Tag Archives: Baltimore

That Time the Universe Didn’t Want Me to Go to Baltimore

1 Jul

As I sit here, staring at a blank text box… I have no idea where this post is going to go, so I hope y’all aren’t looking for Pulitzer material out of me today. I’m on my lunch break at work and avoiding my accounting homework like the plague, so the way I see it… you’re all helping me procrastinate. Thanks for that, assholes.

Ohh!  I got it. I’ll regale you all with the tale of one of my more recent (and by recent, I mean January or February) trips to Baltimore and how the universe plotted against me the whole way there.

I had off on a rare Sunday, so I figured why the hell shouldn’t I head down to Charm City to see some friends and drink some beers and have a Sunday Funday like everyone else in the world (you know, the ones that don’t work retail and have their lives run by shitty hours)?  Baltimore is roughly a 1.5-2hr drive from the burbs of Philly where I reside, so this trip should’ve been a piece of cake, right? Wrong.

I woke up late, having snoozed through my alarm roughly 137 times (hyperbole is my favorite) and rushed to get showered and dressed and ready. I called Lauren, my BFF that I rarely ever get to see (miss you, smooches!) and let her know I was off to a slow start. After getting perfectly coiffed and made up and ready to roll, I headed out the front door, excited to begin the day’s adventure. Caffeine addict that I am, I decided to stop for coffee on the way. I hit I-95 south, and was on my merry way. As I drove along, I went to grab my coffee and take a sip. Like a dumb ass, I grabbed it from the top, and the next thing you know, I had hot coffee all over my lap. Fucking awesome. In pain and soaking wet, I pulled off the closest exit, which happened to dump me in the lovely city of Chester (note my sarcasm when I say lovely). I hit the nearest surface street, pull over, and jump out of my car, flailing around because I’m covered in coffee and that shit was HOT. What I did not notice was the group of guys sitting out on the front stoop across the street from where I was doing my third-degree burn dance.

“Hey white girl… you ok?” is the phrase that pulled me out of my flailing, and I sheepishly told the very large man looking at me like I’d lost my mind what had happened. Turns out, his name was Jamal, and he was sympathetic to my plight. He offered me a towel, which I graciously accepted, and a shower, which I politely declined. Showering in the homes of strangers isn’t something I make a habit of – that’s how bitches end up as a plot on Criminal Minds. Once I was sufficiently dried off, I  had a decision to make. Drive to Baltimore covered in coffee and buy pants once I got to town, or take the 20min trip back home and change. Erring on the side of frugality, I headed home. I got back to my house in record time, a woman on a mission. I parked my car out front, and went to run inside to change. I didn’t make it halfway up the front walk when I felt something hit my head. SPLAT! A bird took the nastiest shit ever, and it landed directly in my hair. That’s right, after spilling coffee all over myself, I got shit on by a bird whose diet must consist only of purple, sticky berries.

I went inside, determined to make it to Baltimore by the end of the day, and showered, having to wash my hair THREE times to get the bird crap out of it. THREE TIMES. Ridiculous. I headed out the door and hit the road once again, this time opting to stop at 7-11 for a Rockstar, since coffee clearly wasn’t in the cards anymore. I made it down 95 and 495 without incident, and was content to rock out on my way down, keeping my speed probably somewhere around 80-85mph (don’t judge me). I was hell bent on making it to Baltimore before noon. Anyone that is familiar with where route 495 dumps back onto 95 in Christiana can vouch for me that this piece of road is terrible. People forget how to merge, and it’s basically just a huge clusterfuck. Changing lanes is like playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun sometimes, and I have literally never experienced this stretch of highway without uttering something along the lines of “goddamnfuckingDelawaredriverswhatthefuckareyoudoingIhateyougetthefuckoutofmywaybeforeIrunyouoffthegoddamnroad” (road rage may or may not be an issue for me). Anyway, I guess I had forgotten to mention that it had recently snowed. Right.

As I navigated amongst the Delwarians trying to figure out what MERGE means, I got stuck behind a tractor trailer, which large trucks on either side of me. Fantastic. I quickly realized the truck in front of me hadn’t bothered to clear the top of his trailer before getting on the road, and there was a rather large amount of snow hanging on precariously to the top of the trailer. It took me all of three seconds to realize this shit was about to shake loose and head my way, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. Sure enough, AVALANCHE!! The windshield of my car was assaulted by what I figure was 2 tons of snow, and lost visibility for a minute. All I could do was white-knuckle the steering wheel, keep it steady, turn my wipers on, and pray. I narrowly avoided disaster.

