Final days in the District are winding down.
However, adventures are on the rise. In fact, I'd say they appear to be at an all-time high. They appear to be inversely proportional to the number of days remaining. Whether that is by my own choice or great luck, I'll let you decide.
My boss had generously gave a Saturday night off -- an occurrence previously enjoyed only once this summer, at the very onset of work.
Conveniently, the group of cool kids from my church were planning to go to the Nationals' baseball game (vs. the Brewers, no less) that very night. Coincidence? I think not.
So, I sign up and turns out that for $30, we can go hang out with the Wisconsin State Society, which would be tailgating at the nowhere-near-Nats-Stadium RFK Stadium. Wisconsin beer (read: Leine's kegs.) (also read: I'm so there.) and brats were the draw. I was super excited.
Pause for a little backstory: The day before, Friday, I'd lent my umbrella to Liz, who's staying with me for the week since she just moved out here and is waiting to move into her apartment, because it was raining 40 days and nights worth outside. She forgot it accidentally at the friend's she went to go visit. Resume story.
Anyway. It's been cloudy all day. And kind of sprinkly. Less than ideal for my first Nats game this summer. Ah well. I park my car at the Metro station and it promptly starts to rain.
I consider going back to borrow an umbrella from the house I'm staying at, but weigh the consequences of the decision over the perks. (Drive back, potentially get caught at light, find umbrella, drive back, definitely get caught at ridiculously long light, catch Metro?) Needed to meet at RFK at 4:30. I gave myself 45 minutes to get there already because I knew there was construction on the rail line and massive delays.
I'm like, ehhh. It's gotta stop raining soon, right?
Fatal last words.
Of course it doesn't stop raining. Of course it rains harder, and of course I have no rain jacket or umbrella. Of course we have to tromp all the way to the opposite side of the stadium in the pouring rain, and of course they have a few mini-tents of protection pitched that have already claimed by the undeterred fans.
We get there about 5 p.m. and grab food. It's extremely difficult to shield Oreos and brats from raindrops, so I found myself devouring before everything would get too soggy. It's also equally annoying to protectively hold a hand over a glass of Leine's.
The question is, do we stay? Will there still be a game, or will it be cancelled?
As we mull the question, it's still raining, naturally. Flip flops were a bad choice. No umbrella was an equally bad yet inevitable choice. And why, why, why did I pack my only rain jacket and leave it at Edie's house?
There was supposed to be 15 of us from church. I think 10 made it (?) but there we were really only a soggy pack of six.
I think the general consensus was a high skepticism for the likelihood of a game. Because could they actually play baseball in six inches of rain?
Doubtful.
But one loyal Brewers fan, who'd acquired tickets for every game in the series this weekend, insisted that the wet would let up in an hour, per his iPhone.
An hour later, an iPhone consultation revealed our patience would be rewarded in an hour.
An hour later. . . well, almost an hour later, we were starting to question the iPhone and its user. But finally, golden sunset started hazing in. Word on the streets was that first pitch was scheduled for 8:30.
Drenched through, we squished over to the shuttle bus. It was air-conditioned to a positively frigid 50 degrees. I could nearly see my breath. We started joking about how we were all going to remember this trip as that one time we went to the Nats game and it rained and we all got pneumonia. . .
Our seats were pretty great, all things considered, because there was approximately 15 people in our entire section and we were among the nine people who chose to not sit under the rain-shielding overhang. Instead, we sat in the spitting rain drizzle, second row, top section, first-base side.
Brewers were up 5-to-zip in the second inning. Shortly thereafter, the Nats hit a grand slam. Given how many runs each team was giving up, it was fixing to be a long game. The Brewers were up by eight when the Nats began to rally, but they never took the lead. So it was a good game, all things considered. And the five I was sitting with were a riot. One of the guys got a text from family back in Wisconsin that they saw him on TV, so apparently, we were on TV in the Midwest.
It was a blast. So glad I went . . . I'd do it again in a heartbeat!
And I have no pneumonia to speak of yet.
8.24.2009
8.12.2009
adventure #20: no ...news....
Muggy August heat here has seemingly smothered all exciting news as of late. "The doldrums of August," I've heard it called before, and it's a theory that holds rainwater. (More on rainwater in next blog post.)
In the meantime, to keep ourselves intrigued and ever-learning at work, one fellow intern figured out how to conference call all of us, so that even though we're sitting 30 feet away from the farthest of us, we can be in ultimate constant communication.
Not that we have anything to say to each other. Conversation was more like this:
Intern #1: You guys there?
Intern #2: Yeaahh!
Intern #3: Woot woot conference calling!
Intern #1: We're uh-mazing.
Intern #3: Hey, I just sent you a message, Intern #2.
