A Ride to Forget

I hate public transportation. This is not new for me; however, I have always disliked airplanes, busses, metros, etc. Having my own car was a luxury I never fully understood until I went to visit a city where public transportation was the only option. My sisters in London use it daily, and the last time I was there, I had a nervous breakdown because someone left their gym bag on the tube. Everyone knows to keep an eye out for sketchy bags, but apparently I am the only one who thought this unattended luggage could be a problem.

I recently made the decision to sell my car and rely solely on public transportation. Being within the city, I have little use for a car and it is an unneeded expense for my father to continue paying for repairs and insurance. I can honestly say that I have never missed my car so much.

Public transportation can either be really great, or really, really terrible. With the times that I ride the metro or take a bus, it is more likely that it is terrible. I don’t understand the Metro system and how they can scam you for so much money. Two stops on the red line should not be more than $2.00, but since I am riding at “peak of the peak,” anything goes.

The other day, after cramming my way into one of the Metro cars, the doors closed and I was trying to avoid human contact from any unknown disease carrier or sweaty stranger. Normally I succeed in this by finding a corner of the train and keeping to myself for the five minute ride. This particular ride was not going to go my way, I could feel it. I did not find a spot that was suitable for me and knew that an odd looking man had shoved me into the train in order to fit in himself. As I held onto the pole next to me I felt a strange air on my left arm. When I looked over, the man who had so graciously pushed me was now sniffing my arm like this was a completely normal occurrence.

I stared at this man curiously and gave him a look as if to say “what on earth are you doing and can you stop immediately.” He did not understand my look and nudged closer to me. With nowhere to go, I had no choice but to let this strange man continue to smell my arm. As I have mentioned, I do not like to be touched, so when a stranger’s dirty nose is on my arm, I know to change my method of transportation to something a little less confined.

Yesterday, I decided to take the bus to work. I can only take the bus on days where I am really truly awake because of an incident I had a few weeks ago. I got on the bus and fell asleep and missed my stop by a mile and a half forcing me to run to work in order to get there on time. I now know to be fully alert on the bus so that I do not miss my stop again.

The bus was great. It was empty and I was able to get two seats to myself without the thought of having someone smell me. Just as I was getting comfortable, a man came on the bus and asked me if someone was sitting next to me. Clearly, no one was however there was an entire bus of empty seats. The man sat next to me for 15 minutes before exiting, staring at me the entire time. I do not know which one I prefer, the sniffer or the staring man. At least with the sniffer I did not have to make uncomfortable eye contact constantly until I finally was let off at my stop.

I realize that having a car would be a lot more trouble than dealing with the weirdo’s in the city, however, sometimes I really wish there was a better way to get to work. Sometimes it is nice to interact with some of the special people that live in the District, but often it is just discomforting. When I am standing on the platform with a friend and an old man is staring at me because according to my friend “he thinks you are a prostitute and wants to know how much,” that’s when I know it is time to figure out another method of transportation.

An Impatient Bonus

I am not a patient person. Slow drivers, slow walkers, slow talkers, etc. all irritate me beyond belief. When people make mistakes, I expect that they fix them in a fast and effective manner. When people see me speed walking down the street, I expect that they move to one side so that I can get by them quickly. And when I am in a hurry, I expect that people talk to me quickly so I can pretend to listen and leave immediately. Usually none of this happens, and recently I have been dealing with some class A idiots.

I moved into my apartment recently and knew that I would need internet and cable, a staple in my world. After doing some research, I learned that Comcast was the only available service in my building, so I unhappily scheduled an appointment for Comcast to come out on Monday afternoon.

I have had problems with Comcast in the past. In my previous apartment, the technician who came to install my cable used my personal information to call and text me on a daily basis asking if I have a boyfriend because he wanted to “show me a good time.” This same technician also went into my refrigerator and helped himself to my soda without a care in the world, I was clearly not pleased with this particular worker.

This time around, I hoped that I would not have to deal with people like this, but it seems I was very wrong. The only available time for the technician to come was between 2:00 and 5:00 p.m., therefore requiring that I work from home that afternoon. When the technician did not show up at 5:00, I called Comcast to complain and they informed the technician that he needed to show up immediately. Thirty minutes later, in strolled two men who did not seem to have any clue as to what they were doing.

