I think I may finally be growing up. Or losing my mind. Most likely the latter.

I’ve been riding the metro and bus consistently for almost a year now (my anniversary of moving to the area is June 1st; feel free to get me a cake), and at the risk of tooting my own horn, I can navigate myself pretty well around this city. As long as I am not driving, navigating, or on foot. I very rarely get on the wrong metro or bus line; in fact, I can count on 2 fingers the times I’ve done it (yes, you got it, it’s happened twice).

Until Tuesday.

Let me set the record straight. I was neither drunk nor high while riding the metro on way to or from work. On the way TO work, I got off at Rosslyn and made my way down to the lower platform to catch the blue line to Virginia. I swore I heard the train that arrived on the platform announce it was heading to Franconia-Springfield, so naturally, I boarded. Strange, I thought to myself, blue lines trains are never this crowded at 7:30 in the morning as I simultaneously heard, “next stop, Court House.”

Yes, that’s right, I got on a train going back home. So I had to get off, board another train, and get off AGAIN at Rosslyn so I could catch a train that would actually take me to work.

The way home was probably worse, since I was beyond ready to be home. I conveniently just forgot to get off at Ballston, not realizing it until I began to see daylight as my train made its way to East Falls Church. Fuck.

What’s the most curious thing about these instances of idiocy, is that I kept my cool both times. Extremely uncharacteristic of me, which is why I prefaced this story with assuring you I was not drunk and/or high. Either I’ve learned that some things just aren’t a huge deal, or I experienced a periodic moment of lunacy. Here’s hoping I don’t experience it today; I need a happy hour in the worst way.

I may or may not have traveled on every kind of transportation known to man on my trek back to Buckeye Country. And let me tell you, it was a fucking blast.

If you haven’t picked up on my blatant sarcasm, please just do yourself a favor and stop reading.

Last month I went back to the good ole OH-IO to visit my college friends (And managed to squeeze in a little family time between during drinking binges. Thanks M, I really DID need some more beer to help my hangover. Woof.), and in order to have a bit of fun (Oh, who are we kidding? A LOT of fun.), I had to jump through flaming hoops.

I fly out of BWI because I’m cheap and apparently masochistic. To get to BWI, I have to take a train from Union Station. But to get to Union Station from Old Town Alexandria, I had to either taxi/bus to Braddock or King and THEN metro to Union Station. It’s quite a process. Thankfully, a coworker was headed to Union Station at the exact time I needed, so I got to bum a ride. And serve as her navigator. 

Let’s just say, even with printed directions, an iPhone, and a navigation system, if I were Sacajawea leading Lewis and Clark into the wilderness two hundred years ago, the United States would not include the Louisiana Territory. I would have lead them to the Atlantic Ocean and we would have all drowned (well, maybe Lewis and Clark were apt swimmers, much unlike myself). It suffices to say, I got us lost. Multiple times. But we did arrive, and just in time for me to have a slight panic attack about being late, grab a Diet Coke (caffeine is always a good remedy when one’s nerves are already on edge…), and queue up right behind the most annoying family in history: a family of hipsters.

I did my best to forget in what capacity they were annoying; I just remember a lot of whining from the kids, the parents doing nothing, and me turning my iPod up as loud as possible (which drowned out their voice, but didn’t stop the kids staring at me like I was an alien).

From that point, I should have known the rest of my journey was bound to be “miz to the max”, as my college friends would say (or maybe just me…). As soon as I had access to the train platform, I booked it as far ahead of the hipsters as I could, and found a nice, quiet, fairly empty car to ride in. Until the hipster family boarded the same fucking car. No joke. I think the transportation gods decided to get me back for bitching so much, and this was their method of repayment. Along with the obese woman who sat next to me and the gaggle of business-people across the aisle from me.

These people were the most. Two of them got seats together, leaving the last lady to find a seat a few rows behind them. But that didn’t stop her from using the train ride as her own personal social hour, as she returned to stand next to her coworkers and stand there for the entire ride, giving me attitude as I politely asked her to move so I could get my bag down and get off at BWI. Now if anyone needs to be cursed by the transportation gods, it’s this bitch. I had like 500 bags (ok, three), wearing four inch wedges (not the most practical, but you never know who you’re going to meet on a plane), and clearly struggling to retrieve my 50 pound duffel bag. Help a girl out, and get the hell out of my way. 

