You know that story about the boy whose mom tells him never, ever, to go into the kitchen, take a chair and put it next to the counter, climb up onto the counter, reach to the back of the top shelf, take down a jar of dried beans and put the beans in his ears? The boy would never have thought of it on his own, but once it's been put into his mind like that, what's the first thing he does next time his mom leaves the room? Of course -- he goes into the kitchen, takes a chair and puts it next to the counter, climb up onto the counter, reaches to the back of the top shelf, takes down a jar of dried beans and puts the beans in his ears.
Well, yesterday I was running really late to work and barely missed the bus to the metro. I could have just driven in to work, but I didn't want to pay $15 to park downtown. (Yeah, you heard me right. $15.) Anyway, I decided to drive and park as close to the metro as I could and walk the rest of the way there.
As I was parking my car, I remembered Margaret's awesome adventure and made a mental note, "I MUST remember to drive my car home from this spot tonight and not just take the bus."
This morning I was getting ready for work and thinking, as I do many mornings, about the pros and cons of driving vs. metroing to work. And I remembered parking my car the previous morning, but couldn't remember driving it home. In fact, I couldn't remember getting home at all, whether on the bus, walking, driving -- no memory at all of how I got home last night. (And I don't drink or do drugs so that's kind of unusual for me.)
I looked out the window -- no car. I racked my brain. What was I doing last night?
Oh yeah! I met up with Dawn and Susan for dinner and visiting teaching right after work, and Susan gave us both a ride home! So that means my car is ... still parked on Upland Street about a ten minute walk from the metro. (Twenty minute walk from my house.) Awesome.
Would this still have happened if I hadn't read Margaret's detailed account of forgetting to drive her car home? We'll never know.
OK, fine, it probably still would have happened.
Showing posts with label public transportation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label public transportation. Show all posts
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
It. Just. Keeps. Getting. Better.
So I did the classic "drive to work and take the bus home" a couple of weeks ago. But it really is SO much better than that. Here goes:
So I opened my blinds the next morning and panicked for a minute when I didn't see my car, and then realized that sure enough, I had been running late the morning before and missed my bus and drove to campus and parked at the Institute building. And then forgot, and took the bus home from campus. That was Dumb Moment #1.
But wait, there's more!
So since it was Friday that next day, I didn't have class, and just had to be on campus at 12 noon to film some interviews for work. And since there is one bus during rush hour and another in the middle of the day that runs less frequently (every hour instead of every half hour), I had to check the bus schedule to make sure I'd catch the bus in time to be at my building on time. No problem - there was one that would get me there about 45 minutes early. So I went out to my usual bus stop to wait. And the bus didn't come. And then a bus came on the other side of the street, going the other direction, which I had never seen happen before. (Wait for it...) Yes, there is a bus stop on the other side of the street, but I had never before been waiting at one stop and seen a bus going the other direction at the same time. Weird, but there's a first time for everything.
And my bus still didn't come.
And then I saw a bus go by the head of my street, and I thought, "Phew! That's my bus, it's just a little late, and it's running the other part of the loop and will come back down here." (Wait for it...)
But it didn't come.
But since I had SEEN that bus go by, across the top of the street, I KNEW there was a bus out there somewhere, running this route, so I waited. And waited. And waited.
And finally it occurred to me that I had a copy of the bus schedule in my bag. And sure enough, in the middle of the day, the bus does my part of the route BACKWARDS, so that bus that had come to the stop across the street? That was my bus. And the bus that, a few minutes later went past the head of my street? That was my bus. And the bus that I didn't see, but that went down another street on the other side of my apt complex, that I could have caught if I had realized my mistake and RUN? That was my bus, too. Dumb moment #2!
Now ordinarily, not that big of a deal to miss the bus - I could just drive. But wait - I pulled that trick yesterday, and remember Dumb Moment #1? Yup, my car was ALREADY ON CAMPUS!!
So I went back to my apartment, and in the 15 minutes before I had to leave to catch the bus going the right direction, I emailed the guy filming the interviews, hoping against hope that the person we were filming at noon had fallen through, since we hadn't 100% confirmed that time. No such luck - we were on, and I was going to be 15 minutes late for a 20 minute interview. I'm awesome. So I emailed him my pathetic "I can read, just not bus schedules" excuse, and went to catch the bus.
But wait, there's more!