As I watched them plug wire after wire into my extension cord, I knew that something was going to go terribly wrong. Just as I suspected, they plugged the extension cord into the wall and a huge shock went off in my living room. It was 7:00 p.m., Comcast was still in my apartment, and I now had a ruined outlet to deal with on another day.

The technician told me that he had ruined the box he had brought and would have to come back the following day. Irritated at the stupidity of it all, I explained that I could not take more time off and it would need to be a later appointment. Tuesday rolls around and I am waiting for the technician to come… for three hours. I decided it was time to call Comcast and give them a piece of my mind.

I love screaming at people. When my friends have problems, they often ask me to contact customer service for them. I think that people deserve the quality they are promised, and if it is not given, something needs to be done to make up for that. Comcast promises the best customer service that they can give so I was surely going to use that against them.

After an hour on the phone with Darnelle, she informed me that she would need to call me back after getting in touch with my technician. Darnelle never called back. I then got in touch with another customer service representative who was clearly brand new to the team. I explained that I refused to pay installation fees and required a different technician show up immediately.

Immediately was two days later. I am still waiting for the correct cable to be installed. I have to take yet another day off of work and I need to listen to two more technicians talk to their wives, girlfriends, sisters, etc. on the phone while they do a barely decent job of installing my cable and internet. What I will say is that Comcast has followed through on their customer service beliefs. They gave me a significant credit, waived the installation fee, and even dropped the monthly cost of my DVR.

My parents have always told me that I need to be more tolerant of people; that this will benefit me in the long run. Well Mom and Dad, look who just saved nearly $100 on my cable bill. How’s that for “good things come to those who wait?”

A Tropically Ridiculous Trip

I love to travel. I endure many things if it means going somewhere tropical or going to a new place. This past week is a prime example. My family is insane. No one in my family is exempt from that statement, including myself. This particular vacation was with my stepmomster and stepsister to Jamaica. Starting any day at 3:30 a.m. is rough for me, but for my stepsister it’s a little taste of what hell must feel like. She was in a bad mood from the start that an upgrade on the plane couldn’t even fix.

After a long nap and a few bloody marys (perhaps a few too many for my stepmother), we arrived in Jamaica. We went through immigration with only a few glitches, one being that my stepmother could not get her words out when the officer asked “what is the purpose of your trip.” We got to the bus and I couldn’t wait to get to the resort to lie on the beach, until my stepsister’s face suddenly turned white and she looked as though someone had died.

“WHERE IS MY PURSE?” she screamed to us, as if we knew where she left it.

Anyone who knows my stepmother can only imagine her reaction. To put it lightly, she was livid. Why? You might ask. It wasn’t her bag, none of her valuables were in that bag, it’s not really her concern at all if a logical person were to look at this situation. My family is not logical, we act on impulse and we don’t know how to control our temper. As my stepsister sprinted back into the airport, my stepmother chased after her screaming like a wild animal that needed to be caged and shipped to the nearest zoo.

Twenty minutes later the bus was ready to leave and I saw my stepmother running back toward the bus, where I had been waiting with our luggage that was not lost. She climbed onto the bus in the least graceful manner and screamed “WHERE IS SHE?” Just so we are clear; I am not psychic. I had innocently been sitting on the bus waiting for the two morons to come back, hopeful that it wouldn’t take all day as I was losing precious time with the sun.

Still acting like a crazed lunatic, my stepmother gave me all of her stuff to take to the hotel and told me to go check in. At first I was terrified to be left alone with a bunch of strangers and a crazy Jamaican bus driver who, despite my headphones being in, continued to try and talk to me.

When I got to the hotel, I was given a glass of champagne which was almost immediately downed to relieve any and all stress I may have had from this avoidable situation. I went up to the room to change my clothes and head to the pool and just as I was ready to do that, in stormed the two escaped members of the insane asylum.

My stepsister had so intelligently left her purse in customs and immigration and after 45 minutes of screaming and nearly getting arrested, they escorted my step mother out and returned the purse to my stepsister. When I was told this story, I started to laugh until I was shot the death stare which always shuts me up pretty quickly.

That night we went to the resort’s “Japanese” restaurant. Unsure of how this day could get any funnier (for me at least), I then met Jason. Jason was our chef that night. He was as Jamaican as they come, but when he arrived at the cooking station he introduced himself as “Ching Ching” our “blackonese” waiter. He proceeded to put chicken with blackonese pepper and vegetables with “vacation butter” on my plate. I think Jason/Ching Ching was a little too focused on my entertainment and not focused enough on my food which was overcooked, but I didn’t even care.

