why a working-class individual would be swayed by the likes of Mussolini. What I don’t understand is how this level of mismanagement could exist in such a public organization for this length of time.
If Congress can investigate steroid use in baseball, they can certainly take the time to investigate the clusterf*ck that is WMATA management. I’m writing my representatives right now.
July 26, 2010
Things that are fired
I-95.
The weather.
Lord & Taylor dressing room lighting and mirrors. I have a theory about this, actually – they light & mirror the rooms to make you look as hideous as possible when naked, so that when you put clothes on your body, the contrast is so remarkable that you are grateful to no longer look like a wildebeest and you buy the clothes.
Things that are not fired:
Sibling Extraordinaire
OPI color-naming people (Coz-u-melted in the sun? heheheeeee)
W, for finding me a way home that did not involve I-95 or the B-W Parkway, and for taking me to churrascaria after I got back. 😀
July 15, 2010
Grey suede pumps and other miscellania
Thirty dollars plus shipping, people. For the perfect grey suede stiletto? I’ll take that. Alloy – the clothes are mostly in juniors sizes, but the shoes? Fair game, by my way of thinking.
I know this might draw a little heat, but I just feel it’s necessary to point out that nine times out of ten, the drivers in Northern VA who piss me off the most? Do not have VA tags. These people stop too far from the intersection, thereby failing to trigger privileged greens AND exacerbating gridlock behind them. Where they’re going is a secret to everyone including them, apparently, as they never ever use turn signals nor seem capable of merging into the appropriate lane before making a turn across multiple lanes of traffic. They go below the speed limit on roads where passing is not permitted, and insist on backing into parking spaces despite being really terrible at it. Really, they’re just IN MY WAY. For all that people from these various places try to claim that VA is a horrible, backwards place not worth visiting, let alone living in, they sure as heck spend a lot of time driving here, and it’s pissing me off.
Why yes, my Klonopin script DID just run out. Why do you ask? I’m just going to go stare at my pretty, 4½” heeled shoes for a while.
July 7, 2010
Putting Out
You know what would make me happy? If people took more responsibility for what they put out there.
So if you want me to think you are capable, hardworking, intelligent, and worth my best effort, you should probably do things that are in line with those qualities. And not, say, continually engage in undermine-y, petty behavior. Yes, you are successfully telling me that you don’t like me. But you’re also telling me that you’re not adult or professional enough to work around that, even if I’m the best person to work on a particular task. And when you get all wide-eyed later, and say that you never suggested any such thing, bless my heart, I’m going to call you on it, and recount the ways in which you very much suggested all of those things.
And if you want me to think that you’re a pretty good human person, who is generally respectful of others and worth establishing a friendship with, you should probably do things that support that thesis. For example, you could respect my boundaries, and not try to foist your agenda on me when that agenda clearly conflicts with my boundaries. And when I call you out on it, you could admit to egocentricity and lack of consideration, at the very least.
And I, in turn, should take responsibility for giving the impression that I might be okay with a little foisting, (which I sometimes do by dint of being confrontation-abhorrent). And, remember that for next time, and be less confrontation-abhorrent.
June 28, 2010
Lessons learned
While it is perfectly okay for people to be upfront about horror stories and major concerns about parenthood at a baby shower, being open about one’s lack of desire to partake will most likely have people thinking that something is wrong/missing for you.
Also, if you are building something from Ikea, and have leftover parts at some point prior to being completely finished, just be prepared to undo everything you’ve done so far, because you likely skipped a step.
Pretty much every comedian I’ve ever seen on a recorded special will have been slightly funnier in that special than in person. Jim Gaffigan, however, came closest to closing this gap.
Sometimes, things can seem like the Most Fun and Best Idea Ever. And then three weeks later, with the help of a little critical thinking, you will realize that not only was it not the best idea ever, but it was ridiculously dumb and boy howdy, you expect better of yourself.
Watched pool league operators never call to let you know if you’re going to Vegas or not. I still don’t know.
June 23, 2010
I do not suppose you could, ah, speed things up?
“Look, if you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch, or find something useful to do.”
“I could do that. I got some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship.”
It’s safe now. The explosion has passed, thanks to the powers of catharsis and excellent musical suggestions from my friendly neighborhood gas pump. So, thanks for that.
I spent 23-24 hours in a pool hall last weekend, attempting to win a free trip to Vegas for me and my team. We’d almost locked it up the first day, but couldn’t quite close, and had to come back the second. After some hard-fought battles, we made it to the final round, where we ran into a team that wound up having some issues.
We were up 2 matches after the first 2 matches – so we had three more chances to win the last match we needed to get to go. I lost – which wasn’t entirely unexpected, and was a strategic move (playing me enabled my team to put up some higher skill level players). And then something became readily apparent.
