Okay, fine. Here's the short form:
- Worked late.
- Fire on train tracks south of Evanston.
- Trains stopped running.
- Transit Authority staff completely unable to offer any prognosis on restoration of service. Nobody is telling them anything. And they can't find out anything on their own.
- Restoration of service announcement ("a train will be arriving momentarily") followed by an hour of no trains. Staff contradicts announcements. Say they don't know where trains are, if they're running, when they might arrive. One says for all he knows, trains might be stopped all night. Also says they cannot call or otherwise contact anyone to find out anything.
- After almost two hours of this, broke down and paid for cab home.
- Cab stuck in traffic due to #%!$@ Cubs baseball game in my neighborhood.
Regarding point number four, I would like to say I find it amazing that my father can pinpoint the location of his Toyota to within seven feet anywhere on planet Earth using a GPS, but the Chicago Transit Authority is unable to communicate to the Davis Street Station attendant where any of the Purple Line trains might happen to have gone to.
Should you ever find yourself on the Chicago "El" with a question, don't ask a CTA employee. Just talk to the wall. It will be able to offer you better service, more politely.
Given all this, it was mighty nice to arrive home and find a little package from Kiwi James in my mailbox, along with the usual cheap 'n' naughty lingerie catalogues that show up by the dozens thanks to the apparent slut who formerly lived at my address.
I opened the package and the most heavenly scent of tangerine came wafting out. Inside: wonderful New Zealand tangerine chocolates, and a little basket of scented soap and lotion, and a note saying I have to share it all with C.
C is lucky I'm so fond of him or the chocolate would be only a memory by now.
I now have this image of New Zealand as an island paradise that smells like tangerines.
James, honey, watch your mailbox. I promise I haven't sent you anything that smells like Chicago.
I'm beginning to daydream about running away to Morehouse Farm to seek a new life as a shepherd.
(You think I'm kidding?)
Pic du Jour
Madonnas. Just a wee small part of my grandmother's collection, from the top of her bureau.
P.S. She's Catholic.