The interviews turned out ok, the rest of the day went ok, and then it was time to go home. I was determined not to leave my car parked at the Institute building ANOTHER night, so I went to catch a bus that would save me the 15 minute walk to the Institute building. At the bus stop I started chatting with this nice lady, and when we were on the bus, exchanging phone numbers so that she could come to church with me on Sunday (I called her and she didn't call me back), yup, you guessed it - I missed the stop that I should have gotten off at for the Institute building. And not only did I miss the stop, but that was the last stop before a "no stop" zone, so I had to ride the bus for a little while before I could get off, and then I'd have to figure out how to get BACK to my car. Dumb Moment #3.
I got off at the next stop, and it just so happened that there was a bus coming the other direction right then, so I hustled across the street, got on that bus, got off at the right stop, and walked the one block to the Institute building, only to find...
...that my car was right there where I had left it. Phew.
So I opened my blinds the next morning and panicked for a minute when I didn't see my car, and then realized that sure enough, I had been running late the morning before and missed my bus and drove to campus and parked at the Institute building. And then forgot, and took the bus home from campus. That was Dumb Moment #1.
But wait, there's more!
So since it was Friday that next day, I didn't have class, and just had to be on campus at 12 noon to film some interviews for work. And since there is one bus during rush hour and another in the middle of the day that runs less frequently (every hour instead of every half hour), I had to check the bus schedule to make sure I'd catch the bus in time to be at my building on time. No problem - there was one that would get me there about 45 minutes early. So I went out to my usual bus stop to wait. And the bus didn't come. And then a bus came on the other side of the street, going the other direction, which I had never seen happen before. (Wait for it...) Yes, there is a bus stop on the other side of the street, but I had never before been waiting at one stop and seen a bus going the other direction at the same time. Weird, but there's a first time for everything.
And my bus still didn't come.
And then I saw a bus go by the head of my street, and I thought, "Phew! That's my bus, it's just a little late, and it's running the other part of the loop and will come back down here." (Wait for it...)
But it didn't come.
But since I had SEEN that bus go by, across the top of the street, I KNEW there was a bus out there somewhere, running this route, so I waited. And waited. And waited.
And finally it occurred to me that I had a copy of the bus schedule in my bag. And sure enough, in the middle of the day, the bus does my part of the route BACKWARDS, so that bus that had come to the stop across the street? That was my bus. And the bus that, a few minutes later went past the head of my street? That was my bus. And the bus that I didn't see, but that went down another street on the other side of my apt complex, that I could have caught if I had realized my mistake and RUN? That was my bus, too. Dumb moment #2!
Now ordinarily, not that big of a deal to miss the bus - I could just drive. But wait - I pulled that trick yesterday, and remember Dumb Moment #1? Yup, my car was ALREADY ON CAMPUS!!
So I went back to my apartment, and in the 15 minutes before I had to leave to catch the bus going the right direction, I emailed the guy filming the interviews, hoping against hope that the person we were filming at noon had fallen through, since we hadn't 100% confirmed that time. No such luck - we were on, and I was going to be 15 minutes late for a 20 minute interview. I'm awesome. So I emailed him my pathetic "I can read, just not bus schedules" excuse, and went to catch the bus.
But wait, there's more!
The interviews turned out ok, the rest of the day went ok, and then it was time to go home. I was determined not to leave my car parked at the Institute building ANOTHER night, so I went to catch a bus that would save me the 15 minute walk to the Institute building. At the bus stop I started chatting with this nice lady, and when we were on the bus, exchanging phone numbers so that she could come to church with me on Sunday (I called her and she didn't call me back), yup, you guessed it - I missed the stop that I should have gotten off at for the Institute building. And not only did I miss the stop, but that was the last stop before a "no stop" zone, so I had to ride the bus for a little while before I could get off, and then I'd have to figure out how to get BACK to my car. Dumb Moment #3.
I got off at the next stop, and it just so happened that there was a bus coming the other direction right then, so I hustled across the street, got on that bus, got off at the right stop, and walked the one block to the Institute building, only to find...
...that my car was right there where I had left it. Phew.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Sliding Doors
Today I was standing on the platform at Rosslyn metro station (long story ... I accidentally took the orange line clear to George Mason before I realized that I was not, in fact, on the blue line as I thought, and had to backtrack through Rosslyn ... yeah, welcome to my world ... )
Anyway, a woman's voice came over the loudspeaker with a public service announcement about the doors on metro cars. They are not like elevator doors, she said. They will close on your person or your belongings, so be careful.
