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.

Let It Goat

When you fall into a deep sleep, you lose a certain level of control.  It's just a fact of life.  When slugging, most people sleep, because why not.  Over the years, I've experienced my fellow sluggers snoring LOUDLY, farting, mumbling in their sleep, twitching uncontrollably, and many other things.  As a slugging veteran, this kind of thing usually just makes me snicker.  When I take my daily slug naps, I'm typically only partially asleep and am mostly aware of what's going on in the car and have complete control of myself.  However, I stayed up a little too late and woke up feeling like a zombie, so my slug nap this morning was more like a temporary coma.  I basically remember getting into the car and putting on my seat belt.  After that, mmmmmmmmm, nothing.

I don't know if I was dreaming or if I was so close to death that my body just gave up, but somewhere close to me reaching my destination, I moaned--that's the closest word I can come up with.  This was not a cute little moan that would've made my fellow sluggers smirk or chuckle.  This moan sounded more like a cross between a moan, a scream for help, and me trying to speak in tongues.  I opened my eyes to realize that my head was flopped over, I was hanging by the seat belt, and yes, there was drool.  After that unfortunate farting incident when I was in school, I learned that when you wake yourself up by making loud noises, you just freeze and don't make any sudden movements.  This allows you to avoid the immediate fallout of the reactions by plausibly still being asleep. 

I had my sunglasses on, so I was able to open my eyes enough to see that I had scared the living shit out of the driver and the front seat passenger.  I think the driver was getting ready to pull over and call 911 to have the dead body removed from his back seat.  Once it was obvious to everyone that I was, indeed, alive and well, they calmed back down.  Luckily, it happened so close to my drop off that I didn't have to endure this awkwardness for long.  We pulled up, and I got out as if nothing ever happened, politely thanking the driver and wishing both a beautiful day.  We are all professionals here.  No need to bring it up fellas.  Just let it go.

While I'm sure what they heard was dramatic, in my head, as far as I can recollect, it sounded like this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxIkqbRR59s

Spies Like Us

I hate nosy people, especially strangers.  I don't trust them.  There are certain "social norms" of conversation with strangers that you just don't violate, and someone who does makes me suspicious, especially at 5AM.

I got a ride from an innocuous looking man in his mid-50s (I'd guess), and I had the pleasure of getting the back seat.  Dude in the front seat is clearly military and not the most comfortable with strangers asking prying questions either.

Dude driver, from now on known as PJ (Philip Jennings--male spy from The Americans), didn't even wait until we got out of the lot to start talking.  And by talking, I mean TALKING AT A REALLY LOUD VOLUME.  I can only assume so his surveillance device can pick up the voices.  He immediately stated to Front Seat Dude (FSD) that he's seen him before, but he was in the backseat last time.    He asks FSD what he does for a living.  FSD hesitates and tries to dodge the question.  PJ asks again.  FSD gives him an answer, and that was just about the worst thing he could've done.  It turned into 20 questions at that point, and FSD was stuck.  He politely gave short, but I'm assuming honest, answers, but tried to stop the interrogation.  I'm in the backseat with my eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but that didn't stop PJ from asking me what I do.  I ignored.  He asked again, only louder.  I very quietly answered "travel agent," thinking this is bland enough to have him gloss right over me.  But noooooooo.  He started asking for whom and where.  I tried to ignore again, but this guy was balls to the wall.  I decided to let my allergies take over the conversation, and I started coughing uncontrollably.  I did this long enough for him to switch his focus back on FSD.  

He then started digging into FSD's entire work history.  This was getting out of hand.  This is Spy 101.  This guy has an agenda.  It's not only annoying and inappropriate, but it's interfering with my morning Slug Nap.  The Slug Nap is sacred, and I just can't let this continue.  So I gave it back to him.  20 questions, some were repeated in different ways to see if he had his own story straight.  I started asking really probing questions about how much he makes and what benefits his company offers.  I asked him what the address was to his office, and what his work hours were.  For the most part, he started to dodge.  Hmmmm, was I getting too personal?  Was he uncomfortable with my line of questioning?  Too bad!  Maybe he will get the point. 

