Putting the Oh in October

Remember a while back I spoke of a haircut that was to resemble a ponytail without the actual ponytail a/k/a worst idea ever. Back then every fiber in my being was willing it to be October. Hey guys, its October! I can happily report my hair is growing. It can be brought into a ponytail, albeit a weak impersonation of one. Finally, after that day in a fit of insanity I went into the bathroom with a rusty pair of red Ikea scissors to chop the mullet and wings on my head, the hair gods are smiling. Also good is the Neutrogena Clinical Experiment. This week the purchase of the night version was made. My skin is looking softer, radiant and more youthful. Not so good was the fact that Owen had the flu and a fever for five days. He is better now, thank god. He was one day from going to the doctors to see if he had a UTI because he is uncircumcised. Really foreskin? But alas, the fever broke. Even in his pathetic sick state, the boy made the world a tad more bright when handed a lime popsicle, he said a few minutes later “Mummy, Daddy. I don’t like this. It’s too spicy.” Lime popsicles are too spicy for my son, but extra hot salsa and chicken tikki masala are not. Go figure. Maggie had her 18 month appointment last week wherein she finally broke 20 pounds. 20.05 bitches. She is also 31.5 inches tall registering her 50% in height and 3% in weight. But this was before she discovered Pirate’s Booty. Baby crack. Pretty sure she can take down a big bag in 3.5 seconds. We give her some; she eats it, and then yells “Mooooree, Moooreeee”. John is just happy that the first time in a year and a half he is eating for him at night. However, it is pirate’s booty which may not rank high in the nutrient factor, but this is the same girl who at her one year appointment was prescribed ice cream by her pediatrician. My dream prescription. “Cassie, yeah, I think the only thing we can do here is have you eat ice cream, and bunch of it.” “Really, doctor? You are the medical expert. Will do.” But the reality is this girl will take after my mother. Who for the majority of her life was 5’11, weight maybe 120 pounds. Genetically destined to be tall and skinny cannot be a bad thing, can it? Well yes, for John when he is fending off potential teenager suitors with baseball bats. But we have a plan for this and that plan is “Giant Nerd.” Her brother already on this path will lead his sister accordingly. Then there are braces, glasses and Catholic all girl high schools. So take that genetics.

Cassie v. Age

Part I: Neutrogena Clinical

In forty-four days I will entering a territory known as “my late thirties” otherwise known as Happy 37th Birthday. As a side note, how the hell did this happen? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was turning twenty-one at Axis and dancing to alternative music while declining numerous offers of Zima with Chambord? It was. But now, my vagina has expelled two life forms, I am what Oprah would classify as “perimenopausal” and bangs a/k/a forehead wrinkle covers are about two minutes from my future. However, I resolve to go down fighting. And by fighting, I mean spending large sums of money on products that promise antiwrinkling age defiance. Truthfully due to a combination of genetics, not much sun exposure, the heavy consumption of water and almost maniacal moisturizing since the age of eighteen, I think I have done good thus far. But I will not be lax in this fight, this is where it gets dirty. Almost forty demands action.

Yesterday in Walgreens, I once again passed the Neutrogena Clinical Day Moisturizing combination promising a firmer more youthful look. I have read the reviews on this stuff, and was impressed, but the $39.99 price tag was what I would say was a bit “heavy”. Then I remembered the time where spending $75.00 each on Clarins Day and Night Cream was nothing. The magical time prior to kids and a mortgage, where money went to clothes, shoes, booze and skincare. I miss you so! So I forked over the money for my ION2 complex fountain of youth.

Today after my run of 6.1 miles - I would like to say that again because it makes me happy - AFTER MY 6.1 MILE RUN and shower, I stood under the harsh fluorescent lamps of the office showers. Those lights suck. I applied the quoted “dime size” amount of the gel serum covering my face and neck. It is gray and goes on like liquid silk. Then the application of the “dime size” activating cream. Oh la la. I can say after one attempt that I have not felt softness like this since the rubbing of Owen’s ass after his horrifying meconium poop. My face feels like a baby’s ass people. In case you don’t have a baby, that is soft. Very soft. Like the kind of soft you think clouds must feel like. My face feels like clouds.