I ended up making it to Balitmore just shy of my 12pm goal, and was met at the bar by friends and beer… all’s well that ends well, I guess. I figure I’m a trooper for continuing on when all signs pointed to keeping my ass in Philadelphia for the day. Dedication, friends, that’s what that is. The end.

I warned you all that this wouldn’t be my best material, so… yeah. Just another day in the life, right?

xoxo

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That One Time We Got Locked Out (Or, Thanks Officer Friendly, I didn’t need my security deposit back anyway)

17 Jun

The above video has nothing to do with this story other than the fact that the police are involved, but it still makes me giggle. You’re welcome.

Back in college, I lived in a studio apartment above a bowling alley. The entrance I used to get upstairs was a security door on the side of the building. I lived on the third floor, so I’m sure you can imagine what a trek those stairs were, especially when drunk. At the time, I was working part time for T-Mobile, going to class, and was in a relationship with Baltimore (we’ll call him Baltimore since that’s where he lives and I don’t like naming names). We had been together for a few months by then, and since we were long distance we’d split time on weekends between Baltimore and Philly. Because I was working retail, Baltimore would hang out at my apartment while I worked. Because there was only one key to the security door of my building and it couldn’t be copied, I would leave my house keys when I went to work so he wasn’t doomed to stay in the house all day.

One particular Saturday night, I worked a closing shift. I remember getting home tired and mildly cranky, but excited I’d get to see the boy and relax. I called him from the car, letting him know I was home since he had to come downstairs to let me in – the bowling alley wasn’t high tech enough for an intercom system. He greeted me at the door with a smile, and we started up the steps. Up three flights of wooden stairs was a long hallway, and at the end of it was my apartment door. No sooner did we hit the beginning of that hallway did I hear “FUCKING MOTHERFUCKER.” See, the door to apartment number 8 was a little tricky. Because the door was so goddamn old, it had kind of a strange lock on it – in order for it to stay unlocked, you push a little button next to the knob on the inside. If you didn’t push the button, the door would need to be opened from the outside with the key. That night, Baltimore had forgotten this minor detail (as I had once or twice in the past on my own) and gone downstairs behind me to let me in, and didn’t think to leave the door open or push the button on the knob. We were locked out.

My first thought was to go downstairs to call my rental office. When no one answered the emergency line there, Baltimore suggested I go down to the bowling alley to see if they had the landlord’s direct number. As it turned out, they did. I called him, and he was fairly rude in telling me he was an hour away and if the rental office didn’t call me up, I could simply wait until the next morning to be let back into my place. By rude, I mean he was a raging dickhole. Fed up with the lack of action, Baltimore offered to attempt to kick the door in. Tired and hungry, I relented, figuring it was worth a shot. After a few solid kicks, we decided to call the police to see if they could help. He was barefoot and avoiding injury was key.

Two officers showed up and the four of us brainstormed. The police said they could call the fire department to have them put a ladder up to the building so I could climb over the rail of my deck and climb through the window, which we were almost certain was open. After much debate, I decided I would rather try to find another way, mainly because I felt really dumb having to call the fire department to my home, lights and sirens, simply because my boyfriend accidentally locked us out. One of the nice policemen said “Well, I could kick it in if you want. Should swing right open.” Since he was wearing heavy boots and a badge, I figured why not?

Officer Friendly prepared himself with a couple of light bounces on the balls of his feet and kicked HARD… however, instead of aiming for the spot right above the lock, which would have hopefully forced the latch open, he went for the center of the door. Now, if this door had been up to code and had been solid wood, he would have most likely broken his foot. Instead, he put his foot DIRECTLY THROUGH THE TOP PANEL OF MY DOOR. His foot got stuck, and we all stood there for a second staring at one another before completely cracking up. After a solid two minutes of laughing our asses off, the officer reached through the hole in the door and unlocked it for me. I made mention of losing my security deposit, and the officer who hadn’t kicked a whole in my door looked at me and said “Well… here’s my card, but good luck getting the department to cover that. You gave permission for use to forcefully enter the apartment.” He wasn’t wrong… I HAD said they could kick it in. We thanked them and went inside, where I called my dad and asked him if he could come over and fix the door.

After explaining to my dad what happened when he arrived, he simply shook his head and said, “Only you.” He patched the hole with a sheet of plywood, a 2″x4″, and some screws. The rental office called me two days later, and I told them what happened. They told me I had to replace the door or I would lost my deposit. My dad came over and hung a new door a couple days later and hung a new door. The landlord stopped over a week later, and told me the door we hung wasn’t a fire door, and we had to buy a new one. I refused, calling L&I within the township to run the situation by them. They agreed the original door on the building couldn’t have been a fire door if the police had been able to destroy it with one single kick. I refused to replace it, and ended up losing my deposit. Thanks, UDPD.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.

XOXO

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