We start to approach our appointed drop-off location, and I noticed he was trying to come up with some sort of closing line of questioning.  He asked FSD if he ever worked with So-and-so, an old officer friend of his.  Rookie.  Luckily, FSD just said no and left it at that.  Good job buddy.

We arrived and disembarked the vehicle, exchanging "wtf" glances at each other.  He laughed and said "nice how you turned it around on him."

I just responded with "'Merica!" and I laughed and walked away.  Not today PJ.  Not today.

The Penguin v Batman

There is a man in my slug line whom we all refer to as The Penguin.  It's not necessarily a knock on his appearance, but it's a conveniently accurate comparison.  He's about 5'2" and 3' wide, in his (I'm guessing) 50s, and waddles like The Penguin when he walks.  But that's not why he stands out.  He stands out because he's annoying as HELL. 

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a morning person, and my tolerance is fairly low for other people before I've been up for quite a few hours.  I also have extreme sensitivity to unusual and/or repetitive noises.  So this guy really gets under my skin for a lot of reasons.  He is my commuting nemesis. 

He waddles up and down the line at 5AM talking to his "friends" at ridiculously inappropriate volumes about mind-numbingly boring crap that nobody wants to hear.  Because the line moves fairly frequently as drivers rescue us pathetic slugs from him, he has to repeatedly waddle back to his spot to move his bag that is holding his place in line.  On top of that, if you end up having to ride with him, his annoyance factor multiplies by a million.  He inhales and exhales very loudly with great exaggeration, he mumbles under his breath (unless you get really lucky and he knows the driver well enough to talk the whole damn way), and he does this really really really really annoying thing where he rubs his hands back and forth on his legs, making it sound like he's masturbating (sometimes I wonder if he is, but the fear of seeing that and never unseeing it keeps me from looking). 

The first thing I do when I arrive at the lot is do a quick Penguin scan.  I have to identify where he is in line and try to avoid riding with him.  His annoyance factor is enough to ruin my entire day.  So when I do see him and determine that I could be standing next to him in line, I will linger in my car, walk really really slowly, set fires, whatever it takes to avoid him.

Today, despite my best attempts, I couldn't avoid it.  I was trapped with him, and by the time I got to work, I was almost catatonic from trying to tune him out.  The only thing that kept me somewhat lucid was replaying this in my head:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1byycwl8qgc

Shhhh, not so loud.  You'll wake him.

Don't Call It a Comeback!

I've been here for years.  (Yes, I just quoted LL Cool J)   Don't Call It a Comeback!

I had switched jobs that changed my slugging status to driver for a while, and the stories just weren't interesting enough to write.  But I've switched jobs again and have started slugging again.  By request, I'm going to relaunch this blog.  Everyone calm yourselves.  I know you are excited, but you have to let me get my rhythm back!

With the new HOT lanes on 95, there's an influx of new drivers who are clueless to slugging etiquette and norms.  The material endlessly writes itself.  So no worries.  I will be up and active ASAP!

A Cautionary Tale

No, I haven't been mangled by a wreck on I-95 (hopefully never will), nor have I given up the DC commute for the simple life (I wish). I'm still here, but very little happens these days that could be blog worthy. I've settled into a decent routine that doesn't involve a whole lot of interesting stories. But now I have one that is absolutely worth coming back for!

Here goes (Warning, this posting may offend the particularly chaste):

I jumped into the backseat of a dark, mid-sized SUV for my ride into work. I didn't recognize this woman and had to ask if she was, indeed, going to my destination. She confirmed, and off we went.

As usual, I settled in for my quick nap with my excess baggage on the floor at my feet. I closed my eyes and dreamed of happier places and happier times. As if an internal alarm were set, I woke up 2 blocks from my office building and began to gather up my bags and gloves. It was at this point that I noticed something out of the ordinary in the dark floorboard behind the driver's seat.

The sun was not yet up, as I am required to be at work before the dead are required to awaken, and it was hard to tell what I was seeing at first. I turned to look more closely, squinting my eyes to better make out the figure in the floor. It was bright, bright fluorescent orange. The kind of orange you'd find in a roadside safety kit. After further inspection, I realized that this object did not fall loose from a roadside safety kit. At least no roadside safety kit that I've ever seen available for purchase.

There in the floor behind the driver's seat sat a bright orange, black-tipped, vibrator.