Jamaican men are some of the most forward people I have ever met. If you are reading a book in your chair, they come up and sit with you and begin talking. If you are in the pool they come over and scream at you until you swim over to them. If you are asleep, you can bet that they will wake you up. Mr. Kool, Rice Krispies, Corn Flake, and whatever other Kellogg’s cereal came up to me were no exception in addition to the females that come bother you to do some sort of activity. I’m sorry Mad Cow and Sassy, but I am on vacation, physical activity is not going to happen.

My stepmom cannot resist these people that come up to her. She won’t ever do any sort of physical activity, but she will obnoxiously mock everyone to the point where they think she is funny. Most people who encounter her don’t even realize she is insulting them. It’s actually quite genius, unless of course you’re on the receiving end of it (which I often am).

We spent our vacation eating, drinking, and laying in the sun. Despite my crazy family, I will admit it was a pretty pleasant vacation. Five days later, we left Jamaica with a few hangovers, sunburns, a couple incidents of heat stroke, and all of our purses.

A Classless Reunion

My friends are animals. Simply put: they have no shame. Now that we are graduates, we are sort of spread out all over the east coast. This weekend was one of the few weekends most of us were able to meet up. We chose New York City for a birthday celebration extravaganza.

I decided to take the bus, as it was a mere $26, giving it away in my opinion. At 6 a.m. while still drunk from a long night out, I made my way to the bus station. Just as the doors were about to shut and I had conquered two seats for myself, someone runs on the bus and sits down right next to me. I put my headphones in and read my magazine until I felt something on my shoulder. My new neighbor decided to rest her head on me, not knowing of my hatred of affection and being touched. Rather than do the normal thing; I “accidentally” elbowed her in the face, making it clear that our four and a half hours together was a time of no contact. This was just the start of the 48 hours to come.

When I arrived in NYC, we immediately had to get food. We are not the type of girls who order a salad and call it a day. If good food is in site, we are going there, regardless of whether or not we had a meal five minutes before. So we had a late lunch, went to the hotel and had an “appetizer” of sushi and then went and ate our way through the Little Italy street fair.

The Little Italy street fair was packed to the point where you could barely move, but when you did and you got a whiff of the pasta, pizza, gelato, etc. it was like a little taste of heaven. After one sandwich, six pasta bowls, a few meatballs, some stuffed shells, cannolis, gelato, cheesecake, and a few zeppoles split between seven people, we decided to call it a night.

New York City is not my favorite place in the world, but if their food was any indication of their lifestyle, I was more than happy to stay there for two days. We got a hotel room on Wall Street, as if to pretend like we are classy. I’ll be honest; we are the farthest thing from classy. After a few drinks and some bonding with my best friends, we headed out to one of the bars in Union Square.

NYC confuses me, I’m not going to lie. The transportation system is overwhelming and the people are somewhat crazy. No offense to all the New Yorkers out there, I love crazy people, but to take it in in such a short time can be difficult. When we got off of the subway, I lingered behind with two of my friends. We drifted off into a Dunkin Donuts to use the bathroom. When we got there they told us in order to use the bathroom we must be paying customers. As it was an emergency, my friend bought a water bottle and we ran into the bathroom. The guy then told us that it was one person at a time. Frustrated with the attitude he had already given us, I went back out and told him that we needed moral support for the disgusting state of their bathroom and if he had a problem with that perhaps he should clean it.

Already annoyed, we went outside to locate our friends. They were gone. They left the three biggest morons alone in the middle of New York City with not a clue as to where we were going. Unsure as to how far we were from the bar, we hopped in a cab. When we told the cab driver the name of the place he laughed and said we probably should have walked, but proceeded to drive us anyway. So three minutes and six dollars later we arrived and much to the dismay of the people behind us, jumped in line with our friends.

I won’t go into the details of the night, but it ended in another cab that said we were outside of our hotel when in fact, we were dropped off about six blocks away with very little brain cells to use toward directions.

The following day was spent the same way as the first; eating our way through New York City. I got on the bus full and happy and just as we pulled away the scent of Italian food drifted my way and I began to miss my friends. Like I said, we aren’t normal, we aren’t classy, and sometimes we are really unintelligent, but when we are together none of those things matter, we are just us. As far as New York City is concerned, I give you a lot of credit. You’ve got a city full of some very entertaining people and I will be back soon to bring some more amusement into my life.

