On Friday, I took the bus up to Pittsfield to see Rick and the Youngest. I have referred to this bus as “the milk run” in the past, because really, how in the fuck does it take four and a half hours to make that trip? We can make it in three hours in the car. Then again, we don’t stop at every freakin’ town in Connecticut and Massachusetts on the way.
I digress. How unusual. Anyway, before I got on the bus, I told Rick that I loved him four and half hours of bus worth, but not nine, and so he would be taking me back to the city in the car. I was half joking, since I knew he would be driving me back, but at the same time not joking -you sit four and a half hours in one of those seats where the only way to stretch is to go back to the toilet and hang on for dear life while trying to take a pee and then tell me how much you love the person you’re traveling to see.
When he picked me up at the bus station, I asked him why the car was making a funny noise when he made turns. He said it had was nothing to worry about, he had already talked to the dealership about it. However it got worse as the weekend wore on, and by yesterday morning the steering was getting dodgy even though we put more power steering fluid into the car. In the end we decided not to risk a trip down to Brooklyn and back, so Rick drove me to the nearest MetroNorth station (still an hour and a half from his house) and dropped me off there to catch the train back to Manhattan before heading back to make sure the car went to the dealership first thing this morning. If we add that hour and a half to the train ride (two hours) and the subway ride (a particularly craptastic hour and a half due to construction)…my return commute was akin to five hours. And because we had to leave early to make sure I caught the train, I didn’t get to go water skiing at his cousin’s house. My continuing neuroses with being well ahead of time when traveling beats me over the head again.
The lesson to be learned from this? Never say “I love you this much but not this much” or you will get a smackdown from the universe.
« Note to self Hmmm. »
Madonna justified her love, but never quantified it. This is probably because Madonna never had to ride public transportation. I’m sorry your Milk Run was less than glam, but I have a feeling that when you are riding in the accomplished dramaturg’s hot wheelz one day, you will appreciate it far more than if you had never had to pee standing up with your arms clenching the sliding door, praying that you’d not roll over any bumps.
The universe is bad like that. Without. Fail.
Crap. That sounds awful.
Karma’s a bitch. You know that. You should show your unconditional love in ways that won’t piss her off.
Yikes! Horrid, simply horrid.