Whatever her emergency needs may be, at least she was being safety conscious. Now I have to go home and burn my winter coat, gloves, handbag, and carry-all bag before immersing myself in a boiling hot vat of acid.

Old Friends

Over the last 2 years, a lot has happened and a lot has changed. The personalities are free-flowing, gradually shifting in and out of the slugging psyche. You seem some of the "regular" personalities, and then they disappear. Sometimes you find yourself wondering about where some of them have gone. For example, my mind still wanders to the pervert, the pimp, the still high school bitches, and the maniac driver. Because I go to the same place, every day, at the same time, I expect to see the same people. Sometimes that happens, and sometimes it doesn't.

Occasionally, I see someone drive up in line that I will acknowledge with a casual smile and wave as they pick up someone else. There are times when I see someone I haven't seen in a while, and I'm genuinely happy to see their face again. There are other times when I try to look away to avoid any unnecessary contact with someone I don't like because I know my facial expressions always betray me and show EXACTLY how I feel about someone in one look.

There are new people slugging these days, and I can no longer calculate with certainty how many people are ahead of me in line. Sometimes I figure I would get the next ride but 2 people step out in front of me, leaving me to wonder "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU????"

Yesterday, I was praying for a long line of unfamiliars to be in front of me so I could avoid one of my least favorite people on the planet. Yes, you guessed it, I hopped in with Benz Bitch, much to my dismay.

The REALLY funny part is that I jumped in the backseat, leaving the front seat available to the next unlucky slugger to walk up. We had to sit and wait for a few minutes because the line was thin and there were no other riders to our destination. Imagine the awkward silence? Well, there wasn't any because Benz Bitch started arguing with people in the line. hehe

There was some "confusion" resulting from misdirection and miscommunication on the part of the people at the front of the line. They were yelling the wrong destinations to those of us in the back, and Benz Bitch had actually been left sitting there for an extended pause because the ladies in the front were yelling to us in the back that she was going to an entirely different place. I KNEW where she was going, but I thought I'd hit the lottery and avoided having to ride with her because she had somewhere else to go. Nope, the stupid bitches at the front of the line were just ....well...stupid. They couldn't keep the cars' destinations straight and were confusing us in the back of the line. Even after I cleared it up and reluctantly climbed in, they still couldn't get it right.

Then, they had the NERVE to complain about Benz Bitch just "sitting there, not moving up." Hmmmm, well clearly they had underestimated the character they were trying to passively aggressively attack, because she heard THAT and went OFF. Then there came a lot of head wagging and attitude flying between Benz Bitch and Stupid Bitches 1 and 2. This seemed to go on forever. Well, just long enough for someone else to walk up at the exact moment that Benz Bitch decided to move her car up a few feet as she delivered her last zing at the 'Tard Captains. Poor slugger #2, who I know quite well, had his hand on the door handle and almost got it ripped off as she drove up. He stepped back in time to not lose a limb, and EVERYONE in line started shouting at Benz Bitch. Since she didn't see slugger #2 almost get dragged, the fact that everyone yelled at her really set her off.

Finally slugger #2 landed safely in the front seat of honor, and we FLEW out of the lot. I mean, she GUNNED it, pedal to the metal, please-god-don't-let-any-pedestrians-step-out-now kind of speed. I think we took the corner on two wheels, but I can't be sure.

She was mad and she was hanging on to it for the entire ride. Briefly, I appreciated her little oh-no-you-didn't exchange, and I thought....yeah, I'd probably do that too if it was me. But our bonds were severed when she decided to drive the way she was talking. Once she cleared the parking lot, she turned on her radio to an eardrum piercing maximum volume. There's nothing like listening to Steve Harvey at maximum volume at 6AM. She was mad, and she was going to make sure that not a SOUL said or breathed anything to her for the entire ride.

Despite my exhaustion, I couldn't sleep this one out. She was crossing 3 lanes of traffic at full speed without signaling, and doing it repeatedly. She was chatting on her cell phone to a "friend" while trying to adjust the heat to the heavily-roasted setting (I get cold, but damn.). Then she turned up the radio AGAIN when a song came on in between Steve Harvey's rants about "girl you goin do whatchyou goin do." Yeah, OK.

