A blog that was supposed be made up of bits about cab rides and blurbs about beauty products but, instead, is about other things.



Once, when we shared a cab with MH after a night of hard work, he refused our cash.

Now he’s reporting on far more pressing/scary matters:

Eight Long Days: Nearing the end of their tour in Iraq, National Guard troops from Louisiana face an uncertain homecoming (Newsweek)

We’re proud of him.
And we owe him a ride.


You are worth it

A friend, BS, often chides my riding ways.

He should probably pen a book -- a guide to finances for females of a certain age.
(He turned his ladyfriend's net-worth around, she says. And she, in turn, organized his desk.)

He comes down hard on the habits of highly ineffective splurging -- he proscribes some things that I care nothing about and never bother with (venti lattes, atm fees) and some that I find it harder to do without (taxis, toe nail polish, temperature control).

On the wallet-taxing taxi beat we happily found this, written by colleague LY, in this Sunday's T magazine:

"Some shopping rationalizations have a built-in element of self-flagellation. Kym Canter, the creative director of J. Mendel, is forcing herself to take the subway instead of taxis until she has made up the cost of a diamond brooch that she was sure she'd wear every single day. As of this writing, she has worn it only a couple of times -- it isn't quite as magical pinned to the hip of her jeans as she had hoped -- and it'll be months before she can stop riding the rails."

It's nice to see that the taxi trick is universal, although it is easy to excuse said rides when the taxing puchase happens to be an adorable, yet uncomfortable pair of shoes, a heavy bag, etc.


And I think the dress looks nice on you.

After spending time recently in a dress that was far from pretty, I've sort of fallen in love with this song.


Knock knock. (Who's there?) We broke the back window.

A lawyer, a banker, and a wedding planner get into a cab.
They carry with them a stainless-steel topped dining room table.

The punchline (literally) later.


I did not give him my number.

Hipster cab driver (what number are we up to?), the last leg of the trip home.



You left in a cab.
Or two.



Maybe you'll come in a cab.



How many cabs could I take, in the course of a normal day, if I was trying?


Goofus always takes cabs. I hope Gallant does too.

I love Goofus and Gallant.
I love Highlights for Children.
(In the ophthalmologist's office recently I met up again with the two. Long lost, it was good to see that they're still both clear specimens of boys I should and shouldn't date. Although they're both a little lame. Perhaps they have another brother that is a good mix of the two.)

Today, some internet love for Goofus and Gallant:
"Explaining what a scientist is using Goofus and Gallant as an example. Goofus and Gallant have also been pressed into service to explain 21st century etiquette, politics, and journalism." (kottke.org)

I found this while checking my Kinja list on my Blackberry in a cab.
(So there.)



IJ slid in.
Then MF.
Then me.
"Wait," she said. Panicked.
"There's a backpack in here."
"There's a backpack in here," she repeated.
And I realized that I was expecting her to say "rucksack," or something equally British.
But she didn't.
"There's a backpack in here," she said.
(As if it were a bomb.)
And we repeated to the driver who seemed confused, but then not so, as he backed up, off of the street, into the gas station.
And we hurried into another cab.


role reversal

"What's taking him so long?" I asked once we got out.

We'd packed four into the cab, so he sat in the front seat.
We'd already paid.

"Oh, him?" she asked. "He's trying to pick up the driver. He does that."

"He should write about it," I think.


15 minutes

"Goodbye, Jen Snow," he said with a smirk, as I left.

I smiled as if I knew how he knew this.

I'd paid in cash.
And I hadn't made a reservation.

This is starting to sound sleazy.
But it wasn't. It was sweet.
If surprising.



They got into the cab with me.

We'd pulled over to the side and I was unzipping my wallet, paying my bill.
And they got in next to me, in the back.

"Hi," she said.

He kept talking on his cellphone -- half in and half out of the car.

I hadn't been moving particularly slowly and I didn't speed up once they'd entered.
I paid and took my receipt.
I got out and glanced back to make sure I had everything that was mine.

"103rd and Broadway," she said.


I've only been punched on the subway.

I was underground the only time I've been punched during a transportation dispute.
(The only time I've ever been punched in any dispute, actually.)
I refused a swipe on some young thug’s card, so he punched me.
I, only a little flustered, took out my Metrocard and got on the train.

These guys (http://www.nydailynews.com/news/crime_file/story/334719p-285998c.html) had a similar predicament.
Only they stabbed the puncher in return.

I don’t carry a knife.

Also, my situation seemed so absurd that I couldn't help but laugh.



She handed me my paycheck/Transitchek combo.
I slit them open and I sliced the space between my pointer and middle fingers on the staple.
I am bleeding.
A lot.
This is my punishment for using neither the Transitchek nor the subway nearly as often as I should.



All I want to do is swim.
A cab ride won't quell that thirst.



Recent taxi news timeline on Gawker yesterday: Your Taxi and Limousine Commission at Work
(Straightforward. Super.)

My photos and Andy Selsberg's writing on not-taxi-related-at-all popped collarism from this week's Village Voice: Flippin' Out
(Hire us to anylyze your latest/not-so-latest fashion trend. Please.)

Not my writing on taxi relations today in Lusty Lady: Taxicab Hookups
(This piece made me sort of carsick. And I'm sitting at my desk.)

If you're in Scotland, and you have a tv: Taxi for Troon, a documentary about a cab outing that raises money for sick children airs tonight.
("Peter Barber-Fleming, the Producer and Director of Taxi for Troon, said: 'There’s nothing to say that Glasgow Taxi Drivers don’t simply enjoy donning fishnets or getting dressed up as their favourite cartoon character but maybe some of them have found that a day of concentrated giving is unfashionably rewarding.'")


standard, double

She's pretty, but it's odd that a girl her age would be into boys my age.

It's okay, of course, that I'm a girl my age and that I'm into boys her age, though.
jensnow(AT)gmail(DOT)com. All content Copyright 2008. You can visit me at Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About (thingsidontunderstandand.tumblr.com) and at www.jensnow.com.