Day One of the Neutrogena Clinical Day Cream Test has gone well. We shall see what the next days shall bring. But I am hoping pregnancy glow skin. Cause that shit was the best.

Football, Football, Football

Ah football. It is the season that allows the slow descent into insanity because of an overflow of fantasy football knowledge. If you have not figured it out, I can be a tad competitive. So much so, my family once accused me of memorizing Wheel Of Fortune (The Home Game) answers. This was not true, because in order to do that I would have to memorize over 300 phrases that paired with the sheet number visible on the board. Total idiot savant abilities that I unfortunately do not possess. But because of uber competitive spirit (problem), they totally believed I spent hours upon hours memorizing phrases with numbers so that I could win - at Wheel of Fortune. This gives you a slight glimpse into my competitive nature. The point is that for the last month there has been the steady consumption of fantasy football statistics, advice, magazine and websites (none of which I will share because they are my little secrets, and fucking find your own). The only thoughts this week have been fantasy football related as my drafts are tomorrow and Friday. Yesterday I came home with a tiered IDP cheat sheet as well as a tiered position cheat sheet with average draft position that John could look over so that we can discuss our plan of attack tonight. Couple time bitches! There was even the nightmare last evening about not drafting an IDP until the 10th round. A dream that woke me up, and kept me up because then I started to think of drafting strategy from the front end, middle and end draft spots. All because I am dorky. Or insane. Or competitive. But at least I have a hobby other than knitting on the train. So there!

An Open Letter

Dear PMS,

I hate you. For the past few nights I have been tossing and turning, incapable of any firm grasp on sleep. Usually my sleep is reminiscent of the dead, dead bed hogs, sure, but still - THE DEAD. Because of you and this ridiculous San Francisco heat wave, I lay in bed doing my best impression of a hot flashed fifty-five year old menopausal women while thoughts of who to draft in my fantasy football leagues bounce around in my head. Seemingly, the boy part and the girl parts of me have thrown down the gauntlet to battle. And since there will be no future use of my female parts due to fact that having another kid will inevitably make me a homeless insane drunkard, I would like to state with the most emphatic of all voices - leave me the fuck alone. I served my time through years of horrible cramps, moodiness, acne and that one time there was an unfortunate leak in high school pointed out to me by a girl in the presence of what seemed to be 1,000 boys. So yeah, cut me a break. Leave me and my mostly male mind alone. There are two fantasy drafts next week that need absolute focus. I can’t be drafting players with this girl brain of psychosis. For all I know, I will end up drafting Ochocinco because he is cute and was on the Dancing with the Stars. Shudder.

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

Things I Learned On My Summer Vacation

1. When thinking about taking a 16 month old across county on a plane why don’t you just stab your eye out with a fork, it will be less painful.

2. Humidity is an evil vile thing that one does not have to suffer from. You hear that New England?

3. Fenway installed more restrooms for the ladies. No longer need to miss three and a half innings when all those consumed beers make it known.

4. What the hell happened to Lansdowne Street? The Cask and Flagon no longer a dive bar and some place called “Game On”? Tainted, I say. Tainted.

5. Crane’s Beach is entirely too gorgeous.

6. If you want to see utter glee on your 3.5 year old son's face, take him to Water Country. Never has a kid been so happy as Owen was when in that water park. Insane giddy people.

7. The Dunkin Donuts strong arm on Massachusetts is iron clad (and almost mafia like in its tactics). How many Dunkin Donuts can one state have? I don’t think the people even enjoy the DD, but they have no other choice in the matter.

8. Drinking half of bottle of grey goose on a Friday night in order reclaim your drinking youth is not exactly fun the next morning. But when waking up that morning deciding with still drunk mind and eyes to run five miles is bordering on masochistic.

9. The antipasto appetizer at Massimino’s in the North End made my belly cry out in delight.

10. Although the pull of family and friends is great, I am now a San Francisco girl. I like my summers foggy cold so that my whiskey can gently warm.

Travel Thoughts

In less just about 23 hours I will be in the first hour of a five and half hour flight (SF to Boston) with my husband, 3.5 year old son and 16 month old daughter. This I wish happen on the plane:

1. That he purple glow of the Virgin American plane creates an almost spa like effect in my children lulling them into incapacity (sans drool).