I was gasping for thick, hot air every time she had a near miss with another car, and I was certain that nobody would have heard my screams for help as our car teeter-tottered off the edge of the 14th Street bridge over the sound of Mary J. Blige's untalented squeals of female-empowerment.

Oh, and did I mention that the traffic was backed up because of an accident? Yeah, it was THAT day. I get my good old friend Benz Bitch, when she's pissed at the world, on a day when I have to endure her inherent bitchassness for more than the typical commute time.

Hey old friend, it's nice to see you again.

Drinking and Driving

There are times when I have to drive to work, and it almost always pans out to be the days when there is a major traffic incident. So, as it would have to be, I had to drive on a Friday. It was a miserable, miserable traffic day going in, and I was deeply dreading going home. I managed to arrange for a few familiar faces to be my sluggers hoping that our past laughs and conversations would make the ride go by faster.

I wasn't disappointed by the conversation or the laughs. We had quite a few college-level laughs that involved body-function humor and a few yells out the car window at unsuspecting HOV violators. The demographics in the car was 2 guys and 2 girls, and the conversations were bouncing around between woman-bashing to man-bashing and back again. It was a 2 hour exchange of snips and jokes and inappropriate comments, and I was glad to have asked them along.

And then things got weird.

One of the guys mentioned "Hey, we should go grab a couple of happy hour drinks after we get back." And, being caught up in the celebratory mood, we all said "ooooh, yeah~! What a great idea!"

So we continued on down the road laughing and joking, and I started to notice that one of the men in the backseat was a little too interested in me and my stories. He kept wanting me to expand on some of the more "inappropriate" comments, and the girl riding with me was starting to give me those "whoa, freaky" kind of looks.

We finally made it back to the lot, and as everyone dispersed from the car, the discussion of where to go came up. After the guys made the decision to go somewhere they like, the other girl BAILS on me and says she can't go. So, there I am, stuck having at least 1 "polite" drink with the boys, both of whom are married.

And then things got weirder.

We walked into this bar that I've never even noticed existed, and it was dark, and smelly and the total tooth count in the bar was probably 36 (my 32 plus the 4 the bartender had). There were about 6 people in the bar other than us, and all of them were the kind of men who looked like they either just got out of prison or were on their last drinking binge before committing a triple homicide.

We sat at the bar instead of the "tables," which looked an awful lot like they were stolen from various places, and we ordered our drinks. I was trying to find something that didn't make me look too foofy in front of all the serial killers, since I didn't want to show weakness. I opted for the shot of whiskey and a coke. I still had to drive home and figured one shot of whiskey wouldn't be too much. The boys ordered their beers, and we all began to chit chat. I carried the body language of a woman about to be gang-raped, but I kept the conversation flowing. The guy who was showing too much interest started asking questions about some of my more adventurous experiences with men. It was at that point that the enormous "oh shit" flag was raised.

So I kicked back the whiskey shot and started doing the not so subtle time check. Overly Interested Guy starts inviting me to concerts and making comments about sexy shoes and lingerie. His friend, feeling the level of discomfort radiating off of me, starts talking about his wife and then says he has to get home. I pull out some cash to pay for my drink, and the guys decide I can't pay for it. That's nice except in my mind I am thinking that will obligate me to reciprocate at another happy hour in the future. Not something I planned on doing ever again. Mr. Inappropriate says "you're gonna stay with me and have another round right?"

Er, no.

I said "you know, I've got to get home and spend some time with my daughter." That wasn't enough for him. He started talking about how she could wait a little while longer and one more drink wouldn't hurt anything. I tried to reason with him using the dangers of drinking and driving, and that didn't work either.

So, out of desperation, I used the fail-safe exit strategy. I leaned in and lowered my voice "I have to get home to see if my test results are back. I just had a herpes outbreak that seemed a little off, and I wanted to make sure I hadn't also contracted syphilis." He laughed. I gave him the straightest "I'm not kidding dumbass" look, took a sip of his beer that he'd just ordered, and sauntered to the door. He was not sure if I was joking or not, but one thing's for sure, he was distracted enough that I was able to escape relatively unaffected.

I will never drive and agree to drinks again.

