I Hate Taxis

I have been traveling a lot for work and, since we only have one car, that often means taking a taxi back and forth to the airport.

Hypothetically, taking a taxi isn’t too bad. I call ahead and schedule a taxi to pick me up at my desired time. Everything is nice and automated and they send you a text when they arrive. There’s only one route to the airport. I’ve done it enough times that I know approximately how much it’s going to cost. Easy peasy. However, I’m growing to dislike it so much it’s starting to border on phobia.

There are two types of taxi drivers: the ones that want to make conversation the entire way, and the ones that talk endlessly on their bluetooth headsets in their native language. I VASTLY prefer the latter. Keep in mind these taxi rides are either to the airport at about 4 a.m. or home in rush hour Chicago traffic after a long day of travel. I really don’t feel like debating politics with a cab driver in either of those circumstances. I really don’t. I’d much rather zone out to the soothing sounds of your incomprehensible conversation.

Actually, there is a third kind. Often a driver will think it’s a good idea to harangue me the entire time, in an effort to increase his tip. Mostly this is about how he had to sit out front for so long (despite the fact that I was watching out the window and came out 10 minutes before my scheduled pickup time) and how that costs him money and how really it’s kind of my fault he’s driving in this awful traffic all the way to the airport of all places, so maybe I should just do the right thing when it comes to tip time, you-know-what-I’m-saying? And by the way, did he mention how the city is screwing him over? And the tax man? And gas prices?

There is nothing that upsets me more than feeling like someone is trying to artificially tug at my heartstrings. It certainly doesn’t put me in a tipping mood. How does this work on anybody??

Even in the best of circumstances, tipping people always causes me an unreasonable amount of anxiety. But this is especially true when it’s in some sort of hurried situation (such as trying to pay while hopping out of a taxi at a busy intersection or airport). This is my fault, not theirs, but there it is. Once I get about 15 minutes out from my destination, I start sweating and endlessly calculating all the possible scenarios in my head. “Okay, so I will just give him Y and tell him to keep the change. Is that enough? It’s probably good right? Wait, did I calculate that right? Let me recalculate. Yeah, I think that’s right. Wait, the meter just rolled over to another dollar. Is that still a good tip or should I bump it up to Z?”

That’s my neurosis, and if that were the only problem, I could handle that. However, around the same time I have to start worrying, “How is this guy going to try and screw me over?” and preparing myself to be belligerent (I have to work myself up, just in case, but that’s okay because it’s almost always necessary).

In roughly 8 of my taxi trips, the credit card machine “mysteriously stopped working” about 5 minutes away from the airport. “Oh, sorry sir, you’ll have to pay cash.” To which I respond, “Well, you’ll have to call it into dispatch or else you’re not going to get paid.” Guess what? The credit card machine mysteriously starts working again! EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I understand they’d rather be paid in cash, but I’m taking two cab rides that are between $65 and $70 each. I’m not carrying $140 in cash, just for the taxi ride. I’m just not.

Since my too-bad-so-sad attitude seemed to be working fairly well, they have recently come up with a new scam. On the last two cab rides I’ve taken, after they claim the credit card machine is broken, they pull out their Square credit card reader for their iPhone. They swipe your card on their iPhone and then you get a charge from “Frank’s Cab Service” rather than the taxi company (and also, I assume, they get to keep your credit card number).

This makes me *extremely uncomfortable*, but I haven’t figured out how to handle this yet. For some reason I feel uncomfortable just flat out refusing, but I don’t know why. One of the times I got away with it by saying I needed the receipt for work, but the other time the guy promised me the receipt would be emailed to me (and it was). So I actually did pay by Square that time, and it seems to have worked out for me. I assume, however, that my luck would most likely not continue to hold on that one.

Long story short: cab drivers are some shady characters and I have to put up with their b.s. on top of paying them a ridiculous amount of money for the privilege of going through airport security.

Not every taxi ride is trouble, but because 85% of my experiences are bad, I spend most of my time fretting and anxious. Time after time I have had to deal with it, until it just becomes the rule, not the exception. The fact that I’ve had so many bad experiences just proves that it’s not just my bad luck: the vast majority of cabbies are just a cut above your average panhandler.

I like the idea of being able to catch a cab when you need it, but the reality is a far cry from the ideal.

Quote Monday contemplates the relationship between wrong doing and money

Ollie: “If you kill somebody and you don’t have the money to pay for it, you have to go to jail until you die. So don’t kill somebody.”

I think “and you don’t have the money to pay for it” shows an astute understanding of the justice system far beyond his 3 years.

Ollie, whispering: “Mama is rich. I saw how much money she has!”

We’re rich! We’re rich! We can kill whoever we want!

Wait, no, unfortunately he was only referring to her jar of pennies which looks like quite a fortune to him.

Me: “I’m the meanest daddy in the world, never forget it.”
Ollie: “You know what? You’re not mean, but sometimes you do mean things.”

Me: “You know, someday Nala’s going to die and then what are we going to do?”
Sara: “Vacuum.”

Trying out some new looks

I had this beard that I grew. It kind of started as a joke, but then I didn’t think it looked half bad, so I just kept it. You’d be surprised at how much of a difference it makes when it’s really really cold (although very annoying when your moustache freezes)! And anyway, growing facial hair is about the easiest thing for me to do. I kind of can’t NOT do it: I can just stop shaving for about 30 seconds and *fwoomp* there’s a beard.