2. That there are other children on the plane, so that when I look up and meet the eyes of another parent, we can via our eyes say “Holy god, I am getting so drunk after this flight.”

3. That toddler headphones work miracles.

4. That my daughter naps.

5. That I don’t run screaming to the exit in a fit of insanity because some asshole just bumped the chair and Maggie woke up 10 minutes into her usual two hour nap (this happened before, that flight is what in which hell is loosely based).

6. That crayons occupy tiny minds, and if not occupy, I really don’t care if they eat them, because an entire twenty pack will be what, 45 minutes of gastronomical delight?

7. That there is no divorce after we land.

8. That there are no explosive poops.

9. That I can hold myself back if someone rolls their eyes at me, because I might snap. And by snap, I mean place my kid on their lap and say “Okay, Dr. Sears have at it.”

10. That by some miracle of god, they are actually a-okay, behave, and people cheer and high five me upon my exit. And then unicorns, fairies and rainbows greet me at Logan (with vodka).

The Attack of the Yellow Pepper, Plane Rides and Boston Gimlets

What you see before you may appear to be a yellow pepper. But for me, it is a killer. Today at the allergist I happened to mention what happened to me in Hawaii a few years back when I had unknowingly consumed my allergic nemesis, the yellow pepper. After the doctor stared at me, he said “This is very serious Ms. McCall. What you experienced was anaphylaxis.” Yeah. “You will need to come in for further food testing and carry around an epipen. As well as get a medical alert bracelet.” Uh-huh. “You could die Ms. McCall.” All righty. Then I was instructed on how to save myself via the epipin and watched a movie about anaphylactic shock. And now for the rest of my life I will carry around an epipin and wear a medical alert bracelet because I am allergic to god darn yellow peppers. However, this is pretty exciting in the sense my nerd status has risen to “Stephen J. Hawking” levels. Also, I was told "never to eat alone." So I better not get divorced.

Two days from now John and I embark on our adventure east. We are both a tad bit fearful on this completely booked plane that our kids are going to go ape shit and make us the hated McCalls of Row 5. I am going to look positively towards this trip and negate all memories of the trip back home with Maggie in March. The one in which I think hell is loosely based, because positivity gets positive results right? Right? Anyone with me? Help me.

Anyway, see you soon Beantown! If you are in Boston and would like to get together for a drink, remember, I like gimlets.

Happy Anniversary

Today is my fourth anniversary with one Mr. John Preston McCall Jr. I would like to stress the junior part there, because I just kind of vomited in my mouth a little. No offense John’s Dad. Five years ago today we went to a Giants game (they won!), then to a bar (shocker!) and then we made out (whores!). Exactly one year later, we got married. Did I plan that? Oh hell no, total coincidence, what do I look like, an actual girl? But I did plan the pregnancy that forced him to marry me. Kidding - he got me drunk, bought an ovulation calculator and trapped me. Duh! But yeah, four years of babies and wine and laughter and beer and sports and vodka. And even though he once tried to steal Chris Carpenter from me in fantasy baseball (first official fight) and once watched Lost without me when I was a raging hormonal weaning mess (second official fight), I have forgiven him and love him very, very much. These past five years have been my absolute happiness (okay I am a girl, gosh darn it).

P.S. Still waiting on that third fight, but guessing it will probably involve not wanting to take Patrick Willis in the 5th round in our IDP League. (He is a total fourth rounder).

P.P.S. And we just happened to make these guys.

Update on My Life - Yada, Yada, Yada

What a bad blogger. Not updating the 2.5 people who actually read this thing. Well fear not loyal reader(s), I am back. And as such, here are a few of the things that have occurred in the past few weeks.

1. Lumpy was Excised. My surgery with Lumpy went pretty well. I was awake (but heavily drugged) for the entire thing. I asked to see my lumpy. Which in some circles would be weird, but the people in that room thought it was awesome. Lumpy looked like the fat part you cut off on chicken, but baseball sized and bloody. Totally gross, and totally awesome. Also, for a surgery that was “no big deal” I got a prescription for forty vicodin. The bad news is that a tiny piece of Lumpy survived - hello surgery circa 2022. The good part is that the scar on my shoulder looks like I was in a knife fight. Meaning, if ever imprisoned, no one can make me their bitch. Holla! (Side Note: I watched Reform School Girls way too many times).