He also has not asked for a ride from me or offered me a ride since. :)

Gotta Sing!

There are some days when you take a ride that appears to be completely and utterly uninteresting. You are riding along, and you are resting quietly. Your head starts to slowly relax; your breathing steadies, and you feel yourself drifting off to sleep. The driver appears to be cautious, so you feel relatively confident that you can sleep without too much worry.

It's always those rides that end up surprising you the most.

I rode in with 2 men. I was sitting in the front seat because the bubbly, optimistic little man behind me snagged the back seat, but not before opening my door for me and calling me Ma'am. He greeted our driver with great enthusiasm, and off we went. Our driver was listening to a local radio station's morning talk show at a respectable volume. Everything was smooth as molasses, and I was really starting to settle into a stress-free morning commute, for a change.

I was half listening to the talk show host as the show returned from commercial. He was talking over an old song that I vaguely remembered but wasn't really paying attention to. I started to tune his abrasive voice out and slip into a temporary coma, when BAM--in a loud, booming, entirely inappropriate voice that broke the silence and stability of the car, Mr. Backseat Bubbles began singing along to the song I hadn't really realized was still playing.

"THROUGH THE FIRE....TO THE LIMIT.....TO THE WALL...."

He hit a falsetto that I didn't know any man could really hit, but I had mad respect for his skills.

The driver and I were startled, and I just busted out laughing. This of course encouraged our enthusiastic Chaka Khan wannabe to sing even more, and he went through the song until the DJ turned it off and continued his conversation.

Then he settled down and went to sleep.

I guess when you gotta sing, you gotta sing.

PRIMAL SCREAM!!!!

OK, you guys can all stop giving me crap about not blogging lately. I know, I know! For the most part, I’ve just been too busy or too lazy to do an update, but things have been somewhat predictable lately. I do have a couple of “reserve” stories, so I will probably do a couple of updates close together. So sit back, relax, and shut the hell up.

There are days when I hate everything. Those days are growing to be more and more frequent, but –good grief—today offered me a whole new collection of things, and people, to hate.

I rode in today with a man who normally slugs in alongside me. In fact, I have blogged about him hogging the backseat and snoring. He’s a nice, older man who appears to be gentleman for the most part. Yet, I hate him and his car. Here’s why…
I was the first rider to arrive in the car, and of course, I chose the premium backseat real estate. I always get a funny look from drivers when I am the firs to get in but I choose the backseat. It’s like they take it personally that I don’t want to sit up front with them. And they should take it personally, because I don’t want to sit with them up front. He gave me an awkward glance and then started to chit-chat while we waited for someone else who would be going to our location. He had all the windows open in this fancy little SUV, and it wasn’t too bad because it was pouring rain yet. I was only getting slightly drizzled upon through the front and back windows. He slurped his coffee and talked about how his wife loses everything, and I sat back there praying that he’d shut up and close the windows soon. Finally, a nice man hopped in, and we were ready to hit the road.
Shortly after pulling off, Mr. Chit-Chat rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioner. It was at this point that I realized why he had the windows down to begin with. As the cold, dry air of the air conditioner began to replace the humid, fresh air in the car, the smell of rotting dead Trout guts began to fill my nostrils. I gasped for air and began to choke and cough. It was putrid, to say the least. I don’t know who he pissed off to have them put dead fish in his car, but that person is downright cruel. Oh God, the smell. I was trying to bury my face in my clothes, and at one point, I think I even grabbed a handful of my own hair and started breathing it in.

But, being true to my rugged slugger’s composition, I decided to just sleep through it. If you sleep through it, it will end more quickly and won’t smell as bad. Unfortunately, Old Man Fish Guts decided he wanted to listen to political radio AND comment on it. This was just too much. Since I work in politics, I put in a solid 8 hours centered on political issues, and I am forced to make myself aware of all sides to every issue. I can sit and discuss politics with anyone of any party on any topic. Just because I can does not mean that I WANT TO while I am riding to work and trying to get caught up on sleep! He starts going on about the “wisdom” of Obama, and how he’s the smartest man he’s ever seen in America. How, HOW can I sit in the backseat and sleep through this??? I mean COME ON! I can guard my senses from the nauseating smell of steamed, rotting fish guts, but I can’t withstand the assault on my intellectual sensibilities that declares Obama to be the smartest man in America. OH MY GOD!