Somehow, I managed to get off the train (and hopefully run into the aisle-blocker) and catch a bus to the airport (I told you, I seriously was on every kind of ground transportation that weekend).

Surprisingly enough, security went by quickly, and I had time to grab the world’s largest beer before I had to drunkenly board the plane (or at least on an empty stomach, it sure felt like a giant beer). My buzz wore off almost immediately, as I discovered I had to chose a middle seat.

Tangent time: I love that Southwest boards based on check-in time; however I NEVER remember to check in in time to get a decent seat. Decent meaning not an aisle seat.

Somehow, I found a seat between two normal sized people, but still had to ride with my shoulders scrunched in as far as possible, to avoid any physical contact. The flight was short, but trying for an hour straight in an uncomfortable position is the surest way to lose any inebriation and start praying for a beer. 

The gods of travel must have decided they had caused me enough strife, blessed me with a smooth landing and all luggage accounted for, and my ride waiting for me. 

Obviously, they didn’t lay off for too long…

I understand all too well the trials and tribulations of lugging baggage on public transportation. Too clear in my mind is the memory of trucking up the giant hill in my aunt’s neighborhood to catch my first bus with purse, gym bag, and laptop in tow. It’s a bitch, and I usually ended up either slamming some unlucky fellow passenger in the shoulder (Or worse, side of the head. Talk about awkward.), or sweating profusely due to an extra twenty pounds strapped to my body.

Due to these struggles, I would like to believe I am empathetic towards those who venture onto the metro with gym bags, groceries, bookbags, and (ugh) children. But with the extra baggage, comes the extra responsibility of doing your best to stay the fuck out of people’s way.

There are two kinds of people on the metro: those who try to be civilized, and those who don’t. Civilized riders recognize the compactness of underground travel. They forgive those who run into them accidentally, apologize when they’re forced to stand in someone else’s personal space, and make a genuine effort to get out of people’s way. Uncivilized riders have a blatant disregard for all other passengers. They’re the douche bags who launch themselves in the middle of a sea of boarding people, knocking riders into each other awkwardly just so they don’t have to wait for the next train (which comes in three more minutes), talking loudly on their phones, and carrying large items that take up the space of three small children. They also could care less if you’re able to get off at your stop or not, so for good measure, I recommend punching one on your way out of the car if they’re in your way, to weaken them and therefore more easily exit (I kid…but an “accidental” step on a douche bag’s loafer is also a good, passive aggressive way to release some frustration.).

But I digress after that tangent. Where was I? Oh yes, people with bags…

Obviously, if you’re carrying extra bags, you’re bound to nudge someone at some point. When that time comes, the offender should humbly apologize for trespassing into someone else’s space. Usually, the nudged graciously accepts the apology, waving it off as not a big deal. If they throw a fit, they’re a dick, and deserve to be bumped into even harder next time. 

What just throws me through a loop are those assholes (see above, “uncivilized riders”) who continuously bump and bang into people with their carry-ons, and cannot be bothered to even utter a weak “sorry.” The worst offenders of this crime? Middle aged women (and pansy-ass men) with those stupid briefcases on wheels.

I get it. The owners of these wheel-cases, as I shall now call them, are either too weak or too lazy to attempt to carry their work bag like a normal person (Or, I guess, have legitimate back problems or are senior citizens. Whatever. I can grant some of them immunity from this general hatred of mine.). Instead, they’d rather look like a second grader who’s too small to carry his Power Rangers bookbag, so he has to wheel it instead of risking falling backwards under the weight. I would probably be able to muster up some sort of sympathy for wheel-case carriers if I haven’t witnessed so many of them abuse other passengers with them, and if I had not been a victim of such abuse. I kid you not. I think half of wheel-case carriers invest in them so they can use them as a business model-battery ram, forcing people out of their way. If you don’t move, you break a toe or get slammed in the kneecap. I promise you, it’s not pleasant. These people (most of the time) are even assholes on the station platform. They part the sea of people like Moses parted the Red Sea, except for saving Jews, they save time. And break phalanges. 

It was my birthday last Saturday (feel free to send me presents), and J’s, my roommate, was Sunday. Needless to say, for our first birthdays in a new city, we needed to do it big. And so appropriately, we celebrated the big 2-3 in style on a party bus (because I don’t get enough of buses during the work week).

