Hello friends! It’s hot as Hades up in the NYC! I hope you’re all staying cool. My tips for beating summer heat: put lots of ice cubes in your pinot grig, and make believe you’re living in Colonial Times. Works like a charm!
So! This weekend I traveled to gorgeous rural Western Pennsylvania with my gentleman-friend (#humblebrag) to attend a wedding of 2 of his college friends. This whole out-of-town with a significant-other, special event situation was just rife with possibilities for embarrassment – sharing a small hotel bathroom, meeting all of his friends, overzealously participating in the Cha-Cha Slide. There were so, so many ways this weekend could have gone horribly awry but Ol’ Hobags fucking nailed it, yo! I mean, there was this one minor thing where I maybe insulted religious people in front of a preacher’s son and this other time where I was trying to interact with this hot dog salesman and I wanted to say “your secret is safe with me!” (he’s an international spy), but I couldn’t remember how the saying went, so I just yelled “The secret is…!!” and then ran out of the store and then this one other thing where I spilled diet coke all over myself in a rest stop and my man-pal said it was “funny to watch me do things,” (romance!) but other than these small, minor items which so could have happened to anyone, I think I did pretty good for myself. Pretty, pretttty good.
(If you’d like to make this a drinking game for every time I subtly remind the internet that I’m now getting laaaiiiyyyeedd on the regular, you can now take 3 sips of your iced wine.)
So I was obviously feeling super great about myself on Monday afternoon when I took the Bolt Bus back into the city. I got into Penn Station mid-afternoon, took the subway northward and walked 8 more blocks until, literally one block away from my apartment I realized: I’d left my entire suitcase in the bottom of the bus! All of my most treasured belongings (hair mousse, sandals, several dozen Hershey’s Kisses) were in that bag. I stopped in the middle of the street, started sobbing and did what any rational adult lady might do in such a situation: I called my momny. I don’t have “smart phone capabilities” because a) I’m poor and b) they didn’t have iPhones in Colonial times, so I had to frantically beg my mama to look up the Bolt Bus customer service number, while standing, sweating and crying on the sidewalk. I decided at this time that it would be in my best interest to head back towards the scene of the crime and started running, nay, sprinting, downtown in the direction whence I came. I manage to get a representative of Bolt Bus on the phone nearly right away so I’m just galloping down the street, screaming into my old-fashioned cell phone about my lost bag.
So this particular bag is this brand called Vera Bradley, which is like, so east-coast preppy and reminds me of about 85% of the girls I went to college with who are all, pearls and handbags and daddy’s money and blech. Yes, that’s such a stereotypical judgment and I love this bag and sorry if you’re reading this and you love Vera B, I’m sure you’re a perfectly nice person, I’m probably just jealous or something, but I couldn’t bring myself to identify the brand of the bag to the guy at lost and found. I guess I didn’t want them to think I was some kind of snooty jerk, or something? Like, name dropping brands? And also I thought that maybe Bolt Bus employees wouldn’t know this particular brand, so why say it? Which then made me fear I was being really racist and classist and they’d catch on and KNOW what a horrible, snobbish, east-coast, elite racist, awful person I am, so I was just running down the street, crying, yelling into the phone, actively worried about whether or not the guy working the Bolt Bus lost and found hotline thought I was a cool person when…I ran over a small child.
Just mowed that bitch down.
Mild exaggeration! What happened iiissss, I was plowing down the sidewalk, weaving through human traffic when I cut in front of a little girl, maybe like, 2 years old, pushing a baby-doll stroller. As I cut in front of her, she rear-ended my foot with her baby stroller which caused it to fall over, which in turn caused HER to fall over which in turn caused her to start crying and just as her lil tushie hit the pavement, the man on the other end of my cell phone announces that I have 20 minutes to make it 20 blocks downtown or the bus is leaving town – with my suitcase still on it! I’m already a pretentious, brand-name bag owner who is prejudiced against public transit workers and now I have to decide whether to help a crying child who I knocked to the ground or leave her lying there so I can go retrieve my lost hair products.
So I kicked her in the face and kept running.
Just kidding. I didn’t do that! I helped her up and took the subway to Penn Station and talked to the bus driver who did not seem to think I was a jerk in any way (if maybe a little bit flaky), and got my bag back, then I went home and life moved on like normal. But I find that ending a tad dull, so when retelling this story to your friends (you all do that, right?!) let’s stick with the part where I kicked the kid.