Weekend Recap

It really is the “little things” in life.

After 25 hours of fasting, and then tanking up, I felt unbelievably motivated and energized, and couldn’t wait for the week to begin so that I could jumpstart everything I had to do. I was finally able to trim my bangs, which made me incredibly happy because they are no longer long, limp, strands of hair falling in my face. 
 
Then this morning I found a praying mantis on the window. These unique little critters sit and “pray” for hours at a time. We can probably take a lesson, eh?
 
After I prayed next to the praying mantis on the window, I FINALLY listened to music. For some reason, these past three weeks have felt longer than every sefira of my life combined. The first song? Piano Man. After last Shabbat’s “in-home-concert” lunch, I’ve been craving Billy Joel’s music. (For some reason we were musically-inspired last week: as a family we sang oldies songs, country, and any other family favorites around the table, and as a last-ditch attempt we’ve been listening to these songs in the acapella version. It kills it.) 
Next song? Summer Highland Falls. Two of the best, ever. Hands down. 
 
Oh, and laundry! How could I forget the joys of abundant clean clothes? 
 
All of these things are adding to up to one big happy camper! 🙂
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(Not the best picture, but it gives you an idea.)
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Transportation Perspirations, Part II

I’ll preface this by adding that at least I don’t have my dad’s old commute to work, from Silver Spring to Chantilly, VA. He’s claimed for years that when the kids are grown he’s “getting the hell outta the DC area because of the damn traffic.” I guess he jumped the gun.

As promised, there is a sequel to my adventures on the Z8 bus.

The very next day I had the car back, and I had just parked at work in the Metro parking garage, and was about to turn off the radio, when a traffic announcement caught my attention.

There was a bus on fire in the heart of downtown Silver Spring, right near…the Metro. That was interesting. I got out of the car and immediately smelled smoke, as sirens began to scream.

As I exited the garage, the air was hazy with smog and smoke. I walked into the street, and saw onlookers congregating around firemen as they began to cordon off the street. I turned the corner and saw a shrunken, smoking, melting bus. Unsure if there was another way to get to my office building, I tried hopping over the wall and seeing if there was some passage through the vast, eternal construction of the new Metro station plaguing downtown. There wasn’t, and a “no trespassing” sign scared me off.

So I walked all the way around, and it took longer, but I did make it to work, grateful that I hadn’t taken the bus that day. The Metro Service took 37 buses out of service, and they are all still not operating.

Just another wonderful commute in the DC area.

Transportation Perspirations, Part I

For my first post, I want to share a story that took place last week. Since our car, Coby, was shipped to Seattle for my father’s disposal while he is temporarily/permanently stationed there, we only have two cars and yet three drivers when he returns home on occasional weekends. 

Last Tuesday, this presented a problem. He had a few errands to run before he departed for a business trip to Louisville, Kentucky, while my mom had previously left for work.

Problem: I also need a means a transportation to commute to work.

It must have been my lucky day, because my dad suggested that I take the lovely Z8 bus to work. I wasn’t thrilled, seeing as these buses are not populated by the highly driven CEOs of society. 

The bus was scheduled to arrive at 9:28. Even that early in the morning, the air was dense and still with the humid moisture that plagues the DC area in the summer. The bus is late. At 9:35, I look up, already sweating and relieved to see it pulling up…and then it barrels past, the reason unbeknownst to me. At 9:55, after waiting in the heat for a half hour, another bus finally arrives, which kindly stops for its customers. 

Two minutes after I board, squished between other people, a woman starts moaning and shrieking in the back. People glace warily at each other, and eventually someone asks her is she is okay. She responds by wailing that she is late and will be fired from her job because she is late. The people next to me snicker and laugh, and I feel bad for her, but try to suppress the feeling because there is nothing I can do. 

As we pull up to Four Corners, the woman gets off. She then bangs her elbow multiple times against the bus and screams. We’re at a red light, and the driver yells at her to stop, but she continues. He then parks the bus and gets out, while passengers plead with him to ignore her and just continue on our merry way, when he snarls:

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!”

He then calls the transit authority (he’s an idiot for not calling the police directly) while this woman flips him the bird as a confused passerby scuttles past. She wanders across University Boulevard, and shoves over the newspaper stands which topple like dominoes. She then uproots a sign in the ground, and throws garbage into the street and flings her bag behind the sidewalk. People are staring, and I call my dad.

The transportation gods have not been kind today. 

A few minutes later, I meet my dad in a nearby parking lot. Meanwhile, the real police have finally arrived, and are talking with the driver, having lost the woman and not bothering to search for her. I notify them that I’ve seen her around the corner, which they acknowledge and ignore. Competent.

Before we drive away from the conglomeration of stranded travelers, my dad calls out:

“I’m going downtown-anyone need a ride?”

We suddenly have several takers. We pile into the car: my dad, my brother, me, and five heavy African Americans, who praise and extoll my dad’s virtues and assure us that “there really is a God looking out for them”. 

One man notifies my dad where he’ll be getting out, as if my dad is an experienced bus driver. We sail down Colesville Road, loud chatter permeating the car, and I continually laugh to myself in the front seat, thoroughly entertained. (My brother later claimed that he couldn’t buckle his seat belt because his seatmates were so enormous.)

They all get out at the same stop, probably scared to continue with us on their own. As one woman gets out, she calls to my dad: “Baby, bless your soul!”

My dad told us afterward that he figured this was a great opportunity to “make a kiddush Hashem”, a Jewish term loosely translated as making a positive impact or being a good role model. I’m glad he did, because it lightened up what promised to be a miserable morning, and made a great story.

Stay tuned for Part II. 

How I Chose the Title

I know what you’re thinking.

Grammar. Why would I EVER want to read about proper punctuation and spelling? I left those dreary classes behind in high school and vowed never to return!

Well, you’re in luck, because as I claimed, I know what you’re thinking. And I agree: a grammar blog would certainly be quite lackluster and tedious, and I couldn’t dream of ever convincing you to read posts about syntax, misplaced modifiers, or fragments. Really this blog is about the inquisitive mind of a curious and motivated woman who is bidding farewell to her teenage years and exploring and experiencing the world from a new perspective.

Here’s where the title comes into play: I’m a communications and PR major, and my blog title is a tribute to the field and what I love doing, which is meeting interesting people and understanding how they perceive the world, and writing captivating stories that stimulate their minds and maybe even touch their souls. If I’m lucky. 

So, welcome to my blog, and I hope that you will enjoy this small window of my life that I’m willing to share with the world.

Please come back to visit!