Not like elevator doors?! I happen to know otherwise.
This story goes back to New Year's Eve, 2003. Driving home around 1 a.m., I called up Molly to see where she was. Turned out she'd had a bad night and was a little down, so I decided to swing by her apartment building.
The lobby was still hopping, and a couple had just exited the elevator as I walked up. Seeing the doors closing, I reached out my hand to hold them open -- but instead of bouncing back, they closed right on my fingers, just below the knuckles. I tried to yank my hand free, but it was stuck. I called out for help, and the couple came running back and tried to pry the doors open. That is, the guy tried -- his girlfriend was a little, er, drunk, and freaking out about how horrible it would be if I lost my hand (just what I wanted to hear right then). Then she began petting my hair, saying things like, "Oh sweetie, don't worry, we'll get you out of here, you're going to be just fine, just hang in there ... "
The doors didn't budge. A few more people had stopped to see what was happening, and one of them suggested pushing the call button so the elevator would come down and open, and I could get my hand out. Someone pushed it, and everyone waited expectantly. But a different elevator opened, so they sent that one up to the 14th floor and pressed the button again. After all three of the other elevators were on their way to the top of the building, the one holding my hand hostage finally started making its way down to the first floor. (A little note about elevator doors: Apparently, there is an inner set of doors that travels up and down with the elevator, and an outer set of doors on each floor. My hand was caught in the outer set of doors only, which is why my arm didn't get torn off as the elevator went up. I just add that little tidbit because it's a question I get a lot when I tell this story.)
The elevator finally stopped on our level, and the doors ... did not open. In fact, they closed more tightly, making a grinding sound and banging repeatedly on my poor little fingers. I screamed in pain, and the drunk girl started yelling at me to "Shut up! Just shut up! We're going to get you out, OK? Just shut up!"
By this time, a small crowd had gathered in a semi-circle around the elevator. Someone had gone to alert the front desk of the situation, and came back to report that a maintenance worker was on his way. Another helpful person, someone who had clearly just arrived, said, "Hey, I have an idea. We should push the call button, and the elevator will come down and open up." The entire group turned to him, and in near-unison said, "We tried that already!" It was at this point that I had the vague sensation of being in a Seinfeld episode.
The drunk girl was stroking my hair again, and I was imagining my life without a left hand (how would I type? Would I ever play the piano again?) when the elevator maintenance worker shuffled up. He looked in his mid-twenties, with dark blue coveralls and shaggy blond hair hanging in his face. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just inspected the doors, muttered something about needing a bigger tool and shuffled off again.
In the meantime, the elevator tried once again to open, smashing and re-smashing my hand, and I moaned something about the pressure and the pain. The drunk girl shushed me again, and a woman standing nearby stepped up and wedged a caribbeaner from her key chain into the crack below my fingers, relieving the pressure a little. "Hey honey, don't you have one of those, too?" another woman said, and someone wedged a second caribbeaner above my hand. I moved around and realized I could get all of my knuckles free except the largest one. The two caribbeaner-owners counted to three, put all their weight into leveraging the doors apart, and created a big enough gap that I pulled my hand free!
The crowd cheered as I displayed my swollen fingers, a deep shade of purple and indented to the bone (miraculously, the skin was unbroken). A manager had arrived on the scene and wanted to be sure I could bend all of my fingers (she was probably trying to avoid a lawsuit, but I like to think she was concerned about my well-being, too). It took a minute, but finally I was able to bend each joint, although my hand was a little too swollen to make a fist.
At this point, I just wanted to get out of there and up to Molly's apartment, so I thanked everyone profusely, reassured them that I'd be just fine, and (apprehensively) took an elevator to the tenth floor. It wasn't until I approached Molly's door that the tears started, so that when she opened it she found me standing there, holding up my shaking, battered hand, tears streaming down my face. All I could muster was, "Do you have an ice-pack?"
Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. My hand healed superbly, and I'm here today typing away. I was always a little wary of the elevators in Molly's building after that -- the one that jammed on my hand was out of commission for several weeks -- and I tend to get a little jumpy anytime someone puts out a hand to hold an elevator. Or the metro doors. Especially the metro doors. They're not like elevator doors, you know ...
