Hit me baby, one more time

This morning I received a call from Walter, my seltzerman.
He was in the neighborhood, and I was home, so we arranged a hand-off.
For him, my empties, for me a case full of bubbly deliciousness.

In carting the case out to my doorstep, I dropped a bottle onto my face.

It was one of the beautiful aqua-colored ones at that!

It was heavy, and it hit me in the mouth and it caused my tooth to plow clear through to the outside world above my lip.

The bottle, weighing possibly a pound empty, is fine.
I, however, had a hole in my face.
It bled.

Like a good vain soldier, I ignored the nausea and headed to the freezer for some ice.

Alas! The banana-flavored Go-gurt portable yogurt that I keep frozen was the perfect size!
I applied it to my face (it fits perfectly between the upper lip and nose), took a phone call from my sister, who promptly laughed at the situation, and continued to get ready to leave the house.

But Walter is tricky.

The doorbell rang, and there stood the deliveryman and a special friend (with a microphone wire threaded through his shirt button-hole) whom he introduced to me as Steven, from The New Yorker.

Oh, Steven knew that I'd written about Walter before, and Steven had an unacceptably weak handshake and made truly poor eye-contact, but he did politely ignore the frozen yogurt I applied to my bleeding face.

Steven wondered if I'd heard about Walter before writing about him.
(Umm, yes, that's how I knew to write about him.)
And whether my seltzer delivery desire stemmed from a childhood bathed in bubbles.
(Alas, no. We didn't have delivery then.)
At this he seemed disinterested, and continued his lack of ocular contact.
(In his defense, maybe he didn't want to watch the bleeding.)
We talked briefly of my grandpa's appearance in Talk of the Town (a story for another day: about the utter horror of Brooklyn being forced to change from the 212 to the 718 area code!).
And then they were gone.

I called my mom.
She'd already heard the tale from my sister, who, in fact, found it funny enough to report on herself.
She suggested I take a cab to the emergency room.

A comfort compromise

Hysterical.

From BBC:

Driver can use luxury car as taxi
A Worcestershire taxi driver has won an application to register his Jaguar as a private hire vehicle.

Tony Harvey attended a meeting with Wychavon District Council's licensing sub-committee over its concerns about him using the car for four passengers.

The council thought the middle seat in the rear of the luxury vehicle was too uncomfortable for a third person.

But a compromise has been reached, allowing Mr Harvey to use it for three passengers.

BBCnews.com

room/cab mate wanted

We'd talk about this, but some already did.

And we're a bit busy today.
Poll: If need be, can I ask a cab driver to move in with me?

moving (not me)

• How much would it cost to hire a cab to move your belongings into or out of an apartment?

• I wonder how many people use cabs instead of moving vans.

Delancey, please hold.

Today, a shout-out to my taxi-fearing friends: Delancey Car Service.

Oh, what a beautiful website you have!

Although, it doesn't do justice to the recording one receives when calling.
(Dear readers, if you know how to make/post an mp3 of "DELANCEY! Please hold." I will be your best friend.)

Or to the thugged-out drivers you employ.

Or to the cars filled with a reading selection that can best be described as running the fine gamut from the not-very-latest rags to prized back issues of the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

Or to the magical fact that no matter when you call, or where you call from, you say you will be there in "5 minutes" and instead arrive approximately 30 seconds after we hang up the phone.

You are on my speed dial, DCS.

First name: Delancey.
Last name: Pleasehold.

taxi cab confession*

A friend and I once took a cab from Times Square to central New Jersey.
I slept the whole way.

I'm tempted to do it again.
But I'm not the one with an expense account.


*I have never seen this tv show. But I will. Or, I should, no?

public v. private

It's easier to change clothes in a cab then it is on a NJ Transit train.

Expensive transportation: 1, public transportation: 0.

People that would be inappropriate dates when invited to a wedding “plus guest.”

• my mom
• a 6-year-old child
• my doorman (in uniform)
• someone whom I've kissed, but whose name I do not know
• someone who speaks only a language that I do not speak
• an attention-hogging celebrity
• my grandfather
• a live-blogger
• a reality tv star with a proclivity for ass-grabbing
• a prostitute
• a camera crew
• my stenographer
• the bride's ex-boyfriend
• a blind date
• a man in a chef's outfit
• Cat Power
• my boss
• a krump dancer
• the cab driver who drove me to the affair

If Kinkos made cabs

If Kinkos made cabs I'd never take a ride.
NEVER.

