Irony's a bitchass ho

Saturday night was one of the worst nights I've ever experienced. Thanks to it, I didn't do any homework (well, this is actually thanks to my intense passion for procrastination), screwed up my job interview, disappointed people I really care about, developed bags under my eyes, and became ridiculously sick. Who wants to live my life again? Come on, anyone? Don't be shy now!

It started when I told my mother I'd be having a sleepover. Actually it started when I was stranded at Valley Fair for two and a half hours because Marina's seven pairs of size 0 jeans no longer fit her 18-year-old ass. I love her to death, but her we're-not-leaving-until-I-buy-jeans-and-OOH-that's-a-pretty-dress cost me my evening plans. Still, she wasn't the only stubborn one. I was determined to spend the night with Friend at Half Moon Bay, I was determined to get my mom's car, and I was dead set on doing this that night.

"I have a life too you know!!" was mother's response when I asked her for the keys. Really, my argument was flawless - drive up for a sleepover (really, mom, I'm sure you must be tired by this hour) and return home in the morning for my second Starbucks interview. In reality, I'd drive up to the beach and have one of those coveted second-semester-senior spontaneous absolutely crazy once-in-a-lifetime adventures.

Um, right. If anyone has lived on our lovely earth, they'd know that the only time things fall into place for that kind of night is in the cinema. For the first time in the nine years, my mother decided to go out. To the bar, to her boyfriend, to the club with her boyfriend - whatever. Why tonight? Beats the crap outta me. Point is, she drove me to my friend's house for the supposed sleepover around 9 and left to go party.

That's okay, the naive little saturday-night me still thinks. I'll have Friend pick me up and we could still make it happen. Except, of course, I'd have to deal with the fact that the house I was "sleeping" in was located up on a mountain in a different city in pitch-black darkness. I had trouble finding it even with the GPS. When Friend called, I explained the situation and gave up, saying I'd just have my mother pick me up on her way back from wherever. "No, wutchu talking about! Tell her you're sleeping over and I'll come get you!" Claiming he had a sober driver, a car, and a GPS inside that car, he convinced me to completely rely on him.

12 PM. Friend's phone goes straight to voice mail when called. Other friend, the one whose house I was in, was being very generous but increasingly sleepy, and her parents were starting to wonder when I was going to go home. Soon, soon, I kept telling them. I'm going to kill him, I decided.

1 PM. I suggested we go onto her bed since her eyes were closing. The guilt was eating me up inside. Friend finally called saying he found a charger for his "dead phone", and he was going to come get me if only I'd text him step-by-step directions on how to get to the house. But sweetie, I growled, what about the GPS? GPS, my ass. I had no other choice but to text him the street names. The girl's mom was making sure for the 6th time I didn't need her to drive me home herself.

Half an hour later, I was in the car with four people, two of whom were passed out in the back seat. Wonderful. We drove to a park near my house where we stupidly got out of the car and froze our butts off on the benches. That was even more fun than waiting to get picked up. And oh, how could I not mention the highlight of the night - when I sat behind the wheel because Friend decided he wanted Jack in the Box, and the original driver was making out with her boyfriend on the grass, the cops pulled up right behind us at the drive-through window. I still have a provisional license, see. My heart hadn't done that many leaps since season 3 of LOST came out on DVD.

I suppose the best, and the only good, part of the night was how Friend behaved himself. The first thing he asked when he picked me up is if I had a place to stay, and if not, he'd find me one. I lied and said I'd just crash at Marina's, but he made me call Marina on the spot to make sure. Woke up crabby Marina, arranged plans. Later, he took me on a walk, discussed childhood favorite Nickelodeon shows (Hey Arnold? Anyone?), pushed me out of the way of a 3 AM biker with an obvious death wish with the words "man, if that guy hit you, I woulda... freakin'... well, you know what I would do." He even offered to walk the 20 feet with me to Marina's house (which I politely refused) and texted a few minutes after I left to make sure everything was okay. In other words, he was the perfect friend.

