Let me start out by giving a brief disclaimer: contrary to what this blog post implies, I’m actually pretty intelligent. Please don’t judge based on my temporary lapse of street-smarts. The fact that it happened more than once on several occasions… well… fuck it. Once in a while I need a little guidance.
When KPeace was visiting me in New York we decided to go into the city one day. My usual modes of transportation into the city are Neil or drunken train rides if it’s night time. So I guess we can blame this whole situation on not knowing how to soberly act in a public transportation situation.
The day starts off well. We depart my house with plenty of time, excited for the day ahead and with a bottle of wine stowed in my bag in anticipation of our journey. We’re about 2.3 minutes away from the train station when my phone rings. I vividly remember saying, Ugh I don’t want to pick this up but I’m going to. Famous last words. I promptly get pulled over and given a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving. Which was bullshit because I’ve never even gotten pulled over in New York before! Bro couldda given me a warning. But whatever I took it like a champ and didn’t even break a sweat when I remembered the wine bottle in my bag.
We were down a few minutes but we definitely still could have made the train. That is, until we realized that every single parking lot within walking distance of the train station was permit-parking only. We frantically drove around for about 10 minutes, KPeace searching on her phone for public parking and me just repeating, What the fuck am I supposed to do this is a train station where do I PARK?! I put my car in park and pursue the only logical next move: call Neil. Because he can definitely help considering he’s not there and doesn’t know about parking at the train station any more than I do. He doesn’t pick up and when he finally calls me back I yell at him for (a) not picking up when I called (b) not giving me good advice as to where to park (c) not being here to help me. I am one gem of a girlfriend.
Eventually we find a 12 hour parking meter, conjure up seven quarters and skip merrily to the train. We only missed two. No biggie, at least we have some wine. P.S. the very next day we baked a really cool cake it looked like this:
Fast forward about two weeks and I get a call from Evening who wants me to come into the city to go to a Tara Stiles’ yoga class. I’m a little bit of a yoga snob so I’m clearly about to do whatever it takes to have Tara Stiles adjust my downward facing dog. Since Neil was away an unable to drive Princess Me into the city, I decide to face public transportation again and take the train — sober AND by myself. This time I’m not fucking around. So I have my mom drive me to the train station.
I should have known it would be a disaster. The first bump in the road occurs when every single ticket machine is broken so I can’t buy tickets outside and they’re going to cost more on the train and my fingers are freezing cubes of ice and I’m alone and sad and a Russian lady is talking to me. Luckily I told the train-guy about the broken machines and he only charged me for the outside fare!
All was well, yoga was great, and I survived the subway twice. Evening and I hugged it out before I did one of those awkward speedwalk/jog things to catch my train home. Or what I thought was my train home.
In my hasty goodbye, I didn’t realize that THIS train (the one I was on) was NON STOP going to Beacon. Never heard of it but according to Google it’s upstate New York and nowhere near my train station. To make a long story short (and I’m going to make it short because posts without pictures are really boring and there are no pictures to go with this post that’s why I put the picture of the cake even though it was irrelevant and I’m 76% sure KP already told you about the cake. So just chill the fuck out and read words for once, okay?), I had to sit on the train to Beacon which was PASSING my station without stopping. It was an hour and 10 minute train. Then I had to get off, buy another ticket to my station and get on that train which was another 50 minute ride. Literally none of this is an exaggeration. I spent three hours trying to get home when it could have taken me 35 minutes.
My mom was very proud of me for not slitting my own throat out of pure anxiety and frustration. Neil and PapaNick, on the other hand, think I’m a retarded idiot that cannot be left alone. Next stop on my trainwreck of a life: learning how to drive in the city.