At first Sara hated the idea of a beard, but then after a day or two when it grew in all the way she didn’t say anything about it. I kind of figured that, like me, she was surprised at how good it looked! Not so. She was just silently hating at that beard as hard as she could.

Long story short, that beard is no more. So in the meantime, I’m trying out some new looks. What do you think, the James Hetfield?

me_and_james

Or perhaps the…uh…Charlie Chaplin?

me_and_chaplin

I’m hoping to one day work my way up to a full on General Burnside:

10 Years a Blogger

10 years ago today I wrote my very first blog post.

10 years is like 1,000 years in Internet time. By Internet standards, I’m definitely a dinosaur. I predate smartphones, Twitter, Youtube, and Facebook only beat me by 13 days. Myspace was less than a year old in Feb. 2004. Friends was still on the air!

Forget Internet time, 10 years is a long time to do anything. 10 years ago I didn’t have kids. I wasn’t married. I didn’t live in Chicago. I wasn’t writing, knitting, or even really cooking anything more complicated than a frozen pizza. Apparently, judging by all my early posts, 10 years ago I was also the whiniest emo crybaby on the planet.

This is my 1,887th post. I have 2,855 comments here on the blog proper (not counting anything on Facebook, Glipho, Google+, etc.) I’ve been interviewed about blogging, been a guest blogger, and received a comment from a childhood hero.

I don’t know if I really have anything to say about it that I haven’t covered before. I mean, in 10 years I think I’ve pretty much used up all the words. So, sorry future generations, I’m the reason there are no more words left.

Who knew that when I started this thing I’d still be doing it 10 years later? I’m definitely proud of that as an achievement. Someone commented on my first post and asked if this was the first blog post in recorded history. The funny thing was, when I started a blog I knew lots of people who had been doing it for a lot longer than me. The difference is, none of them are still doing it. The vast majority of blogs don’t make it to 1 year, much less 10. So, you know, congratulations to me or whatever.

I’m not really sure what the future will bring, as far as blogging goes. It’s still something I enjoy quite a bit, but I periodically change directions around here as well. If it ever stops being enjoyable, I have to do something new to keep it interesting. Maybe that’s the secret to making it 10 years. Probably not, though; I’d have to attribute that more to pigheaded persistence than anything else. I’m nothing if not relentless!

Anyway, I hate to say here’s to 10 more years because I don’t know if I’ll still want to be doing this in 10 years. I’ll be in my 40s(!!). Ollie will be on the verge of being a teenager, and Evie will be getting ready to drive (in her FLYING CAR). Besides, by that time the two of them will have long since killed me for all the embarrassment this blog has caused them.

A Valentine’s Poem

For all you geek lovers (and lovers of geeks) out there, I give you the best Valentine’s day poem ever: “Scientific Romance” by Tim Pratt (reprinted with permission).

The great thing about this poem is that, when you read it to that special someone, I think you’re going to know pretty quickly whether or not they’re the right one for you. Do you find zombies and space aliens and time travel romantic? ‘Cause I do!

Enjoy!

Scientific Romance

If starship travel from our
Earth to some far
star and back again
at velocities approaching the speed
of light made you younger than me
due to the relativistic effects
of time dilation,
I’d show up on your doorstep hoping
you’d developed a thing for older men,
and I’d ask you to show me everything you
learned to pass the time
out there in the endless void
of night.

If we were the sole survivors
of a zombie apocalypse
and you were bitten and transformed
into a walking corpse
I wouldn’t even pick up my
assault shotgun,
I’d just let you take a bite
out of me, because I’d rather be
undead forever
with you
than alive alone
without you.

If I had a time machine, I’d go back
to the days of your youth
to see how you became the someone
I love so much today, and then
I’d return to the moment we first met
just so I could see my own face
when I saw your face
for the first time,
and okay,
I’d probably travel to the time
when we were a young couple
and try to get a three-way
going. I never understood
why more time travelers don’t do
that sort of thing.

If the alien invaders come
and hover in stern judgment
over our cities, trying to decide
whether to invite us to the Galactic
Federation of Confederated
Galaxies or if instead
a little genocide is called for,
I think our love could be a powerful
argument for the continued preservation
of humanity in general, or at least,
of you and me
in particular.

If we were captives together
in an alien zoo, I’d try to make
the best of it, cultivate a streak
of xeno-exhibitionism,
waggle my eyebrows, and make jokes
about breeding in captivity.

If I became lost in
the multiverse, exploring
infinite parallel dimensions, my
only criterion for settling
down somewhere would be
whether or not I could find you:
and once I did, I’d stay there even
if it was a world ruled by giant spider-
priests, or one where killer
robots won the Civil War, or even
a world where sandwiches
were never invented, because
you’d make it the best
of all possible worlds anyway,
and plus
we could get rich
off inventing sandwiches.

If the Singularity comes
and we upload our minds into a vast
computer simulation of near-infinite
complexity and perfect resolution,
and become capable of experiencing any
fantasy, exploring worlds bound only
by our enhanced imaginations,
I’d still spend at least 10^21 processing
cycles a month just sitting
on a virtual couch with you,
watching virtual TV,
eating virtual fajitas,
holding virtual hands,
and wishing
for the real thing.