Marina kicked me out at 6 AM saying she had to get up for work. I didn't complain. After making so many things difficult for so many people, I just wanted to get out. It didn't matter that I didn't have a place to go. I'd eat breakfast (and drink lots of coffee) in Starbucks, and tell my mother I was dropped off by the girl's parents when I'd come home around 9.

It didn't help that outside, it was raining out of a bucket. I pulled up my polyester hood and sloshed in my Keds around the parking lot. I wanted to cry. The rain took care of that, though. And, here it is, the big ironic moment of the story -

As I was rounding my house, I glanced at our parking space. My mother's car was not there. I suppose she stayed over at her boyfriend's house, and I could have been home all along.

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The reason I believe I screwed up my Starbucks interview later in the day is because I became ridiculously sick. I'm not sure if it was the rain, the lack of proper clothing under the rain, or the lack of sleep destroying my immune system. In any case, I welcomed the coughing and headache. I've been feeling so pathetic and disgusted at myself lately, I saw this as a way to physically release all my self-hatred. This sounds a lot more depressing than it actually is - I feel I got what I deserved, and balance in my self-concept (another shameless psych plug) is restored.

It has taken me almost one week to write this post. For some reason, I just didn't want to finish it. And I'm still sick.
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Rain, testosterone, and a really cold steel bench

My February 11 started out on my couch watching Sex and the Citywith Priya and ended with me stranded at the Mountain View train station for at least an hour. Long story short, everyone was busy with their busy lives and barely had time to drop me off to a Caltrain. The train that was supposed to come at 6:23 didn't show up, I was afraid that the subsequent ones were limited-stop, so I found a bench and sat myself down for what turned into the rainiest evening Mountain View had seen this year.

The first thing I noticed was that there were barely any women around, anywhere. I was surrounded by middle-aged men, some in their twenties, some nearing retirement. A few watched me for a few seconds before glancing at their watch in utter impatience. I don't mind waiting anymore, not after sitting at ____ for over three hours before being called in by tired asian ladies in white stained coats, but this changes when my nose is going numb and I can't unclench my fingers from my purse strap. I wondered why there were no women. I was on the San Francisco-bound side; maybe the men were returning home from work? You'd think if they lived in SF, they would work there as well. Maybe it was all the single men who didn't yet have a family or car or house, and were rushing back to their subsidized apartments carrying a stern expression and expensive-looking briefcases. Who can tell?

The second thing I noticed was that to make their impatience clear, these men would purposely step over the forbidden yellow line and stretch their heads to see the deep end of the train tracks, although they could perfectly see from the benches that there was no train in sight. Some decided to walk on the very tip of the curb that falls into the tracks and bitch into their cellphones. People are funny that way. 

After a while I got bored watching them do idiotic things, and leaned against a wire fence and waited.

Another train whizzed by. Limited stops, they told me. No way to find out if California avenue is one of them. As I stood there watching these tired angry impatient men hoard themselves into the closing doors, and was running out of ideas for thoughts to drive away the boredom, I started thinking about timing. Was it really everything, as they say? On countless occasions, good timing has accidentally saved me from an eternity of problems. Then again, some things were timed just right to create the biggest problem I've ever faced.

Shows have different things to say about timing. Sex and the City suggests that things are different the second time around. If that was a universal rule, life would be just dandy. Then again, different doesn't always mean better. And in any case, I always feel like I fall into the same rut no matter how I try to change my approach. Time, shmime. The only thing it has shown me is that people don't change.

What was the point of me standing under the increasingly pouring rain at 7 PM surrounded my a bunch of idiots with death wishes? Maybe if my ride left the house earlier, we wouldn't be in such a rush and I would be dropped off at home to my comforting couch. If I bothered to get off that couch and get a permit when I was 15, I wouldn't even be needing to catch the train. And if we had only waited, waited until after December and January when the whole mess would be over, maybe it would have worked out.

And with those thoughts, my 7:04 train made a full stop.

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