Crisis Management

I got to the sluglot very early this morning because I couldn't sleep and decided to just get my day started.  I drove into the lot, and there was already a car waiting.  It was an enormous Chevy truck that required me to use the foot rail to climb in, and of course, my foot slipped off of it, and I faceplanted into the seat.

As we merge into the HOV lanes, the driver exclaims "I'm not feeling good.  I'm going to have to pull over."  A million things are going through my mind at this point.  Was this just a ploy to murder me and the backseat guy on the side of 95?  Was this guy about to puke on me?  Because I'd rather be murdered than have a guy puke on me.  He pulls over, turns on his hazzards, and he gets out.  He's pacing up and down the side of 95, and I'm just sitting there with the other dude in silence.  If you aren't aware, once you're on the HOV lanes, there's no exit for miles and miles.  It's not like we can just turn around and head back to the lot.  We are stuck with this dude.  He comes back to the door and asks me if I feel comfortable driving.

Did I mention that he's driving a tank?

So I switch to the driver's seat, adjust the seat so I can kinda sorta see out of the mirrors and touch the pedals with my tippy toes, and off we go.  I asked the guy repeatedly if he was ok and if he needs to go to a hospital.  He says he thinks he might need to go to the ER.  Luckily, I'm an ER connoisseur, and I am flipping through my mental files of where all the closest hospitals are that I can actually get to.  I turn his radio off, and I'm listening to his breathing and watching his body language.  At this point, I'm also flipping through my mental cache to see if I remember CPR.  I then start looking at him in my peripheral vision to size up whether or not I can stomach giving this guy mouth to mouth.    

Meanwhile, I'm driving this Bradley Fighting Vehicle down 95, and I can barely see over the dash.  I'm cruising with the flow of traffic, and I'm keeping an eye on my patient.  I keep mentally repeating "don't die don't die don't die."

Then, backseat guy pipes up and tells me to slow down.  I'm going 73 MPH, and everyone else is whizzing by me.  Then he tells me I should get over in the right lane.  Then he tells me to pass someone. 

Patient zero is now experiencing seriously labored breathing.

Backseat guy just went too far, and I had to get this under control.

I said "sir, if you aren't part of the solution, you are part of the problem.  I am going to get you both safely to the parking lot, but I'm going to need you to sit back, close your eyes, and shut your damn mouth.  Otherwise, there are going to be 2 people in this car that will go to the ER."

That was the last I heard from him.

I finally get to the parking lot, and I ask Patient Zero if I need to go get a police officer to call an ambulance.  He tells me he's just going to pull into a space and sit for a while to see how he feels.  I told him where the closest hospital is just in case he wanted to drive himself over there, and he thanked me for driving.  Then he said "that guy was a real asshole.  Thanks for shutting him up."

That's what I do.  I manage crises. 

The Commuter Couple

The definition of a happy, healthy relationship is different for every couple.  No two relationships look the same; therefore, judging someone else's relationship based on your definition of happiness is not advised.  However, there are some universal warning signs that any one of us who has ever had a real relationship can spot a mile away.

Yesterday on my commute home I landed in the coveted back seat of a car that came equipped with the common DC species known as the "commuter couple" (hereafter CC).  Many two-income DMV families commute to roughly the same area together every day, giving them a few extra hours of togetherness that the rest of the geographically dispersed couples don't get.  Some CCs use this time to discuss family business like what the kids have scheduled, what's for dinner, where they are going on vacation, what charges their oldest son got slapped with and how they are not bailing him out this time (yes, that happened), or how obnoxious their cousin Bobby was at the last family gathering.  As a captive observer of the CC, you become privy to an intimate, inside view of their happy little home life whether  you want to or not.  Some CCs appear to be perfectly normal suburbanites who seem to at least like each other, if not, dare I say, love each other.  Some appear to be somewhat apathetic to each other, just going through the predictable motions of their daily grind, secretly longing for something more exciting.  Then there's that special kind of asshole CC.  My particular CC yesterday was the true gem of the CC species.  Unknowingly, I crawled into the backseat of a Toyota, which turned into a front-row seat to a CC smack down.

