~Wednesday~ You’ve heard of the fork in the road, but how about the:
I stepped over that walking to my bus stop this morning.
That driver was back, but mercifully, she actually had on the air-conditioning. The Kanki Guy (officially named now) got on at the McDonald’s stop at Western/Gorman, and I’ve officially deemed that he works at the Kanki on Old Wake Forest Road, not the one at Crabtree.
Mr. Martin, can you tell the court how you came to this arbitrary conclusion? All because he doesn’t get off at Hillsborough/Dixie Trail to switch to the #4 Rex Hospital bus, which would take him to Crabtree Valley Mall, but I suppose there’s an outside chance he works at the one in Durham and switches to a TTA bus downtown.
I worked well into lunch time today, and by the time I got to a good place for a break, it was too close to my 1:00 meeting to allow much more than 20 minutes to find something to eat, eat it, and get back by 1:00.
I meandered down Hillsborough Street, first thinking I’d get a hamburger, and then remembered Laziz Biryani Corner, where I could get a quick Chicken Kabob Wrap, which I love. Unfortunately, once I got there, the line was too long. The food’s great there, but it’s not exactly fast food—nor is it intended to be.
I sauntered further down Hillsborough Street to Jimmy John’s where I had a killer ham and cheese sub. On the way out, the extreme irony of the grammar error in this ad did not escape me. [Hover to expose it.]
Great. I’m’ not grateful for this, which is right at the curb at the bus stop at which I wait for the bus home. So far, I have remembered to step back away from it when I’ve pulled out either my BlackBerry or my wallet from which to extract my bus fare card.
I waffled about whether to go dancing tonight, and ended up going. It was an absolute fiasco there, and I left after 45 minutes. I’m going to really, really try to make myself not go there next Wednesday.
In what came across as another desperate attempt to make money, the bartender made my drink with top shelf bourbon even though I order wells. He knows that I’ll tip more if he does that, but really, and ethically, it’s a win/win/lose, with he and I being the winners and the business being the loser. And if the business continues to be the loser, well, in the end…
They had painted the stairs that lead up to the smoking area outside, and they had the fan that’s usually blowing on the dance floor while we dance pointed up there blowing out, with the door open at the top of the stairs, letting in the 90% humidity of a 92°-at-9:30-at-night evening.
I was washing my hands in the restroom when the bartender came in and I commented about how hot it was in there. “Yeah, well when I got here, they had that door closed at the top of the stairs and the fan was blowing all of the paint fumes back in here, so I opened it.”
I danced about three line dances and two two-steps before throwing in the towel—figuratively speaking, of course. Because if I’d had a real towel to throw, I would have dried the sweat off my body with it first.