The other team’s players were sandbaggers. All but one of them were blatantly under-ranked. And the last one? The one who won the last match to enable his team to come back and win the round? Nobody who legitimately holds the rank next to his name on the scoresheet can play as well as he did. And the referees saw.
And so, we mentioned it to the local league authority. Who then talked to the team, and couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of them about, well, anything. They claimed that some of them weren’t legally able to travel, so they couldn’t field a full team in Vegas. And then they said never mind, they’d rent a van and drive there, if they couldn’t get on a plane. And then, they admitted that their last player could probably be ranked at least two levels higher than what the scoresheet said.
Except, that if you go up two or more levels in this kind of tournament, your team gets disqualified.
Basically, every member of that team was playing dirty pool. And so now, we’re waiting to hear whether the national HQ for the league is going to disqualify them and give us the slot for Vegas, or, well… not.
I hate waiting.
June 17, 2010
My way
“Finish him. Finish him! YOUR way.”
“Oh, my way. Thank you Vizzini. But… which way is my way?”
“Pick up one of these rocks, and get behind that boulder. In a few moments the man in black will come running around the bend. The minute his HEAD is in view, HIT IT WITH THE ROCK!”
“Oh. My way is not very sportsmanlike.”
I know. You come here, you see a post entitled “My Way”, and you expect Sinatra from the Jersey girl. However, since that song can apparently get you killed in certain parts of the globe, I thought I’d go with a different reference.
Pretty much all I want is to be left to my own devices, even if someone else thinks that they aren’t the most efficient methods in the universe, unless my own devices are somehow to the detriment of another person. Because odds are, I have reasons for doing things the way I do – good ones, in my estimation. And to be told that those reasons aren’t important isn’t likely to do much besides piss me off.
So. I’m going to do things my way. My track record is decidedly one of positive progress, and I’m pretty sure I’m not hurting anyone, so unless either of those things changes, kindly keep your comments to yourself.
ETA: Oh, dear. I didn’t mean YOUR comments. Not the ones HERE. I meant the OTHER you, the one behind you and slightly to the left. *sigh*.
June 3, 2010
Regarding Henry
Am rapidly approaching the point at which I say, “when.”
Because seriouslyjebuseffingcriminyjehosephat.
Excuse me while I go lose my shit.
June 1, 2010
No Judging! Judge-Free Zone! Not to be confused with Snark, which is plentiful.
So, one of my best friends from college (DF) was in town this weekend, and it was totally awesome, for about eighteen billion reasons.
One of these reasons, is that she doesn’t judge. So when I start to experience a little of the Crazy, she hops into my crazy motorcycle’s sidecar and proceeds to guide me through the maze – she’s been there before, she knows the way out.
And so, when the Lady Voldemort reared her ugly head AGAIN, attempting to install herself as the new best friend of someone close to me, DF happily engaged in some damage assessment (which might have involved some online “research”), followed up with exactly the right amount of snark, reassurance, and white wine.
“Well, you know what they say, if you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me.”
May 24, 2010
Sweet Gum Tree
This. This is why Dr. Taggart *really* warned me about going to school in “The South”. Of course, it didn’t happen until I’d been out of school for a while and had decided to make my stay more permanent.
See, where I’m from, we don’t have anything called a “sweet gum” tree. Our trees? Would cringe in embarrassment at such a moniker. They are called things like Oak. And Elm. And Beech. And Birch, who is forever trying to prove how manly it is. Maple gets a pass for having a “fancy”, two-syllable name, but only because of its delicious, delicious syrup.
And to a point, they still drop pollen and annoying little propeller things or wormy-looking flower things everywhere. But they do not drop little balls of evil (called gumballs, though they are not sugary or tasty or anything you’d ever want to put in your mouth) all over everything:
Little balls of evil that coat the walkways and grassy areas of your condo complex. So that when you’re carrying something heavy to the trash area, in the dark, you might step on them. And they might roll. And you might falls, possibly partially under the heavy THING you were carrying, ONTO MORE STUPID GUMBALL THINGS.
And then you might wind up with several deep bruises, roughly the size and shape of the stupid little gumball things. Except, of course, that one spot on your hip, where you fell on several of them that had gotten stuck together, so you have a 3-4 gumball-sized bruise.
It might have seemed like Dr. Taggart was talking about cultural differences and the inability to find really good Italian or rye bread, or the extent to which I’d miss a salt bagel with Taylor ham and cheese, but I now understand that this is what she meant.
Beware the sweetgum tree, and all of its Yankee-attacking booby-trapping-ness.
Ow.
Seeking John Galt 