It was as if the click of my seatbelt was the bell for Round 1.  Admittedly, the smog-like tension filling the tiny compartment we 3 were sharing was a pretty strong indication that this particular fight was a continuation, or perhaps a rematch.  As the Husband Driver (CC-H) pulled through the slug lane and began to creep out to merge into traffic, the Wife (CC-W) lit his ass up.  She was cussing at him for not pulling out faster and having to wait a few extra seconds for a break in traffic.  CC-H snapped back at her for having her "big head" block his view.  That REALLY set her off, and she began giving him examples of how his big head got in the way of her happiness, outlining all the ways having him in her life over the last 15 years has prevented her from ever being happy.

Well, that escalated quickly.

I heard a litany of her grievances over the years.  I listened carefully to her very convincing side.  He sounded like a real douche of a husband.  Like that time he left her alone with their kids when she had the flu so he could go out with the boys, and he came home smelling like booze and pussy (her words).  But CC-H was not going to stand by and let her make  all the accusations.  He launched quite an impressive retort.  He outlined all the times that she's ignored the kids so she can stuff her "fat face" while she sexts random guys pictures of her "sagging boobs."

Clearly there's a lot of love and a deep trust between these two.

It was difficult to choose who I thought was the "bad guy" in this relationship.  I tried to imagine myself as their therapist and searched for a way to help them solve what appears to be some deep-rooted resentment on both sides.  Then it hit me.  As I continued to listen, I frantically searched through my phone contacts, dug out a piece of paper and pen, and scribbled a number.

When we arrived at the lot, I unlocked my seatbelt, opened the door, and dropped the paper between the two of them on the front console as I said "here's the number to my divorce lawyer.  He's really cutthroat."  And off I went.

I didn't look back to see which one grabbed the paper.

You're welcome CC from hell.  I wish you both well.  Poor kids......

Powell Vindicated

The Chemical Weapons Convention banned the production or stockpiling of chemical and biological weapons in roughly 1997.  The CWC defines chemical weapons as any toxic chemical or its precursor that can cause death, injury, temporary incapacitation or sensory irritation through its chemical action. The justification for the US going into Iraq after 9/11 was evidence, which subsequently "disappeared," of these banned chemical weapons.  It has only been recently that I figured out why we couldn't find them.  

Wrapped up in one little tiny, commercially available package, we have these "air freshener" car vent clips that have the chemical intensity to basically destroy your sense of smell and poison your brain so that it can no longer process any smells that happen to get through the chemical cloud before your olfactory sense dies.  Any slug will tell you that these things are ev-er-y-where.  I'd venture a guess that roughly 7 out of 10 cars has one of these noxious, poisonous, toxic cartridges "innocently" tucked into the slats of their vents--and there is never just ONE.  Oh no, there is usually one for EVERY vent.  If you have ever had to sit in an enclosed vehicle with these little weapons of mass destruction affixed to at least 4 vents on full blast, you understand exactly what I mean. 

What in the risen unholy hell are folks doing in their cars that they need to basically chemically incinerate any and all smells in their cars???

Every time I get out of one of those death labs, my nose hair is singed off, my clothes smell like Saddam Hussein's test lab, and I feel lightheaded and nauseous.  I'm convinced that the these car clips were used to cover up the smell of the Iraqi chemical weapon stockpiles, which is why we never found the chemical weapons in Iraq.  These things must be banned.  Immediately.

You Are What You Drive

A person's car tells you a lot about them.  We all subconsciously draw conclusions about the people around us in traffic based on what they drive, and honestly, we are rarely wrong.  You see the minivan, and you know the driver, of course, spends a lot of time hauling around a brood of kids to various activities and has given over to convenience over style.  You see a VW Beetle (punchbuggy!-got ya!), and you know the driver is either a college-age girl, probably in a sorority, or an older, single cat-lady type that keeps the big flower on her dash and hasn't touched a man since she owned her first VW Beetle (punchbuggy!  got ya again!).  You see the Toyota, any model really, and you know that person is really just being practical.  I'm intentionally skipping mentioning those who drive hybrids and "smartcars" because those assholes deserve their own blog post.  For those who feel the need to go that extra mile to tell you who they are, they decorate their car with a ton of stickers.  Those, too, are a special breed of asshole who deserve their own post.  But alas, this post is dedicated to the cars that indisputably cry douchebag!

