Need a ride, Lady? (AKA: The Dumbest Thing I've Ever Done)

Some of my fellow bloggers have been featuring stories about the dumbest thing they've ever done. Annabelle accepted a pill and a party invitation from a virtual stranger.  Pickleope assisted the getaway of a possible mental patient.

Like most people, I've done a lot of truly dumb things in my life.  Things that have cost me friends and boyfriends.  Things that have put a serious strain on my ties to my family.  But none of those things are my biggest, dumbest, most shameful accomplishment.

This is:

Many years ago when Jeff and I were newly engaged, he traveled to Kansas City for work fairly frequently.  This was during the early days of our relationship, when everything was shiny and new and spending time together was one of the four basic needs.  You know: food, water, shelter and getting your freak on.  The need for warmth doesn't occur until later in a marriage.

One of his trips required a weekend stay over, and we decided I'd head up to Kansas City for a visit.  So far, so good.

Just before my planned travel, the weather in Kansas City took a nasty turn and an ice storm blew through.  The whole city was frozen.  It was so bad that the power went out in Jeff's hotel and he had to move across town.  Naturally, we didn't think this was any reason for me to cancel my trip.  We were young and in love.  What could possibly go wrong?

We arranged for me to fly in on a Saturday morning, take the hotel shuttle from the airport to his hotel and then check into his room and wait for him to get off work and meet me there.   Pretty simple plan.

As my flight approached the KC airport, I looked out the window and noticed that there wasn't much action occurring on the ground.  The airport looked deserted and the surrounding parking lots were empty and frozen over, but I didn't think much about it.  The flight landed without incident and when I got off the plane I noticed that the terminal was deserted.  I figured may be the ice storm kept people home.  I headed out to meet the shuttle, which the hotel said came every 15 minutes.

As I exited the airport I was hit by a blast of arctic air as I slipped and slid my way across the ice to the shuttle stop.  Thank God I'd only have to wait 15 minutes for a shuttle! Famous last words.

So I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  No shuttle.

I went inside and used the courtesy phone that connected to the hotel.  They said there was only one shuttle running due to the weather, but it was on the way.

So I went back outside.  And I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  No shuttle.

About this time, a beat up old green van pulled up in front of me and slowed down.  The big, hairy, nasty driver stared at me a minute and then accelerated and drove off.  My first thought was "Helloooooo, child molester!  Move along.  I'm too old for you."

Still no shuttle.  I went back inside, found the courtesy phone for a cab company and called a cab.  The dispatcher said they'd send someone in about 15 minutes.  I was starting to think that the KC airport had some kind of bizarre geography that placed it 15 minutes away from all forms of transportation.

I went back outside and noticed that the hotel shuttle had just passed the stop and was driving away.  Crap.  I jumped up down, waiving my hands to try to get the driver's attention to come back for me, but no luck.

Meanwhile, around came Chester Molester in his green perv van for another look at me before he drove off.  Awesome.

I was getting irritated and more than a little spooked, but I couldn't call Jeff because he was teaching a class and I knew his phone was off.

I walked over to the cab stand and waited. And waited.  And waited.  No cab.

At this point, I had been back and forth between the airport transportation lobby and the arctic tundra of the shuttle stop/cab stand for almost 2 hours.  My feet were freezing, my head was killing me, there was no one in sight and I was pretty sure I was stuck in some kind of existential hell.

Then Chester Molester drove by for round three.  And he stopped in front of me.  He rolled down the window and said "Ma'am, if you're waiting for a cab you might be here awhile.  The streets are so bad that most drivers stayed home today.  Can I take you somewhere?"

That's right:  Chester Molester wanted me to get in his green perv van for a ride.  My brain was screaming "Don't even think about it LAB.  You'll be turned into a skin suit for sure!"  My feet, on the other hand, were so cold that they were no longer speaking to me.

I noticed that there was a meter on the dash of the van, which for some stupid reason made me think may be Mr. Molester was OK. Obviously my brain was frozen.

And here it comes, people....the dumbest thing I've ever done:  I. Got. In. The. Van. May be being turned into a skin suit won't be so bad!

Turns out Mr. Molester had a gypsy cab business, and he figured he'd make some easy cash by working the airport after the ice storm while the regular cabs stayed off the roads.  All I could think about the entire time I was in the van was Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs: "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again".

I was terrified the entire drive.  I didn't know the city so I had no idea if we were headed in the right direction, and nobody knew where I was. When I make a bad decision, I go all in. As the the drive continued, I started envisioning the headstone on my grave "Here Lies LAB.  And this is why you don't take rides from strangers."  Eventually I looked out the window and saw the Marriott in the distance.  I was gonna live!!! 

I was positively giddy when we arrived at the hotel.  I channeled my inner Blanche DuBois and turned to the driver and said  "Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."  Chester Molester looked at me like I was insane.  He may have been right, but it was still better than being a skin suit.

How To Make A Dog Burrito

Step 1: Arrange Appealing blanket

Step 2: Insert Dalmatian

Step 3: Wrap her up!

Step 4: Wait for Burrowing

Step 5: Lights out!

Bonus Step: Endure Stink Eye from Jealous Great Dane.

Hit me, Chevy, One More Time

I don't think any of you guys would be surprised to hear that I want a new(er) car, especially if you're Facebook friends with me, considering how much time I spend whining about cars on my timeline.  The problem is that I don't *need* a new car.  At all.  Not even a little.

I'm still driving my trusty 2000 Toyota convertible, and the damn thing won't die. 