Intern #2: Yeah, I got it. I'm writing you back...right...now.
In the meantime, to keep ourselves intrigued and ever-learning at work, one fellow intern figured out how to conference call all of us, so that even though we're sitting 30 feet away from the farthest of us, we can be in ultimate constant communication.
Not that we have anything to say to each other. Conversation was more like this:
Intern #1: You guys there?
Intern #2: Yeaahh!
Intern #3: Woot woot conference calling!
Intern #1: We're uh-mazing.
Intern #3: Hey, I just sent you a message, Intern #2.
Intern #2: Yeah, I got it. I'm writing you back...right...now.
8.08.2009
adventure #19: one donut, please
I drove over to Northern Virginia early this morning to pick up an apartment application for a dear friend who is moving here in a few weeks. Early as it was, I decided I wanted to hit up a donut shop and treat myself. I also decided to find something local, since my days in DC are numbered.
I recalled, from my summer here two years ago, a place in Dupont Circle called Fractured Prune, where you pick the toppings for your donut, but I'd never been. As I recall, they rumored to have a huge array of glazes, sprinkles, frostings, etc. to put on top of your piping hot, hand-dipped, fresh fried cake donut. I googled it to discover it was no longer there. However, this page refers you to one of their next nearest locations.
Annandale. Only a few miles from where I'd be going. Perfect, I thought to myself.
I departed, accomplished my mission in terms of the application, and then punched in the address of the into my GPS.
I hit wicked traffic right before the exit, so it took me about 30 minutes longer than I thought. But oh well, I mean, c'mon, a hot fresh donut -- and I was only 0.5 miles away by the time I hit traffic. So close I could almost smell them in the air. I also realized by this time that I had conveniently forgotten to grab my cellphone, so I couldn't even call anyone to complain that I was sitting in traffic on the Beltway to get one donut.
Or so I thought.
It turns out that the address, 3419 Holly Road in Annandale is not a Fractured Prune restaurant. No. It's a house. In the middle of a subdivision. No magical glazes. No toppings galore. No wafts of hot grease. No donuts.
Defeated, I drove to Safeway in hopes of finding a boston cream-filled donut. Those are, after all, my favorite.
No boston creams at this Safeway.
How about a jelly-filled donut? No, no jelly-filled donuts. (Could just about hear someone saying: "No donuts for you!")
I was starting to feel like I'd stepped into a song that had been popular among the guys when I was in eighth grade. It was called "Albuquerque" by Weird Al Yankovic, and the part I'm referring to goes a little something like this:
So I got in my car and I drove over to the donut shop,
And I walked on up to the guy behind the counter,
And he says "Yeah, what do ya want?"
I said, "You got any glazed donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta glazed donuts!"
I said, "Well, you got any jelly donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta jelly donuts!"
I said, "You got any Bavarian cream-filled donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta Bavarian cream-filled donuts!"
I said, "You got any cinnamon rolls?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta cinnamon rolls!"
I said, "You got any apple fritters?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta apple fritters!"
I said, "You got any bear claws?"
He said, "Wait a minute, I'll go check."
::long guitar solo::
"NAH, we're outta bear claws!!"
I said "Well, in that case - in that case, what do you have?"
He says "All I got right now is this box of one dozen starving, crazed weasels."
I said "OK, I'll take that."
I didn't actually get a box of weasels. But I did get a donut. I settled for a cinnamon sugar twist, an hour after I attempted my initial donut run.
I recalled, from my summer here two years ago, a place in Dupont Circle called Fractured Prune, where you pick the toppings for your donut, but I'd never been. As I recall, they rumored to have a huge array of glazes, sprinkles, frostings, etc. to put on top of your piping hot, hand-dipped, fresh fried cake donut. I googled it to discover it was no longer there. However, this page refers you to one of their next nearest locations.
Annandale. Only a few miles from where I'd be going. Perfect, I thought to myself.
I departed, accomplished my mission in terms of the application, and then punched in the address of the into my GPS.
I hit wicked traffic right before the exit, so it took me about 30 minutes longer than I thought. But oh well, I mean, c'mon, a hot fresh donut -- and I was only 0.5 miles away by the time I hit traffic. So close I could almost smell them in the air. I also realized by this time that I had conveniently forgotten to grab my cellphone, so I couldn't even call anyone to complain that I was sitting in traffic on the Beltway to get one donut.
Or so I thought.
It turns out that the address, 3419 Holly Road in Annandale is not a Fractured Prune restaurant. No. It's a house. In the middle of a subdivision. No magical glazes. No toppings galore. No wafts of hot grease. No donuts.
Defeated, I drove to Safeway in hopes of finding a boston cream-filled donut. Those are, after all, my favorite.
No boston creams at this Safeway.