There are different levels of douchecars for different levels of doucheary of the drivers, of course, but they all pretty much say the same things.   A douchecar is typically driven by an overly aggressive douche driver who cuts in and out of traffic and rides the asses of everyone only to bolt around them and gun it until he gets to the next car to ride the ass of.  And/Or they are loudly overcompensating for their lack of masculinity, and therefore their lack of getting laid.  They are oblivious to this actually, which is what makes it even more hilariously douchey, because they believe they are ladies' men who can't beat the all the women away so he gets a fast car to get away from them.    

As a slug, I accept most levels of douchery and ride in many different douchecars.  I've had a lot of experience with douches in my life, so riding for 30-ish minutes with a douchedriver is a blip on the big radar of life.  However, however, however, I simply cannot do the Dodge Challenger and all the douchery that it brings.  I made the massive mistake of getting into a Dodge Challenger a few weeks ago, and he nearly killed us within the first 10 seconds of the ride.  I was praying the whole way there that if we got into an accident I wouldn't die surrounded by a big bag of soggy, mangled douche.  Thankfully I survived, but I will NEVER ride with him again. 

It's been rainy and disgusting in DC all week.  I've stood in the rain an extra 30 minutes (total) because I refused to get into his car.  He sat there staring at me, completely confused, because I was standing in the line but wasn't getting in his car.  He rolled his window down and said where he was headed.  I said "I know" and still stood there.  By day 2, he didn't even ask. 

I see him sitting there, and it takes me back to the olden days of the douchebags leaning on their Trans Ams with the giant chicken painted on the hood asking me if I wanted a ride.  Didn't do it then.  Not gonna do it now.

Roofie Me Please

I'm so thankful I didn't wear a skirt today, but I really wish I would have worn my sports bra.

Dude driver rolled up in his jacked up Chevy truck, and all I could do is giggle to myself.  I walked up to the back door (yay me for winning the backseat lottery this morning) and the step, THE STEP, was at my waist.  I tossed my crap in the back, grabbed the floor, and climbed my short ass all up in that thang.  It couldn't have been pretty to watch.  If I would've been wearing a skirt, I would've had to hike that thing up to my waist to pull that off.  To make this trip even more exciting, this very intimidating looking dude, who looks like he eats babies and puppies for breakfast, was listening to dance music at club volume.  Really?  I was expecting country or heavy metal.  I was not expecting to have to listen to songs about shots, shots, shots, shots and something about booty shaking in this guy's truck.  I can't tolerate that crap unless I have a drink in my hand and at least the possibility of a good roofie to help me forget.  But it was fortuitous because I was bouncing the whole damn way to work.

Apparently, this guy--and many others like him--thinks that lifting a pickup truck 500' in the air is a super awesome idea.  I'm sure it comes in handy when you're off-roading down 95.  It would only be useful if he was going to actually drive OVER traffic, but I didn't see any evidence that he was willing to do so.  One thing about lifted trucks is that those giant ass tires feel every pebble on the road and bounce the truck all over the damn place.  Only the soccer ball in the floorboard was bouncing more than my ta-tas.  I think at one point we hit an actual bump in the road and my ass lifted off the seat and my girls bounced in 2 different directions.  I'll probably have to go to a doctor to get my spine realigned and buy a special orthopedic bra to get my lady lumps pointing back in the right direction.  He also had a persistent rattle coming from somewhere in the backseat, which is like nails on a chalkboard to me--especially at 5:30 in the morning.  I'm surprised every screw in the truck hasn't been bounced out yet, but OMG, how can you not hear that and NEED to fix it right away.  I go mental if I hear a rock in my tire. 

No chance in hell of an actual nap this morning.  All I could think was that I just want to fade out of consciousness to the sound of Kanye's untalented voice and wake up at work wondering why my body hurts. 