My legs started to twitch. By the time he had moved to a discussion of Obama’s “amazing” policies, my leg was in a full-on fidget going about 100 miles an hour. I was squeezing my purse and sending him finger gestures from behind it. I put my sunglasses on, despite the dark clouds and rain, so that he couldn’t see the evil eye beams I was sending his direction. I’m pretty sure that my leg twitch was rocking the SUV.

He was up there slurping and laughing and basking in his Obama-glory when he almost rear-ended not one, but two different vehicles. He started chuckling, CHUCKLING about how I did the auto-Oh Shit response of pumping the air brakes with my twitchy leg. That’s when I lost it.

For the remainder of the trip, I produce a primal scream in my head that, should it have actually been let out, would have deafened the entire population of the DC metro area. It was guttural, and angry, and it involved a lot of cussing. The good thing about doing a primal scream in your mind is that you never run out of breath and your voice never gives out on you.

We arrived at our general location, and I attempted to get out when the front seat passenger jumped out. Our gentleman driver stopped me and insisted that he drop me off at my office because it was raining and he didn’t want me to walk in the rain.

I hate him.

The Consequences of Sleeping with Strangers

Determined to have a restful nap this morning, I strode to the line with great excitement when I saw the line was short and cars were piling up. I knew my odds of getting a quick ride were pretty good. I recognized the person in front of me as being a regular to my location, so we chatted briefly. Within about 2 minutes of arriving, I scored a ride! My friendly "regular" bumped me out of the backseat privilege, which I knew would make napping less comfortable, but I was determined to get in a few more minutes of sleep before getting here today.

It's raining, so traffic was heavier than a "normal" day. Within 5 minutes, I was asleep. Deep, head resting on your chest, lips drooping kind of sleep. I woke briefly when the driver slammed on his wet brakes, but once I did a quick assessment and realized all was good, I hit the snooze button hoping to get a few more minutes of sleep. And I did.

The next thing to wake me up was "Oh, I took the wrong exit." Still half asleep, I once again did an assessment. Before opening my eyes, I thought to myself "great, this guy is going to take us to Rock Creek Park and murder us slowly." I tentatively opened my eyes to see him taking an exit that should have been easy to navigate in the general direction toward where we needed to go. But, when 3 strangers share a car, you never know what talents any of them have.

The driver and I were directionally retarded. I tried, as I often do when lost, to orient myself to the landmarks. I knew that this one particularly notable DC landmark was something I see from my office everyday, so I tried to mentally backtrack from there to my office. That didn't work real well. The driver handed me a map and then insisted on just going whatever direction he felt we needed to go. After about 15 minutes aimlessly wandering the one-way, wrong-way, security barricaded streets of DC, my backseat stealing friend said "we're on the wrong side of DC guys!" Well, that would have been helpful to know about 10 turns ago wouldn't it!!!

So we turned ourselves around (thank you for the few roundabouts in DC), and I tried to navigate using his tiny, mouse-sized map of DC. I couldn't tell where we were or what direction we were going in, but I was completely and utterly lost! The driver was in no better shape than me, and backseat stealer was just saying to go "south." Helpful!

We finally started to get into an area that I recognized and frequently go to. The problem is when I go into DC it's usually by Metro or someone else's car. I don't drive in DC for a good reason! It was designed by a French moron! We reached a landmark restaurant that I love to frequent, and I was pretty sure I could get us back from there. Another problem there is that I always WALK to that restaurant from work, so I cut through parks and alleys. Not terribly helpful when driving!

I started to roughly remember the general way back and maneuvered us around the dead-ends and barriers until we finally got on a street I KNEW would get us to my office.

At this point, the driver was really nervous because he was going to be late to a meeting and he still had to drop us off and drive more to get there. He was tapping his leg and muttering to himself, and I kept feeling a little stupid for not knowing my way around the city I've worked in for YEARS! But then I thought to myself, "wait a minute self! You were a passenger in his car. HE was supposed to know how to get you there!"

We finally made it here an HOUR late, and I couldn't help but laugh. I felt bad for him for being late to his meeting, but I was late to work too! It took us an hour to navigate through DC to go just a few miles! It was pathetic. We had a collective navigation brain trust of negative zero!

