Shattered Ideals and Dirtsicles

When you picture a man who likes classical music, what do you picture? Personally, I picture an educated, refined man dressed in a well tailored Brooks Brothers suit driving at least a Volvo, if not a BMW (Benz men don't do classical). So there you have it--my imaginary picture of a man who can appreciate the finer qualities of classical music. It is, indeed, imaginary.

This morning I climbed into a moving anomaly. Mr. Mozart drove up in his late-model Japanese special, drab and generic, and he lazily called out his destination in a voice hardly perceptible by human ears. I mosied on over to the passenger side of the car. The second I opened the car door, the FRONT door much to my dismay, I saw the condition of the interior of his car and almost changed my mind. Had it not been for the fact that I already had to wait for SO long to get a ride post-Memorial Day, I would have bolted for a much cleaner ride.

So I stepped into his glorious garbage heap, thankful that I chose an all black ensemble today, and decided that I would just sleep and try not to think about the possibilities. As I was settling in, I looked on the dashboard and noticed actual clumps of dirt. Not just a layer of dust my friends...D-I-R-T--actual clumps of loose earth on the dash. Just stop for a minute and ask yourself how that got there....

Welcome back.

If you are anything like me, you are picturing shovels and dead bodies. But I digress.

So I resigned myself to riding in the dirt-hearse, but my imagination kept playing tricks on me. I have a thing about spiders and ticks and fleas and such, and I kept imagining them crawling on my legs and in my hair. My napping opportunity was out the window already, but ironically it gets worse.

Once he had us trapped, he changed from the local news and weather station to ...you guessed it...the classical station. But he didn't just put on some low-volume Tchaikovsky. No, no. He decided that it needed to be played at a Kanye West concert level. Seriously, can you see us cruising down I95 pimped out in our business suits swaying to the crankin' sounds of Rachmaninoff? It was LOUD. Who needs classical music that loud? He kept turning it up too, like it wasn't already loud enough! He was oscillating between tweaking the obnoxiously loud classical music and cranking the arctic blasts of air conditioning that were aimed at my one patch of flesh exposed.

I sat there, depressed, cold, and itchy. Why had he worked so hard to ruin my picture of the perfect classical-loving, wine drinking, non-dirt car owning man? It was as if I had learned that gravity doesn't actually exist. Next I'll find out that Patrick Dempsey can't actually grow a 5 o'clock shadow!

All in all, I arrived at work and catapulted myself from his car and quickly wiped my pants and jacket off. Even if nothing truly transferred from his car to my clothes, I wasn't going to take the chance. I quickly examined myself for creepy crawlies and praised the warm breezes of late May. I was left with one lingering thought that has carried me through my entire day.

I need a shower!

An Assault on the Senses

I've written about smelly people before. It's a common violation of slugging etiquette based on my experiences. But today was special, so I'm going to take a minute to discuss it again.

I already know of several of my friends who will take GREAT offense at what I'm going to talk about, so I will apologize ahead of time. But as some background, I will say that I am a recovering smoker, so while I sit in judgment of this individual, I can understand where she's coming from. Also as some background, I suffer from SEVERE seasonal allergies, and Spring is the absolute worst time of the year for me. This particular year has been the worst I can remember, so I'm basically in a constant state of itchy snot-dom.

Moving on...

I drove this morning because I needed flexibility and the f-ing lot was full again. As is always my luck, when I'm driving there are no riders, and when I'm riding there are no drivers. I sat in the front of the line of cars for almost 15 minutes this morning. (OH, and as a side note, that skinny little pencil neck geek that goes to my destination but decided to take a car BEHIND me in the back of the line this morning because he didn't have to walk as far--making me wait EVEN LONGER--is officially blacklisted from my car FOREVER. If he walks up, I'm changing my location. Period. That guy just crossed me on the wrong morning!) Where was I?

Right, so I drove in today.

Thank goodness two riders finally came along who know the rules and got into the car. But the woman in the backseat (where my baby seat is) gets into the car still puffing on her cancer stick until the very last second. She puffs out a big lung full of smoke that basically did that little devil swirl in the air before firmly settling into the fabric of my poor little girl's seat (who just so happens to be suffering from allergies as bad as me). And of course, she didn't do a full exhale, so as she's talking and laughing at her own bad, humorless wit, she's exhaling little puffs of smoke into the air over and over again. As a recovering smoker, this both offends me and makes me want to smoke a quick cigarette again (I know, if you've never smoked, you are thinking I'm SICK). Anyway, she's sitting back there destroying one of my few precious sanctuaries from allergy torture by polluting my car with her smoke. But that's not the worst part!!!!!!!!!!

She's one of those guilty-conscience smokers who KNOWS she stinks of cigarettes but doesn't want to. So, what does she doe? That's right, you guessed it. She overcompensates for it by bathing in obnoxious perfume. Obnoxious is actually too kind a word to describe the toxic WMD she sprayed on herself this morning. In fact, now that I think about it, she did look a little suspicious....maybe I should call DHS or the FBI. I'll put that on my Outlook Tasker for later today.

I'm trying to drive in with a tissue in one hand, snot queuing at my nostrils just waiting to pour out, trying to adjust the air vents to blow her smoke and perfume away from me as I pass about 400 VA State Troopers trying to quickly compensate for their broken quotas for April. I was pretty worried that I was going to start swerving and vomiting because I was being poisoned by the Fairy Urine this woman tried to spray over her smoke-soaked work clothes. Then I started wondering if this was some sort of new terrorist weapon that could be used to kill brain cells of government workers one by one, and I started to wonder if it was best that I try to get pulled over to notify the police to prevent her from entering her office and poisoning everyone.

But then I woke up from my seasonal allergy haze and realized she was just a poor smoker who hates the fact that she can't break the habit. So she covers herself in the only perfume she can actually still smell with what's left of her nose-lining. Whatever "flower" is the base component of that perfume is, without a doubt, the worst smelling flower God ever created. If it can break through my wall of congestion enough to irritate me, it should be on Al Gore's list of banned chemicals that are bad for the environment. Come to think of it, it DID start to get a few degrees warmer while she was in my car. Maybe there is some validity to Al Gore's scientifically unfounded theory.

Nah.