I truly wish that every bus ride was the experience that this party bus offered, complete with a pair of Asian hosts party bus coordinators, Red Solo cups full of coconut rum, and stripper poles stability bars (I suppose WMATA buses come with that last, but until I see a passenger gyrating on one, it doesn’t count).

Better yet, what if metro trains were eight car party vehicles?! I seriously think I’m on to something here. The purpose of the party bus is not only to break open container laws have a great time with your friends while jamming out to music and making fun of your really drunk friends who think they look sexy dancing on a pole, but to ride an adult version of a school bus. But instead of getting dropped off at school (or work, as we call it in the “real world”), you get dropped off at various bars. Fuck. Yes. 

Imagine that same concept, but on an eight car metro train. Each car could be a different theme, complete with a different form of alcoholic beverage and soundtrack (e.g. a country themed car with kegs of PBR blasting some Kenny, or an island themed car with margaritas and coconut rum). When you got sick of the theme of, or people in, one car, you could simply move on to the next. Also, there are a plethora of bars right off metro stops. And more than enough stripper poles. It’s perfect. Riders/party-goers could either get off the train at certain stops to frequent various bars, or continue the underground party. And, added bonus, extended hours on the weekends, so taxis wouldn’t be needed. Oh the possibilities…

No need to thank me for the revenue increase, WMATA. I’ll just take a 50% cut of all party profits. And a loaded SmarTrip for life.

What an experience. When people told me that NYC was “unlike any other city” I’ve ever been to, I had no idea it applied to the public transportation system as well.

Let’s first discuss the naming conventions used for the underground transportation system…the subway. If I wanted to go to a subway, I would head across the street from my apartment for a sub-par sandwich on dry bread. Though it would probably smell better than NYC’s subway. 

Despite the lack of sophistication in the name of their rail system (come on, the “underground”, the “T”, and even the “metro” all sound classier), NYC knows how to do public transportation, even if they can’t keep it clean.

Let’s start with the fact that a visitor can easily buy a fare card that applies to BOTH rail and bus. None of this business like in DC where one has to track down $1.70 in change or go on a scavenger hunt to find the nearest business where SmartTrips are sold (for a mere $5!) so they can ride both the bus and the train. And no stupid pandas (I’m so going to get flour bombed for that last comment. And probably by my sister, E, who works at an wildlife-friendly organization.). It’s fucking common sense revolutionary! 

NYC also boasts a public transportation system in which there are no escalators or elevators. Not a one. Therefore, metro subway riders aren’t inconvenienced by outages, like when the monster escalators went out at Rosslyn the other day, and shut down the entire station for a few hours. (Can I please point out that Rosslyn is a transfer station and gets a fair amount of human traffic, so shutting it down is more than slightly annoying?) What about the thousands of elderly or disabled citizens of New York, you ask (and which I did)? Are they left to their own devices in typical (or stereotypical?) New Yawker fashion? Surprisingly, no. They get VIP bus service (Unfortunately, bottle service isn’t available. Otherwise, you know I would try to get my hands on some sunglasses and one of those white, red tipped canes.), completely eliminating the need to travel underground and smash themselves next to strange people. Well done, Big Apple.

Not surprisingly, the entertainment on New York public transportation is vastly more, well, entertaining. In two days, I saw cellos, steel drums, and, my personal favorite, a troupe of three preteen boys who barged into our subway car with a boombox and performed what can only be referred to as street acrobatics (I’m totally putting a trademark on that if it doesn’t exist.), using the poles and overhead bars to flip and twist around in beat with the music, and flipping their untied Air Jordans and flat-billed baseball hats in the air without using their hands. I have to say, I was impressed. Lord knows I hardly have the skills to put on my shoes without falling over, let alone doing ANYTHING that requires rhythm (just ask Miss Carol, my dance instructor when I was in middle school). Let me be clear- DC has some gems when it comes to interesting people, and every once in awhile you see a musician or two, but it’s mostly crazy people talking to themselves or ridiculous clothing that aren’t even fit to wear as costumes.

Lastly, the subway platforms in NYC are interesting to look at, with cool mosaics telling riders what station they’re at. Here in DC/NOVA/MD, we have what can only be described as bunkers. Seriously, when I read Catching Fire, I envisioned District 13 as a huge, multi-leveled DC metro station. Gray concrete with cavernous ceilings and only smatterings of colors in the forms of posters of Smithsonian exhibits (or in District 13’s case, mockingjay related propaganda). Depressing.