2. Vacation. We headed up to the cabin last week with Owen and Maggie and our sanity. We left three days later with Owen and Maggie and shreds of that sanity. A not childproofed propane, rustic cabin is no place for a fifteen old month girl with what may be intelligence of Einstein combined with the definate personality of an insane Viking warrior. Girls are easy my ass.

3. Happy Anniversary. June was the one year anniversary of the start of my running. I have been exercising consistently for an entire year. Pigs are not flying, but it has to be soon.

4. Vacation Part Duex. We leave for Boston at the end of the month for two weeks of humidity. If you are a praying person, pray for me. Those kids on a plane for nearly 6 hours may be the death of me.

5. Happy Anniversary Part Duex. July 22 is the fourth anniversary of The Debastardization of Owen Patrick McCall. How can I have been married for four years? How can I have had two kids? How is it that I have not run out for a pack of cigarettes and never returned? Oh yeah, because I got to marry one Mr. John McCall, who all in all is a wonderful guy that I am lucky to have met (and trapped).

There you go. A summary of event of the past, and events of the future. There is a number of things I want to do in Boston. All of which start with beach and end in oyster. But that is another story.

So Long Lumpy

Thirteen years ago, while watching television, probably 90210 or Melrose Place, I felt something on my shoulder. My thoughts ran immediately to cancer and death at the tender age of twenty-three. This was before the days of instant internet access wherein one could spend obsessive amounts to time googling “shoulder lump”, “cancer at 23” and “alternative funeral music.” I called my doctor, got an appointment and was told my “lump” was actually a “lipoma”. Li-what? “Li-po-ma,” said the doctor. A benign tumor of fat cells with slow growth that does not have to be removed. Every twenty-three year old girl loves to be told a growing tumor of fat cells was her new best friend. Thus began the phase most appropriately titled “Me and My Lipoma: Growing a Second Head.” As time passed, pea sized Lumpy grew to what it is now: an almost baseball size lump of fat residing prominently on my shoulder. I am Lumpy, Hear Me Roar, In A Size Too Big to Ignore. In fact, the other day Owen grabbed my shoulder and said “Mummy’s ball. Mummy’s ball. Daddy, Mummy has a ball.” After wiping away the tears, I realized that my decision to have Lumpy excised by a surgeon was the right decision. Because even though a head rest at the age of seventy would be incredibly awesome and the envy of Noel Gallagher’s Oasis For the Old, it would be even nicer to wear a tank top without small children pointing. Tomorrow, Lumpy is being removed. The doctor informs “there will be a scar.” Which maybe I am to care about, but do realize (a) I think scars are cool and (b) a scar is much better than my son thinking I have a god damn ball smuggled under the skin of my shoulder. So Lumpy, I wish you well in your extraction. It has been fun. Remember that time I got really, really drunk and tried to take you out myself? Me either, but honestly, surprised it did not happen. But now the real question. How do I ask the surgeon that I need to see removed Lumpy without seeming insane? After all, he is really my firstborn.

Hormone Hell: One Woman's Lament

In an effort never to be pregnant again, and fearful of the 20% typical use failure rate of the diaphram, I talked to my doctor and was prescribed birth control pills. Birth control pills, in general, take three months of use before hormonal shifts settle. Things to expect are acne, weight gain, mood swings and your uncontrolled wine consumption. I was prepping for the battle, but my low dose Loestrin 24fe proved pretty awesome. I felt none of these ills, and was happy that my eggs were locked up prison style. Until now. This week is the last of the pack week, otherwise known as you become the devil and ride the crimson wave week. The last two days have been brutal. Tuesday I awoke with a pimpled chin and bloated belly. Last night involved night sweats and fitful sleep. This morning another pimple sprouted on the tip of my nose. Then I cried in my closet for ten minutes because every look to the mirror created disgust for hair, body and the Rudolph the Reindeer impersonation. But, I got over it. A hug from John, the knowledge that this is typical, my period arriving and a three mile run all proved vital to my sanity. Now at the end of the day, I am improved, none of the intense cramps that are typical of my first menses day are present. This is great news to everyone except the makers of Advil. One month down, two to go. Wish me luck.

