For once, I've been smart enough to call a car to the airport instead of trying to catch a cab. The trick is, with this flight, all the cabs in my neighborhood are going off duty. Sometimes they only think of it when you're in the damn cab. Then they stop and ask you to get out, or they discreetly radio their buddies to find some sucker who will take you. I got tossed around in three different cabs once like some sort of very angry hot potato. And that third cab proceeded to rear-end someone on the BQE, so I missed my flight anyway. My only recourse in these circumstances is to level a Medusa like glare at previous cab driver and assume my Lawyer Mode with the next one: Bitchily, unapologetically demanding. Or, of course, I could just remember to call a car.
I am going to San Jose, which is a kind of weird place. I will describe it in later posts. Suffice to say that while people may think I'm going there to see my folks, I am actually going to put an end to that Wendy's Chili Finger debacle once and for all. (Apparently the woman who found the finger has been arrested, and the police are offering $100,000 for any knowledge of the origin of the finger. I am on the case.) I hate waiting at airports, and I usually end up in the store called BOOKS and either succumb to some zen business motivational manual, or catch up on magazine reading. I will learn "Celebrity Diet Secrets" from US magazine and "How Thin is Too Thin?" from Star Magazine. Each will have Jessica Simpson on the cover.