Essentially, New York knows what’s up when it comes to getting around. But at least in DC I won’t have to wear a SARS mask in the summer to protect myself from the stench…

My, how the meaning of those two words have changed.

A year ago, “Spring Break” meant Captiva, FL, drinking on the beach for 7 days straight, eleven sorority girls in a beach house, fresh seafood, a two story beer bong, my friend CG taking a bite out of a dead jellyfish that had washed up on the beach, and other inappropriate, alcohol-induced behavior.

This March, “Spring Break” may not translate into a sunny, alcohol induced haze (although my sister E and her friends might argue against that case, as my Sunday Funday fail may suggest), but it almost as enjoyable. Where there is Spring Break for students, there are parents that stay home from work for a week to babysit spend time with them. Which for me means much less crowded metro rides.

Hallelujah. 

I found the beginning of this blog post in my drafts, and I’ve been too lazy to complete it until now. Enjoy.

Halfway through my commute last night, I realized I didn’t recognize any of the landmarks I usually see. Sure, it has been getting darker earlier, but nothing looked familiar. Perfect. I got on the wrong fucking bus. About thirty seconds into my panic attack, and trying to figure out how I was going to get home in time for the Tiger’s game, I realized I’m an idiot and was just sitting on the right side of the bus instead of the left.

Up until last night’s anxiety attack, I never realized that I not only always sit on the left side of the bus, but always the row behind priority seating for senior citizens and handicapped individuals. Thinking more about, it seems that I have unconsciously (and logically, if I may add) claimed “my” seat. Naturally, since I sit in the same seat every morning and evening, I enjoy the same views of Del Ray and Alexandria every day. And believe me, it gets a little tiring.

I suppose I should consider the person who occupied my seat last night did me a favor, even though they committed a great offense (didn’t they see the invisible plaque on my seat, clearly reserving it for me, and me alone?) and were the world’s biggest asshole last night. Once I came to my senses and realized I was indeed on the right bus, I was able to spend the remainder of my ride seeing the same streets I see every morning and evening in a completely different way, noticing shops and homes I had never seen before, though I have passed by them hundreds of times before. My bus ride was actually enjoyable, and interesting (despite not reading The Hunger Games on that particular commute, or any other juvenile fiction-best sellers).

It’s funny what you don’t see when you’re not looking.

Sorry for my absence over the last two months. I could tell you I have just had such a demanding work load and an overbooked, insanely busy social calendar. Both, unfortunately would be the most extreme exaggerations I’ve ever made, which is saying something. Essentially, I’ve just been a lazy piece of shit and have wanted do nothing these past weeks except get through the work day and go home to watch trashy television, go to bed at 9:30, and occasionally binge drink on the weekends.

Thankfully, that phase is over (well, except for the binge drinking part if I’m being honest with myself), and I have so much material on annoying passengers, idiotic bus and rail drivers, and general incompetence of WMATA. I bet you’re excited.

This most recent anecdote isn’t necessarily a tale of the shortcomings of WMATA or of clueless passengers. Well, scratch that. It is. Except I was “that” passenger.

For the record, I did not fail to give up my seat to a senior citizen, cram myself into a packing metro car and cause the doors to malfunction, or take up two seats when other passengers were standing. No. My crime was being completely oblivious to the absolutely disgusting stench of the brie I had just bought at Trader Joe’s.

 I got on a fairly empty blue line car and sat myself far away from all other passengers in the rear of the car. Except that’s exactly what it smelled like. I was convinced some disgusting passenger had left a dirty diaper or rotting food under a seat near me, so at the next stop, I got up and moved. But the smell still lingered. And it was pungent. Someone must have ripped ass, I thought to myself.

I changed trains (orange line towards Vienna, so it was beyond crowded). Yet still, the smell was following me. Either I smelled, or people were feeling very flatulent on this particular day. 

Finally, I escaped the odor once I got to my apartment, but as I was working out to a Jillian Michael’s DVD, I caught a whiff AGAIN of the awful smell.  

I suppose I should share with you the reasoning behind the brie. Not only am I a cheese aficionado (If Jason Segel himself proposed to me, and then I later found out he hated cheese, I would have to politely end our engagement. My love for fermented dairy products is really that deep), but I like to show off when having guests. My roommates and I recently started a book club, so we could have an excuse to gossip and get drunk on a Tuesday night go through the New York Times Bestsellers List, and Night One was at our residence.