I started to think to myself...I would never go on a date without being prepared. I'm thinking I should never get in another car without a map at least.

Traffic Jam Kit

Despite my consistent cynicism, I've remained relatively optimistic about my commuting arrangement. I manage to successfully slug to my office on average about 17 times a month. There are times when I have to bend a bit to get to or from work, but generally, the system works for me. There are other times when I need more flexibility, so I drive. I don't like to do it because sleeping behind the wheel is heavily frowned upon in VA. I drive on occasion, and I usually don't enjoy it. But I have a good reason.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. After a very good sampling of driving occurrences, I concluded that I have the curse. Every time I drive, and I mean EVERY time I drive, there is a traffic jam of some sort. Most days, I get to and from work in 45 minutes or less. That barely gives me enough time to fall into a decent REM. I don't mind traffic jams when I'm a passenger because I generally sleep through them. But, I have once again angered the gods of commuting because whenever I drive I get the major backups.

I drove to work twice last week, and both times, BOTH TIMES, there was a major backup on 95 that cost me nearly an hour! Not just once, but BOTH times I drove! This has happened to me before, but only in scattered circumstances since I haven't driven very often. When I randomly had to drive 2 days in a row, and on both days I got stuck in massive jams, I knew it was me.

On day 1 of this 2-day hell excursion, I joked with a passenger that it always happened to me when I drive. One of them predictably said "remind me to never ride with you again." Well, now. That wasn't very nice. So, already being tired and grumpy, I had to retort, "at least that means I'm BEHIND the accident and not IN it." Then I told him he couldn't ride with me anymore. :)

On day 2, I rode in with a crazy woman who kept saying that she was nothing but a slug and couldn't speak her mind. (Not that anybody asked, mind you) At one point, I sarcastically thanked a guy for cutting me off, and she piped up with an offer to teach me some expletives she learned in the military. I asked her why she was talking to me and reminded her that she was just a slug. The behemoth sitting in the front seat had her iPod SO loud that I could hear every single note and lyric of her awful music over top of my music playing at a moderate volume. I noticed whenever I would say something she would take her earphones out, so I spent a lot of time talking about nothing at all just to annoy her.

So both times I drove, I was stuck in a traffic jam with annoying people and very little escape or distraction. I know I usually get it pretty easy, but that particular arrangement royally sucks. The next time I drive, I will have my traffic jam kit prepared. One of the supplies will be a perfected physical tick that will scare the crap out of my passengers. If I'm going to get stuck with them, I might as well have some fun!

I had one of those uniquely interesting rides into work today, and I can't wait to talk about it.

I rode in this morning with a couple of really talkative 20-ish mechanics (yes, mechanics--referring mentally back to my post on commuter uniforms). I've gotten a ride from them before, so I knew I was safe (well, from a murderer at least). I couldn't have enjoyed this particular ride more!

I started out a bit annoyed because I was dead tired and just wanted to sleep. The car was an old beat up sedan of some sort (why do all mechanics drive crappy cars?), and it smelled like an ashtray at a bar. Everything was dirty, and I felt like I had to stay completely still once I burrowed into a somewhat clean spot. Neither the driver nor the passenger believed in that outdated, stuffy old rule of wearing your seatbelt, so I was relatively sure that I was going to die with greasy mechanics in my lap should we crash on the way in. As I closed my eyes to try to recapture a really great dream I had, I was rudely awakened by entirely too much perkiness coming from a guy.

Mr. Goodwrench #1 excitedly asked me how I've been. Apparently, he remembers me from previous experiences. Since I knew he was a talker, I tried to keep my answers short to prevent further conversation. Apparently, there's no such method in his car. I made a joke about how much life sucks (OK, maybe not a "joke" but he didn't know that), and that opened the door to him spilling all too many details about his presently "happy" life. Here are some of the things I learned.

1. He is getting a lot of money back on his taxes because he has a lot of kids from other women.

2. He likes to exact revenge by destroying people's cars.

3. His previous girlfriend(s) left him after getting boob-jobs.

4. His wife is getting a boob-job.

5. His sister is a scary lesbian.

5. His passenger friend likes to beat people up who don't like the way he talks. (I lovingly complemented his lisp several times before leaving.)