Equal Footing: The Problem with Sex and The City

Having a vagina at times can be difficult, case in point, the Sex and The City 2 premiere. SATC2 is basically one giant honing device for vaginas making all females powerless in its estrogen fueled aura. Even I as a beer swigging, sports crazed tomboy whose greatest joys are often fantasy football related want to see this movie. When getting coffee this morning, I gazed upon the West Portal Cinema Marquee seeing “Sex and the City 2”. My heart instantaneously leapt, some thing that is usually reserved for Patrick Willis tackles or Tom Brady touchdowns. Why this draw? Why this magnetism? WHY? Fear not, I have finally figured it out. The Sex and the City franchise to women is what Lethal Weapon and Road House is to men. Don’t believe me? Turn on either of those movies in the presence of a heterosexual man and watch as his body and brain furiously focus on the magic of Mel Gibson’s Martin Riggs or rugged awesome of Patrick Swayze’s Dalton. Absolutely helpless are their testosterone riddled minds. This has amazed me for years since there was no female equivalent, until now. Now ladies, we have the Sex and the City franchise. We have our kryptonite in the form of Manalo Blahniks, Cosmopolitans and girl talk. And we are all defeated.

My Name Is Maggie, And I Am A Bagelholic.

Because of a work meeting, while John got coffee at Peet’s, I took Maggie into Noahs for bagels. As soon as she had a look at the bagel display window she began to point while simultaneously humping my hip and repeating “baaayyylllll”, “baaaayyylllll”. A few weeks ago Maggie received her first taste of boiled and baked doughy goodness instantaneously falling in love. I ordered her a plain cinnamon raisin with John's toasted pumpernickel with butter and plain blueberry. Usually plain bagels are handed you immediately while you walk down to pay. But today some lady starts asking questions about the cased salads. Because who doesn’t want lettuce at 8:00 a.m. The Noah’s assembly line only prepared for toasting, cream cheesing and buttering came to a halt. Maggie did not take kindly to this, looking around and becoming increasingly agitated. She looked to me with fright pointing and saying “Bayyyylll, Mamba. Bayyylll.” while we moved to pay. "BAAYYYLLLL!!!!" Dude, I get it, you want a bagel. I ordered okay, it’s not my fault some fifty year old woman started going on and on about whether she gets a free bagel with her chicken caesar. Finally bagel man realizing the error of his ways, as my Tasmanian bagelholic reached higher and higher pitch, handed over the bag. Placated, Maggie smiled and said “tank you.” At least she is a polite bitch.

A New Love

This past weekend after seeing the maniacs of Bay to Breakers, we headed to the Park Chalet. When one surrounds themselves with public drunkenness, it is only rational to achieve similar status. It being Bay to Breakers, there were a few special treats at the ole Chalet, namely, Leblon Cachaca. Which is like rum in that it comes from cane juice, but not rum, but Cachaca, the liquor of Brazil - DON’T CALL IT RUM (even though it is classified as same by the US because Cachaca is not recognized). I armed with strawberry and John pineapple we sipped. We sipped some more. Then we smiled at each other like that time the kids slept until 8:00 a.m., that one glorious time in over 400 attempts. But do I care? Nope, I have Leblon. So suck it sleeper inners with your non-baggy eyes, and your no kids, and your need for alarm clocks. I have my muddled pineapple Leblon Cachaca splendor.

The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.

The Long and the Short of It.

Friday was spent in a salon chair where I was given exactly what was asked for, “Shorter. Like a ponytail, but not the actual pony tail. Not a bob.” Famous last words, for Rihanna I am not. Although repeatedly told it looks great, cute and modern, every look to the mirror elicits the same response: cringe, scowl and what the hell was I thinking. This immediately followed by the googled factoid that “human hair grows 1/2 inch per month” and October is totally right around the corner. In five short days I have purchased clips, barrettes, bobby pins and headbands. Simply put, this hair cut is not me. I am a bob, not a longish pixie. I tried the pants on and guess what? I HAVE A FUCKING MUFFIN TOP. But I resolve not to cry, not to bitch, not to tackle a long haired girl with scissors for cheap extensions, I will wait this out, one half inch month at a time. And that is the long of it, the short of it is obviously my hair.