To the library, and step on it!

To paraphrase my favorite line from a book that is far from my favorite:

I'm the type of girl who gets into a cab and says, "To the library, and step on it!

Mr. Cab Driver, you’re never gonna win*

Last night a cab pulled over as I was saying goodbye to those keeping me company on the Ludlow Street sidewalk.
I was planning to walk.
Presumptuous cab drivers: Back off. Please. You bother me.


* I have, in fact, never heard this song. I'm digging deep/learning.

No, my mom is a bus driver.

In nursery school I told my teacher that my mom drove a school bus.*

Said teacher to mom: "Wow, Bonnie, it's amazing that you manage to work full time and to drive JenSnow to school each morning and to pick her up each afternoon and to take care of a baby and to help out with class projects and..."
Said mom: Work full time?
Said teacher: Well, driving the bus takes a lot out of your day, no?

Obviously, this would portend the endless amounts of chauffeuring Mom was to do over the next 12 years.

And we never even had a minivan.


I didn't learn: two years later, when testing to get into kindergarten, I chose to forget the fact that I'd learned that my dad was a "financial analyst," and instead to peg his profession as, "He barbecues." when asked.


*Bus/cab, bear with me. Both are yellow.

I keep waving at the taxis; they keep turning their lights off.

Dear you,
I am not a liar.
I will post again.
I will post about faux-pregnancy, as previously promised.
I will post about Miranda July's almost-taxi-colored dress.
I will post about my mom.
I will post about Hipster Cab Driver #2.
And how he played neither music nor air conditioner for me.
I will post a missive on cab-sharing.
I will post about the new ubiquity of cab credit-card swiping machines.
But, this weekend I will be far away from cabs of any sort.
So I can't properly post.
Love,
Me

reading in cars with boys

I think I know someone who wants to read this.
And maybe this.
But not this.
Or this.
Someone hates pets.

yellow fever

No time to write, but to be discussed later, certainly.

Today, blogs love cabs:

We Don’t Care What They Look Like, Just Keep Jimmy Fallon and Queen Latifah Away (Gawker)
and
Taxi Cabs Might Be Redesigned. (Gothamist)

Taxi girl, taxi girl, taxi girl: a little bit high, a little bit shy, a little bit spoiled

Tonight I almost cried in a cab.
Strike that, I almost cried to get a cab.
My feet hurt.
A lot.
And I was very tired.
And facing hours of work.
So maybe some of the tear duct excretions would have been genuine.
But not all of them, alas.
I also considered resorting to faking pregnancy.
But, we know how I feel about that one.*
I ended up simply trying to look very sad.
And to not making eye contact with the others who were on the same corner and vying for my ride.

The moral of this story: if you’re planning on wearing 2 ½ inch heels you bought at Target, carry a pair of black ballet slippers in your purse


* Oh, we don’t actually know how I feel about that one because I haven’t told the whole tale here. Yet. Don’t fret: I took notes.

pen central

A joyous occurrence: rediscovering a favorite fountain pen.
I must take it for a ride in a cab!*


*Okay, so the cab content here is minimal. But the pen is pretty. Got it?

Lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy Jen./She wants to take a cab./So she wait and waits and waits and waits and waits for it to rain.

Coming soon, as per special request:

• The story of the time, last Saturday, that the cab driver thought that I was pregnant, if not pretty.

• The story of the time, this Saturday, that obviously the cab driver thought I was ugly because he didn't listen to a single request my friend and/or I made. Not even to the request wherein we asked if he could wait two seconds so that I could watch her walk through the door of her crack den/apartment! He wasn't very nice. In fact, he hated us.

• A note on the time I was driving though the Holland Tunnel, and we were stuck behind a cab, and a companion uttered the phrase, "Who would have thought we'd be stuck in the tunnel behind a cab going 30 miles-per-hour?!" I'm not quite sure what she was getting at. I thought this was the speed at which one was supposed to drive through the tunnel. Then again, I'm not so into driving.

• A full report on Know Your Public Space: NYC Taxi Cabs, the flash card. With illustration, of course!

• The full name and license number of The Crankiest Cab Driver Ever!