6. Mechanics' grease does not blend well with tan colored clothes.

7. He likes to be a gentleman, but he rarely remembers (his words.)

8. He will beat up anyone I want taken care of since my old Mob connections are all in jail.

9. He takes it very personally when someone flinches at his apparent inability to judge the distance between the stopped car in front of him and his own bumper.

10. His "yee haw" was genuine.

11. He aspires to have all of his kids under one roof in a new double-wide.

12. It's perfectly OK to put your own redneck spin on Eminem's style.

13. Being a redneck is a badge of honor for most. For him, it's a way of life.

14. I'm the "coolest bitch" he's ever driven to DC.

Damn straight!

The Commuter Uniform

While you find hundreds of people with hundreds of unique personality traits commuting out of one lot, you will find some predictable commonalities. Most of us wear the "commuter uniform."

On a typical, cold day at the sluglot, you will find most women wearing their heavy coats and shoes that don't quite work with their outfits. We all wear our commuter shoes because, hey, let's face it, high heels are hard on your feet and easily ruined. So you see most women standing in line with expensive suits or dresses and chunky sneakers or Crocs (ick) or some sort of comfy slip-on. I personally have several options depending on the season. If the weather is wet and icky, I wear Uggs. If it's cold but dry, I wear slip-on, lined clogs. If it's hot, I wear flip-flops. I'm a beach girl after all! Men, you have it too good. Most men just wear their neat little tie-up business shoes without a second thought.

Beyond shoes, we all, men and women, seem to carry a plethora of bags. Women have their purses of course, but it seems we all go a step further on that one. I personally carry a purse (very large), an extra bag for shoes, books, hat, scarf, gloves, etc etc, a lunch box that won't fit in either of the other 2 bags, and on occasion I carry a laptop bag. Most of my fellow commuters share the same burden. Even the men seem to be carrying backpacks, laptop bags, lunch boxes, and man-bags. We all stand in line leaning this way or that and banging into each other with our bag collections.

On top of the commuter shoes and bags, nearly all of us share one other thing in common. We are all heading into DC, and one of the most common, easily identifiable characteristics of a DC worker is the badge lanyard. If you work in Washington DC, chances are you have to carry at least 1 ID badge that swipes you in and out of your building and keeps you from being thrown into a detainee prison. I personally carry 3, but that's on the light end of what most people must carry. We all walk around with our badges swinging left and right, and we all ignore them.

We all coexist and commute with our commuter uniforms, and everything works out just fine. It's when someone is not wearing the commuter uniform that we all sort of stand on edge.

Today, a man in his mid to late thirties was standing in line and everyone was keeping a distance. He stood there, innocently enough, but it was his lack of a commuter uniform of any kind that made us all suspicious. He was wearing sort of dirty jeans, a tee shirt and light jacket, a baseball hat, and very well-worn sneakers. He wasn't carrying a bag. He wasn't wearing a badge of any kind. He was just a guy waiting for a ride.

If you stop and think about it, so what? There are no rules that state that only DC professionals are allowed to slug. There are no laws that say you can't slug unless you wear a badge. But it's what we are all used to, and we get suspicious if someone doesn't fit the bill. We stereotype for a reason. It helps us categorize hundreds of strangers to determine who is and is not a threat. We can't know someone's soul based on their appearance, and we all know that a suit does not make you any less a criminal. But we all stand in judgment when someone stands out like a blinking red "danger" sign. I may joke about the possibility of commuter homicide when riding with strangers, but let's face it, it's a very real possibility.

If I was driving, and this man would have gotten into my car, I would admittedly be freaking out the whole way to work. In the area where I work, there are not a lot of people who would have cause to be down there unless they work for the government in some capacity. What protections do we have if someone is not wearing the uniform?

Remember that the whole slug concept was started by military servicemembers commuting to the Pentagon. They all wear recognizable uniforms and badges, and even out of uniform they all seem to be easily identifiable.

So, now I'm trying to prepare myself for what I would do if someone like that gets into my car OR is going to the same destination as me and ends up sharing a ride. With all the craziness in the world, I'm thinking I might need to add mace to my commuter uniform.