My favorite sign at the second Italian market we went to in 24 hours.

An Interrupted Walk

I have nothing against homeless people. I feel bad that they don’t have a roof over their head and food in their stomach, but there is a limit as to how much I can endure when I’m enjoying a peaceful walk in the city. When you ask me for money and I put my head down and put a little pep in my step, it does not mean chase me down the street. When I say “sorry I have no money,” it does not warrant an insult in return. For some reason, most people do not follow these rules. Instead they nag, chase, and act all around creepy until you either run (and I do mean run) away or give them money.

While walking in Chinatown the other day, I noticed a person start to follow me down the street. When I could go no further (thanks to a no walk sign) the man began speaking to me. It started out with a simple hello and how are you which I said I am fine, thank you. Then he asked me if I’d go out with him. When I said it was a really nice offer, but I would have to say no his response was one I have yet to hear: “you pregnant?” I told the gentleman that I was not in fact pregnant, trying so hard to withhold my laughter. Normally I would be offended if someone said this to me, but as he continued speaking, all I could do was laugh internally. “If you aren’t pregnant, why can’t you go out with me?” I told the man that I was going to meet someone, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

It was not. “You want to get a sandwich? I got money.” Rather than say no again and end the conversation, I decided to tell him that I would feel guilty going to get a sandwich with him because I would need two sandwiches as I am eating for two. He told me he knew I was pregnant because I had a glow and continued to beg to buy me a sandwich. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the light changed and I was able to cross the street and laugh. The man did not follow and two minutes later I heard him behind me go up to another unknowing girl and ask if she was pregnant.

I went home and told my roommate this story because, although it’s not the first time I’ve had an encounter with someone on the street, it was certainly one of my favorite stories. She told me that she had some special experiences herself, one including her bike.

My roommate had decided to go on a peaceful bike ride one morning which ended with her locking up her bike and going to get a cup of coffee. When she came back out, someone was sitting on her bike. She looked at him, sort of shocked and not knowing what to do, but before she could say anything he said “this your bike?” She told him it was and he followed quickly with “it’s a piece of crap.” She thanked him for informing her of this and asked him to move off of her bike. He then made an offer that was hard to pass up.

“I’ll give you $100 for this bike.” My roommate thought about it for a minute and told him that she needed the bike to get home. He then told her that $100 was a lot for her crappy bike, but she insisted that she should take it home. He said okay and to have a nice day, but before she could ride off, he turns back and asked “can I borrow a 20?”

I sometimes feel bad that the people who entertain me the most don’t get anything in return from me. Sometimes I start to contemplate going into my wallet and seeing if I have a dollar or so to donate for food or a bottle of water. But when the man outside of my office had just finished peeing on our building and tries to dip his hand in my basket of muffins (which he called a “classy buffet”), that’s when I am brought back to reality.

A Future Somewhat Known

I sort of dropped the ball on this whole blog thing. Suddenly someone offered me a job and I began a whirlwind of commuting, turning myself into a nomad, and finally settling into an apartment and a job. I haven’t quite come to terms with the fact that I am now situated in a new city with a career. In my mind the summer is almost over and I’m just getting ready to finish up my summer internship and head back to my tiny dorm room for fall semester.

Instead, every morning I get a wakeup call. My alarm clock starts off quite enjoyably, almost like it doesn’t want to disturb you from your pleasant slumber, but just as you start to feel soothed, it begins violently beeping at you until you wake up and realize you have to go to work. Every morning I wake up in my very own apartment (that I’m spending a small fortune on) and struggle to drag myself out of bed and onto the metro. I put my iPod on as loud as it will go, put my head down, and hope that the homeless men on the street leave me alone just this once.

As many of my followers know, I wanted a job…badly. I wanted to get out of my parents’ house and have some independence. Independence, I have learned, is terrifying. Yes it is nice to not have my father screaming at me to wake up at the crack of dawn for no reason, but then again I have my obnoxious alarm doing that now. Any yes it is nice to be on my own and not have to live with my parent’s rules, but I have no one to pack my lunches for me and have dinner waiting on the table when I get home.

Do not get me wrong, I LOVE living in D.C. I’m extremely happy with my job and my apartment and am excited for the road ahead, but sometimes I do look back and wish I was still in college. Not because I miss the party atmosphere, and certainly not because I miss the classes, but because I just miss the ease of it all. In college you wake up, go to class (maybe), and come home to get ready for the night ahead. You didn’t think about bills and paychecks, you just did what you wanted until someone either told you to stop spending money or your credit card got rejected.