Anyway, a woman's voice came over the loudspeaker with a public service announcement about the doors on metro cars. They are not like elevator doors, she said. They will close on your person or your belongings, so be careful.
Not like elevator doors?! I happen to know otherwise.
This story goes back to New Year's Eve, 2003. Driving home around 1 a.m., I called up Molly to see where she was. Turned out she'd had a bad night and was a little down, so I decided to swing by her apartment building.
The lobby was still hopping, and a couple had just exited the elevator as I walked up. Seeing the doors closing, I reached out my hand to hold them open -- but instead of bouncing back, they closed right on my fingers, just below the knuckles. I tried to yank my hand free, but it was stuck. I called out for help, and the couple came running back and tried to pry the doors open. That is, the guy tried -- his girlfriend was a little, er, drunk, and freaking out about how horrible it would be if I lost my hand (just what I wanted to hear right then). Then she began petting my hair, saying things like, "Oh sweetie, don't worry, we'll get you out of here, you're going to be just fine, just hang in there ... "
The doors didn't budge. A few more people had stopped to see what was happening, and one of them suggested pushing the call button so the elevator would come down and open, and I could get my hand out. Someone pushed it, and everyone waited expectantly. But a different elevator opened, so they sent that one up to the 14th floor and pressed the button again. After all three of the other elevators were on their way to the top of the building, the one holding my hand hostage finally started making its way down to the first floor. (A little note about elevator doors: Apparently, there is an inner set of doors that travels up and down with the elevator, and an outer set of doors on each floor. My hand was caught in the outer set of doors only, which is why my arm didn't get torn off as the elevator went up. I just add that little tidbit because it's a question I get a lot when I tell this story.)
The elevator finally stopped on our level, and the doors ... did not open. In fact, they closed more tightly, making a grinding sound and banging repeatedly on my poor little fingers. I screamed in pain, and the drunk girl started yelling at me to "Shut up! Just shut up! We're going to get you out, OK? Just shut up!"
By this time, a small crowd had gathered in a semi-circle around the elevator. Someone had gone to alert the front desk of the situation, and came back to report that a maintenance worker was on his way. Another helpful person, someone who had clearly just arrived, said, "Hey, I have an idea. We should push the call button, and the elevator will come down and open up." The entire group turned to him, and in near-unison said, "We tried that already!" It was at this point that I had the vague sensation of being in a Seinfeld episode.
The drunk girl was stroking my hair again, and I was imagining my life without a left hand (how would I type? Would I ever play the piano again?) when the elevator maintenance worker shuffled up. He looked in his mid-twenties, with dark blue coveralls and shaggy blond hair hanging in his face. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just inspected the doors, muttered something about needing a bigger tool and shuffled off again.
In the meantime, the elevator tried once again to open, smashing and re-smashing my hand, and I moaned something about the pressure and the pain. The drunk girl shushed me again, and a woman standing nearby stepped up and wedged a caribbeaner from her key chain into the crack below my fingers, relieving the pressure a little. "Hey honey, don't you have one of those, too?" another woman said, and someone wedged a second caribbeaner above my hand. I moved around and realized I could get all of my knuckles free except the largest one. The two caribbeaner-owners counted to three, put all their weight into leveraging the doors apart, and created a big enough gap that I pulled my hand free!
The crowd cheered as I displayed my swollen fingers, a deep shade of purple and indented to the bone (miraculously, the skin was unbroken). A manager had arrived on the scene and wanted to be sure I could bend all of my fingers (she was probably trying to avoid a lawsuit, but I like to think she was concerned about my well-being, too). It took a minute, but finally I was able to bend each joint, although my hand was a little too swollen to make a fist.
At this point, I just wanted to get out of there and up to Molly's apartment, so I thanked everyone profusely, reassured them that I'd be just fine, and (apprehensively) took an elevator to the tenth floor. It wasn't until I approached Molly's door that the tears started, so that when she opened it she found me standing there, holding up my shaking, battered hand, tears streaming down my face. All I could muster was, "Do you have an ice-pack?"
Fortunately, this story has a happy ending. My hand healed superbly, and I'm here today typing away. I was always a little wary of the elevators in Molly's building after that -- the one that jammed on my hand was out of commission for several weeks -- and I tend to get a little jumpy anytime someone puts out a hand to hold an elevator. Or the metro doors. Especially the metro doors. They're not like elevator doors, you know ...
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