Perfect opportunity to show off my new culinary skills and play the perfect hostess. Except not. My roommate got out the cheese to prepare, and immediately noticed the shit-like smell wafting from the wedge. Apparently, she is much more observant than I. Naturally, the brie took a trip down the garbage shoot, and we were forced to order Pizza Hut. So much for impressing my guests.

More mortifying, however, is knowing that dozens of people on the metro on my way home thought I had shit my pants.

I’ll be taking the bus for awhile. 

Bye bye, Brie.

If I only pass on one piece of wisdom in my life, it is to never book your travel plans with Expedia. Even far in advance like I did. Here I was, a young (read: broke) professional, just trying to get home from the holidays in a cheap manner. It was a luxury for me to be able to go home for both the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays; I even drove home with a coworker (the drive to Ohio, as I’ve shared previously, is boring and takes FOREVER) so that I would only have to book a one way ticket.

I decided to spend a few days in Columbus with friends before flying home (with a layover in Newark, obviously), the January 2nd. Ready to check into my flight the night before I was to travel, I received an urgent email from Expedia about a change in my itinerary. No big deal: they gave me a phone number to call to collect these details.

Except I couldn’t. I talked to three people over the span of an hour and a half, trying to receive my new flight details. Apparently the concept of “I received a notification that there were changes to my flights, could you please tell me what these are” is as challenging and complex as pondering the meaning of life. I have to say, I was pretty proud of myself- I didn’t curse, I was only mildly rude (after the my fourth time on hold and the call time was well over an hour) and when I was, I was sure to direct my anger not towards the person on the phone, but with the situation.

Finally, it seemed that the problem was resolved (This was after the initial proposal that I fly from Columbus to Newark and then from Charlotte to Baltimore. Sound logic, right?). I got to the airport with an hour and a half to spare and my ticket number and confirmation number in hand (oh, and two bags to check, a carry on, and a winter coat). Except not really. Expedia had cancelled my ticket.

Seriously? 

After a moment of panic, I called Expedia and explained the details to them. I also had the pleasure of spending another hour and a half on the phone (including lengthy hold times- I think my record was a half an hour on hold) with Expedia representatives, missed my flight, and ended up on the original flight I was intended to be on when I first bought my tickets. 

Southwest, I vow to be forever loyal to you from this day forward. 

While it was terrifying to be a passenger on a bus whose driver was wearing sunglasses at night not only because, well, his driving had to be impaired by his darkened vision, but because of my rigid rules on tinted eye wear when not necessary (Not even celebrities can dodge this bullet. So you think just because you’re wearing a ball cap and sunglasses the size of deep-sea diving goggles, us mere mortals don’t recognize you? Think again.).

I’ve noticed since riding the metro that there are SO MANY (did you catch the emphasis on “so many”?) douchebags wearing sunglasses for their entire commute. I get it, some of the rails take riders out on exposed tracks. Sunglasses (on sunny or bright days) are certainly called for. Like out by the Arlington Cemetery and Reagan National Airport stops (I’m sure there are more exposed tracks throughout other parts of the metro rail system, but I write what I know-or think I know), it can get pretty fucking bright, and protective eye wear is most definitely warranted.

What is not warranted is wearing sunglasses when hurtling through underground tunnels, where there is no threat of natural lighting or brightness of any kind. Regardless, there are always a handful of assholes who just are too cool or can’t be bothered to take off their sunglasses once underground. I mean, is the arm movement used to push one’s sunglasses atop one’s head that strenuous? I don’t think so. Maybe they’re just too engrossed in a conversation with their “buddy from the DOD” on their fucking bluetooth (oh wait, there’s no reception hundreds of feet under the ground…).

I’m really not too concerned with their reasoning behind the unsuccessful attempts to looks like a VIP or a baller or whatever (unless you’re blind, and then you’re obviously waived from my scrutiny). No, it doesn’t affect me personally (you know that whole mentality: if you don’t like guns don’t get one, blah blah blah), I just think you look like a fucking idiot who probably thinks way too highly of himself/herself (For the record, it’s usually men. Shocking.).

And it’s my civic duty to give you a reality check. You’re welcome.