Jeff and I agreed years ago that we would buy cars when only we need them (and when we can pay cash, if possible).  Since that time, Jeff has had 2 new(er) cars (both purchases were need-based and paid for in cash) but I'm still chugging away in my old Toyota.  This will not stand, people.  In fact, if you include the old trucks he's restoring, Jeff has bought 6 (SIX!!!) cars since I've had my Toyota. *Somebody* needs to learn how to say "no" to her husband.

The problem is that there's absolutely nothing wrong with my car.  It's mechanically sound, the body is pristine, and when you step on the gas it takes off like a rocket.  Even the mileage is relatively low. Crap.

My car may be "fine", but there are a world of sexy new convertibles out there that make my car look like a turd.  And I want one of those sexy new cars.  Badly.

Last Sunday I thought I was finally going to score a new car the hard way: by Totaling the Toyota (ahhh...alliteration).  It doesn't take too much damage to total out a 13-year-old car, and I thought Sunday was my day. W00T!!!  I've never been so excited about the prospect of being hit by a moron.

I was driving to the mall, and when I came over a hill a fire truck was pulling onto the road and traffic had stopped.  While I was waiting for the road to clear, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an old beige Chevy Caprice hauling butt over the hill in my lane.  There's no way he would be able to stop in time.  A collision was imminent.

I'm not going to lie, people.  I was thrilled to see him.  All I could think was "Bring the pain, Chevy, and score me a new car!"  Who's the moron now?

The only barrier between me & the Chevy was a little old lady in a Lincoln behind me.  She was getting hit for sure, and I was confident there was no way she'd be able to keep from rolling right into me.

I relaxed my shoulders, took a big breath, exhaled and put my head on the headrest. Standard car wreck prep.  Then I waited.

I heard the squeal of tires and watched in the mirror as the Chevy nailed the car behind me.  And then.....nothing.  Grandma in the Lincoln kept her foot on the brake, and instead of ramming into me, the back of her car lifted off the ground and then came back down on the Chevy's hood.  Dammit, Grandma - hook a sister up!  Car parts flew all around my car, but nothing hit me.  Nothing whatsoever.  Double crap.
 
I jumped out to make sure everyone was OK (they were), and then went about my business.  In my old-ass car.

I know what you guys are thinking: "Jesus, LAB, what kind of dumb ass gets excited about getting in a car wreck?"

Well, *raises hand*,  this girl does.  I never claimed to be smart.  But I'm an excellent driver!  Unfortunately.

Don't make me spray you!

Pretty sure I've mentioned by now that the Freaks Come Out at Night when I'm alone in the office.  On my regular day alone in the office (a day which I'm not going to announce here because I don't trust some of you folks not to drive out here and screw with me), I normally stick a gun in my purse, even though we're technically closed on that day and the door stays locked.

Anyway, the last time I was alone in the office a crazy teenager who stank of alcohol pounded on the door until I opened it (my mistake), then tried to push past me into the building and when I blocked the door with my body, he asked if I had "any candy he could have."  Sorry kid, only Jeff gets my candy these days.  When I finally pushed him out and locked the door, he paced the front porch for 15 minutes  until he finally left.  Nice.

So I've been a bit on edge about being here alone.  Especially on days like today, when my coworker has a sick child and I'm alone all day unexpectedly.  We're open today, so I don't have the option of keeping the door locked.

This morning I went into the ladies' room, and while I was in there I heard someone enter the men's room.  So I came out and waited behind the front desk (to keep the desk between me & my unexpected guest) to see who it was.  And....nothing.  The men's room door was closed and nobody came out.  Ever.  Now I was completely skeeved out, even thought it could have just been the FedEx guy or a legitimate customer.

I went back to my office and grabbed a panic button and a bottle of mace from my desk.  Although I'm not quite sure what good the stupid panic buttons do around here.  They don't prevent anything from happening, they just call the alarm company in God knows where USA and have them notify the police to come find my dead body.  So my hopes were really hung on the mace at this point.

Armed with my mace,  I made a quick pass through the back offices and then headed to the men's room.  I knocked lightly on the door, no response, then harder, no response, then I tried the handle. The door opened and the men's room was empty.  PHEW!  Another crisis resolved.  I really need to quit watching scary movies at night.

I headed back to my desk, mace in hand, to resume working.  That's when I looked down in my hand, and noticed that instead of mace I had grabbed a travel size can of Static Guard.  I was protecting my life with damn fresh scent static eliminator.

Only one of these things can save your life.

Guess I need to rethink my threatening speech:  "STOP!  Or I'll smooth your flyaway hair!" That should keep the bad guys at bay.  I feel safer already.

A dip in the dating pool

It's been a long time since I dated.  Really long.  Like 16 years.  So when my brother re-entered the dating pool recently, I learned the most amazing things.  Here's a sample:

If a girl tells you she "used to be a stripper", it means she was stripping last night.  And possibly this morning.

Based on an informal survey of my brothers' (male) friends, the appropriate age for a man's second wife is half his age, plus 7 years (e.g. a 40 year old man's 2nd wife should be 27).  Although I question the methodology used to come up with this equation.  And the intent.
 
No matter how many times you demand that your brother turn gay because you've always wanted a gay brother, he won't do it.  Even though our mother always said "If you don't try something new, how do you know you won't like it?".

When meeting your brother's date for the first time, if she says "My ex's sister was the biggest psycho I've ever met", the appropriate response is not "Challenge accepted."

If you try to pimp out your brother to all the hot chicks in a bar, he'll start introducing you to people as his "agent".

Bonus dating advice:  Here's a little nugget that our sister shared with her college-aged son: "Always go for the girl in the white shorts". You know why.

You're welcome, people.  You may now return to your regularly scheduled Monday activities.