Currently Chasing: Vermont Ave

So my friend flies in from California. The first thing she does is tell me Rule number 1 for traveling. Never take off your headphones. Even if your Ipod isn't on. Not even for 15 minutes. Because that leaves just enough time for a stranger to tell you their life story.

She’s hungry, so I take her over to Chevys. Rule number 2. Don’t take a California girl to eat Mexican food in Maryland. She had the chicken. I say had, because a few hours later, she would no longer have it. If you know what I mean.

After we eat and I take her to my house, let her get settled and clue her in on my plan to take her to party in DC. She’s never been to the east coast so I knew she’d appreciate seeing as much as possible. So we head out, GPS on and ready. And where do we end up. That same fucking roundabout from last time! And since I’m on Massachusetts NW, it is now telling me to take the 7^th exit to Vermont. But here’s the deal, even the GPS is only showing 6 exits. And all I’m counting are 6 exits, and none of those exits are Vermont. Vermont must be the mystery 7^th exit. And meanwhile I’m still stuck in the DuPont Circle of death!

So I take some road heading some way and we are making our way slowly but surely and then she tells me that she needs me to pull over. She’s going to be sick. That fucking Maryland chicken! So I try to pull over to the curb as fast as I can, which in DC is pretty fucking hard. I pull over right in front of the Lux Lounge. When I do, my tire hits the curb and pops, you hear the 100 plus people in line let out a OOOOHHHHH! Then my friend opens the car door and yaks. Then the crowd goes AAAUUUUGGHHHH!!! And we look like a couple of really drunk bitches in that moment. So with a popped tire I know I’ve got to find a place to park, but of course there is nowhere. So I park illegally and put on my flashers and call for roadside assistance. Rule number 3. Never assume you’ll find a place to park in DC. Rule number 4. Never come to DC. Rule number 5. Fuck DC.

While I’m waiting, my friend and I are people watching. We see a group of sluts running to cross the street. Two of the girls kind of run into each other and one of them head plants into the concrete. The sound is excruciating and the concrete even vibrates a bit. Her friends pay no attention and keep right on running. The girl just kind of lays there. Maybe unconscious. Maybe dead. But no. She rolls over, sees that her friends have kept running, gets up, says owwww, and then continues running. She’s gonna feel that in the morning. Rule number 6. Friends don’t let you go into a full concussion and not even stop to ask if you’re ok.

So the guy shows up to change my tire and lets me know that I’m going to need a new donut soon because my current one looks like the tread is coming apart at the scene. Perfect news when I have to drive back home from DC. Rule number 7. Don’t buy a used PT cruiser convertible on accident ever again. As he’s changing the tire another man stops and says, “are you all leaving this space?” We say, eventually, after we get the tire changed. He tells us he’ll help. Only in DC will someone help you change a tire for a parking space.

So the tire gets changed and we head home. We pull out of the parking spot and up to the light. Then BAM! I get hit. I get out of my car and the guy is still on his cell phone and looking at me like…. “Why the hell did you stop at a legal red light and let me hit you doing 80?” Like it’s my fucking fault! I look at my bumper, see that there’s no damage and just wave him on. He barely fucking notices and just drives around me. Again, only in DC!

The rest of the weekend went great, all things considered. Whoever sits next to my friend on the way home better wear earphones, otherwise she’s got quite a story to tell them.