The one thing that I am taking time to adjust to is having my afternoons clear. I don’t have homework, I don’t have to study for that huge midterm that I’m definitely going to fail, and I don’t have to do research for that 20 page paper that’s due in 4 hours. What I have is happy hours, lots of them, in fact I will never turn down a happy hour. Those days used to be reserved for Fridays when the bars would be packed with students who think happy hour exists on Fridays alone. Now they exist five days a week (seven if you find the right bar) and I have decided to make it my personal goal to seek out the best ones.

Seeing as I’m no longer unemployed, this blog isn’t going to be able the struggles and hardships of finding a job, although I still sympathize will all my fellow grads who are relentlessly hunting. Instead it’s going to be more about life in a city, adjusting from school to the real world, and the ridiculous encounters faced on a daily basis. Enjoy.

A Means To No End

I don’t know when it started, but somewhere along this journey to unemployment I developed a love. Ever since I can remember, I have loved shopping. Many of you may be thinking, “what girl doesn’t love shopping?” and I am here to tell you, there are quite a few of these people; I am not one of them. The beautiful thing about shopping is there are so many different forms of it.

I love clothes and although my drawers and closets may be overflowing and bursting at the seams, I can never have enough. There’s something about that feeling of euphoria that I get when I have found that perfect top. It’s a high that cannot be explained. With so much free time on my hands I have been lucky enough to frequent malls, boutiques, and discounted fashion stores. When I cannot leave to go peak into these stores, I make time to check store websites and put items into my cart that I most likely will never buy. Some of you may be wondering why I am writing about my love for shopping and what it has to do with being unemployed and looking for work. The problem with unemployment is a lack of funds. When I was in college my parents gave me a weekly allowance which was to be used for entertaining myself and food. My problem was that if I found a piece of clothing I truly loved (which happened often) I would forgo food shopping and instead put my money somewhere I could actually see it: my closet.

After racking of credit card bills from Nordstrom, Urban Outfitters, Bloomingdales, etc., I think my parents started to gain insight into this addiction. Unfortunately they are no longer willing to support my passion and I am stuck scrounging for money and buying items I really cannot afford.

My love for shopping does not stop at clothing. Recently my friend and I have decided to become roommates in Washington D.C. Our plans are great and our dreams are vast, but our wallets are thin and continuing to get thinner. While I’ve been spending my money on unnecessary additions to my closet and road trips to whatever gets me away for the weekend, she’s been spending her money gallivanting through Europe without a care in the world. Clearly this is not the ideal situation for apartment hunting, but we seem to think it will work. My niche in shopping has now shifting from clothing to apartments. As I sit on my computer searching for the ideal two bedroom two bathroom apartment with walk-in closets, a gourmet kitchen, and balconies, (all for less than $2,000 in the heart of D.C.) my mind starts to wander to what comes next.

My focus doesn’t stay in one place for long before I am on furniture websites, picking out each and every detail to our apartment. Look M, this tiny side table would be perfect for our living room! Its only $400 obviously we will have to have it. Now I’ve found us the perfect sofa, it’s small, but amazing. We’ll need two so we can each lounge; another $1600. Within 30 minutes we had our ideal living room and dining room picked out for a cool cost of approximately $4,000 without ever thinking about bedroom furniture or kitchen appliances.

When I get something in my head I obsess over it until I make it happen. Moving out and getting my own apartment is not an option so much as a necessity for my sanity. My family is crazy and they don’t seem to understand or appreciate the things I love to do. These days my parents have taken the joy out shopping by telling me I cannot afford it anymore and I have enough. Rather than feeling happy about my purchases, I just feel guilty and instead sneak my clothing into the house rather than show it off.

I want to move out of my house. I want to be able to wake up when I see fit, not when I hear my stepmother screaming for the dog to come back in the house at 7:30 in the morning. I want to be able to go food shopping and buy exactly what I want, not go into a food store and have my father tell me I can pick two things for myself. I want to come home at 5 o’clock in the morning and not have my parents demand to know where I am in the middle of the night. But most importantly, I just want to leave. So maybe I don’t have a job and maybe I don’t have money, but if getting an apartment is anything like getting that $500 pair of boots that I had to have, I will certainly make it happen.