Whore in Church

I'm a good person.  I am.  I might have a warped sense of humor, a bit of a potty mouth, and a general desire to enjoy life, but all in all, I'm a good person.  I don't cheat, lie, steal, neglect my child or work, and I don't intentionally harm others (although I imagine it in my head often).  I might have a list of things to confess at some point, but none of it makes me truly evil.  This morning's ride made me feel like a bad person.

I got into this woman's car this morning and instantly felt out of place and judged.  She was a middle-aged woman with a cross around her neck and at least 5 other crosses strategically placed around her car.  I'm not sure if she was trying to protect herself from Vampire Sluggers, but at that moment, I was grateful I never fulfilled my childhood fantasy of a blood-thirsty immortality.  The crosses didn't really bother me so much as the judgmental look on her face when I climbed in the front seat (yes I got screwed on the seat selection again).  I guess she didn't like my leopard print dress that I'm wearing today.  Maybe that's too "racy" for her puritan taste.  Her judgmental look then transitioned to her changing the radio station from generic news radio to some sort of gospel/evangelism station.  I felt like this was intentional.

I was too uncomfortable to sleep, for fear that she might try to brand me with a cross on the side of my face, so I just stared blankly out the window keeping her firmly in my peripheral vision. The gospel song that was playing ended, and some guy started talking about God and being a good person and how evil the world is, and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that she kept glancing at me.  Seriously?  Who died and made you the judge of me?  This felt personal, but I was going to give her the benefit of the doubt----since I'm a good person and all.  Maybe it was the short, balding guy in the backseat who looks like he should be on a sex offender registry that she didn't like....

Another gospel song came on, which pretty much sounded just like the first one, and she started singing along quietly right until the line of "save yourself from sin" was repeated.  That line she really BELTED out.  Hmmmmm, perhaps she's trying to subtly tell me something?  I'd had enough of this crap.  I've heard enough stories of her type trying to save "fallen women" from their evil ways to know that I just had to embrace her perception of me and roll with it.  Then I started to think--I'll give you something to judge lady.....

I considered all kinds of options.  I thought maybe I could surf some porn on my phone for her to see.  I thought maybe I could make a fake phone call to a pimp to arrange for tonight's John.  I thought maybe I could dig through my purse and exclaim "damn!  I left my meth at home on the kitchen counter!"  None of it felt right.  You know why?  Because I'm a good person.

So I stared straight ahead, like any good whore in church would, and let her searing judgmental, God-fearing stares burn the side of my face until I got to work.

I got out of the car, letting my dress ride up a little too high, and thanked her for the ride.  Peace be with you bitch.

Like a Virgin

With the new HOT lanes that are tolled 24/7, more drivers have been forced to either pay BIG money to commute alone or to pick up slugs.  This, of course, benefits us sluggers, and we aren't complaining.  The days of standing in line for 20-40 minutes waiting for a ride appear to be gone for the most part.  Some days I get out of my car and jump directly into someone else's.  While my overall commute has not entirely improved, it has gotten better on the whole.   HOWEVER there is one major drawback:  VIRGINS.

Slug virgins are an unpredictable bunch.  Much like the first time you have sexual relations, it can be a really good or really bad experience.  If you are lucky, you get the driver who is only slightly awkward and only needs to fumble around for a minute before reaching a steady, comfortable pace.  He knows enough that he only asks a few questions and needs a little reassurance that he's in the right place, and off he goes.  I equate this slug virgin to the guy who watched a lot of porn and just needed some hands-on experience.  If you are unlucky, as I usually am, you get the unforgettable guy who violates all etiquette and clumsily gets you to the end feeling like you never want to do it again.  He's also the guy who finishes and practically high-fives himself like he's just accomplished something that deserves a trophy.  This is the guy you are pretty sure will never really improve with experience, and every time you see him after that, you act like you don't know him and walk in a different direction.   He's the tragic virgin that just removed an option from the table.  One less ride you will take. 

Because I've been doing this forever, I can pretty much get through any awkward circumstance with some coping mechanisms.  My number one technique is the slug nap, or at the very least, pretending to be asleep to avoid him trying to talk to me.  If you are unlucky enough to get in the front seat with a tragic virgin, do the bare minimum to ensure you will at least get to your appointed destination, and then you sleep.  You wake up when it's over and you don't have the memories to ruin the next time.