The Killer Whale Roll

Bay Shabu Sushi Sake is a restaurant in San Francisco that has a food challenge. You devour the Killer Whale Roll in thirty minutes or less. The $29.95 Killer Whale Roll is four pounds of sushi comprising shrimp, crab, eel, spicy tuna, vegetables, avocado, and tobiko. No one can help you in the endeavor, it is just you and this:



Egads! That thing looks like a post nuclear attack apocolyptic slug. When stopping by the front door today, I saw this posted:




That right there my friends is the Killer Whale Challenge World Champion. "He eat it in 14 minutes, 20 seconds." (That's what she said.) Now my question, you think that guy is really on the Track Team?

Uh Oh, it’s the Monster Cookie

There is an insanely gratifying feeling when your children begin to speak. Awe mixed with love mixed with complete adoration. Maggie has begun her Uh Oh phase. Dropped a sippy cup? Uh Oh. See Daddy? Uh Oh. Eat your one thousandth strawberry of the day? Uh Oh. Mommy’s glass of wine is empty? Uh Oh. Okay fine, the last one I said. The Uh Ohhhing toddler is incredibly cute. She also says Daddy, Mama, thank you, hiyeee, waffle and a few others I am forgetting because she is my second kid, and who cares, right? My first born on the other hand was very select with his words and did not really say too much. Now the kid is a yammering fool. From his “Mama, I miss you” when saying goodnight to the holy cow you are awesome “Monster Cookie” in reference to the cookie monster. Who is that Owen? Mama, that the Monster Cookie. Who could correct that? He is speaking so well these days and becoming this little person. They are no longer babies, they are an almost 3 and a half year old monster cookie loving kid and a 13 month old uh ohhing toddler. Both whom I love exceedingly.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
After Mr. Salinger's death, it was an absolute must to reread this book. What amounts to maybe my tenth reading, I can firmly state that this book still resonates and is a masterpiece. You feel as if you are in the mind of a person, in the room with him as the tale unfolds. Your heart breaks as his does, and you take from it the simple fact that life is hard, and things happen, but there are small things that “kill” you with joy. I love this book, but still would never name my kid Holden, because good god.

View all my reviews >>

Tales of MUNI

I have been taking public transportation since birth. I do believe Mary Jane had to hobble onto the green line to Mass General after her water broke when opening the fridge. This should be a lesson to all pregnant women, stop eating already. My entire life I have been getting on and off of trains and buses as a way to get from here to there. My mind is programmed to think bus rather than car, which now makes me “green” when it use to just make me “poor”. Yes, public commuting can be an exercise in exasperation with its delays and overly close sweaty scabies guy. But it also provides a bounty of entertainment, especially in the form of people running to a train that they are about to miss.

The See Saw. A person usually of advancing age saddled with too many grocery bags of what smells to be rotting vegetables. The run to the train is a quick duck waddle with the bags of one side going down and the bags of the other going up. This person will always miss the train, and possibly break a hip.

The Bitch Slap. This person sees the train and makes a mad dash, only to stop because they realize the journey is impossible. But then the train remains with heckling open doors. They run fooled by promise only to reach closing doors with a departing train. This will always end with cursing usually of the muther fucker variety.

The Savior. There will be times when you are running towards a train, another passenger sees your effort. Perhaps a Bitch Slap fresh in his mind, he holds the door open while you enter the train. You will say “thank you” and he will “smile”, the rest of the train will glare at the both of you for making them late.

The Jabberwocky. This is the person for some reason or another when running for a train starts to talk in almost hysterical excitement. There is usually some sort of skip run combined with an “Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhh. Wait, Wait, Wait.” Perhaps invoking a Savior response in another passenger, but usually just ending with them on the platform huffing and puffing with a significant amount of eye rolling.

And there you have it, just a few of the pleasures of public transportation to witness and adore while you Purell your hands obsessively while tri-folding your newspaper. How do those guys do it?