Last Friday Night....

....Frankly, I think I lost my battle against the hoodies. For now. They're not in stock at the moment and I'm crossing every finger I have that the hideousness gets dropped.

Also, I'm cold, I just missed my next connection, I haven't eaten all day (I tried to have some strawberry yoghurt but they put bits of fruit in it  - how could they?) and there are way too many people on this platform. I'm also elegantly carrying an open bag with my sleep shirt stuffed in for everyone to see, clenching my laptop so I don't get a hunchback from my other bag I've swung over my shoulder. I just hope I fit through the train door if it ever shows up.

There's a mom in here, standing with a baby strapped onto her body that is dressed in an adorable striped suit with a hood (the only time they're cute) with ears. The baby's not making a whimp, either, so I allow myself to consider it sweet. However, the mom has a toddler with her as well, with blonde ringlets and more hair volume than I currently have. The girl wants to sit down, so it crouches onto the single stair between compartments. "Don't put your hands on there or people will step on you", the mom says. And she says it many, many times - I'm afraid for my fingers by this point. The train stops, people come in, walking up the stairs, scooting past the little girl, but one unlucky man with Beats on his head ever so slightly puts down his foot inches too far on the left and brushes the girl's tiny fingernails - I see everything in slow motion, thinking "Nooooooo for God's sake" - and needless to say, disaster strikes. The girl says "Ow.". And starts bawling. Cue to the mom to begin going "Oh, no, I told you not to put your hands on there" again, and again, and again, and the girl changes it up by alternating between "Ow" and "Mommy" and I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. I have so much respect for mothers who mildly endure their children not ever shutting up.

Finally! I'm breathing the fresh Connectictut air, I can see the car that's supposed to pick me up, I get into it without a word, my bags a mess in the legroom, he turns the key - nothing. Just a weird, stuttering sound with slight similaritiy to what an engine should sound like. "We have a problem", he says. I burst into a fit of (okay, hysteric) giggles. "No, we really do", he says. "I know", I chuckle, "Sorry". I can't help it, it's such a classic "Can this day get any worse?" and the day being like "Oh yeah, I actually can" situation that it's starting to get funny (excruciatingly so, but still funny). It's hard to explain though, so I understand why he's not laughing with me. I mean, it's his car that appears to be breaking down. And I'm not exactly helpful crisis company, as you can imagine. Neither do I have a clue on what to do when a car doesn't start (Except calling my Dad) nor do I have calming things to say or constructive comments to make ("We could walk away and never return"). Oh well. He doesn't seem to mind that much / is too sweet to say "Damn, I really wish my friend who likes motor sports was here with me instead". Anyways, help is coming (He called his Dad, so technically, my approach has been pretty sensible after all) and all I can concentrate on is the pizza I'm gonna stuff my face with as soon as we get home so I'll leave it at that.

Hope you had a sparkly weekend that didn't involve anything on wheels.

Love,

Rosy Smith