How about a jelly-filled donut? No, no jelly-filled donuts. (Could just about hear someone saying: "No donuts for you!")
I was starting to feel like I'd stepped into a song that had been popular among the guys when I was in eighth grade. It was called "Albuquerque" by Weird Al Yankovic, and the part I'm referring to goes a little something like this:
So I got in my car and I drove over to the donut shop,
And I walked on up to the guy behind the counter,
And he says "Yeah, what do ya want?"
I said, "You got any glazed donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta glazed donuts!"
I said, "Well, you got any jelly donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta jelly donuts!"
I said, "You got any Bavarian cream-filled donuts?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta Bavarian cream-filled donuts!"
I said, "You got any cinnamon rolls?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta cinnamon rolls!"
I said, "You got any apple fritters?"
He said, "Nah, we're outta apple fritters!"
I said, "You got any bear claws?"
He said, "Wait a minute, I'll go check."
::long guitar solo::
"NAH, we're outta bear claws!!"
I said "Well, in that case - in that case, what do you have?"
He says "All I got right now is this box of one dozen starving, crazed weasels."
I said "OK, I'll take that."
I didn't actually get a box of weasels. But I did get a donut. I settled for a cinnamon sugar twist, an hour after I attempted my initial donut run.
7.31.2009
adventure #18: ironing, part 3
The following conversation ensued last night:
Housemate #1: Do you know how to iron, Morgan?
Me: Why? Do you think that because I'm a woman, I automatically know how to iron? Male chauvinist pig.
Housemate #1: I didn't say that. I just wanted to know if you could iron.
Me: Funny you should mention it. In fact, I have two blogposts dedicated to my ironing endeavors here.
Housemate #1: So you do know how to iron.
Me: No. I'm terrible at it.
Housemate #2: Isn't the iron here terrible? It doesn't work.
Me: What.
Housemate #2: Yeah. It barely gets hot enough to iron anything. Didn't you notice?
Housemate #1: Do you know how to iron, Morgan?
Me: Why? Do you think that because I'm a woman, I automatically know how to iron? Male chauvinist pig.
Housemate #1: I didn't say that. I just wanted to know if you could iron.
Me: Funny you should mention it. In fact, I have two blogposts dedicated to my ironing endeavors here.
Housemate #1: So you do know how to iron.
Me: No. I'm terrible at it.
Housemate #2: Isn't the iron here terrible? It doesn't work.
Me: What.
Housemate #2: Yeah. It barely gets hot enough to iron anything. Didn't you notice?
7.30.2009
adventure #17: like willy wonka's chocolate factory
Last night, we interns took a tour of the printing presses. We had to wear safety goggles and ear plugs. We watched them take the pages sent, turn them into film, put the film in the plate machine, make the aluminum plates, develop them, stick them into the presses and run the presses.
Then we got to watch the underbellies of the presses -- the machines that automatically spool the largest rolls of paper I've ever seen in my life, the enormous stacked rolls of paper in the seemingly endless storeroom.
We watched the finished papers feed down from the presses and get carried, individually, all the way to where they're bundled and packaged and carted off.
I felt a bit like a kid in 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' ... so much wonder and appreciation for the entire system. And we got to pluck fresh-printed papers from the presses, like the kids who got tastes of Willy Wonka's trendiest treats. But none of us ballooned out into a mondo-sized newspaper, and none of us fell into presses and got imprinted into the paper, as one would expect, were the presses more like Willy Wonka's.
The storerooms were so massive -- apparently, they stock enough paper there to be able to print the paper for months and months. I felt as though I'd gotten stuck in 'Honey, I Shrunk the Kids,' standing next to what appeared to be colossal toilet paper rolls. (It's true.)
And they still hand-stuff some sections of the paper -- we thought about volunteering to help. And we also debated asking if the bosses would let us stage an epic game of capture the flag with the interns.
Haven't asked yet. But still thinking about it.
Then we got to watch the underbellies of the presses -- the machines that automatically spool the largest rolls of paper I've ever seen in my life, the enormous stacked rolls of paper in the seemingly endless storeroom.
We watched the finished papers feed down from the presses and get carried, individually, all the way to where they're bundled and packaged and carted off.
I felt a bit like a kid in 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' ... so much wonder and appreciation for the entire system. And we got to pluck fresh-printed papers from the presses, like the kids who got tastes of Willy Wonka's trendiest treats. But none of us ballooned out into a mondo-sized newspaper, and none of us fell into presses and got imprinted into the paper, as one would expect, were the presses more like Willy Wonka's.
The storerooms were so massive -- apparently, they stock enough paper there to be able to print the paper for months and months. I felt as though I'd gotten stuck in 'Honey, I Shrunk the Kids,' standing next to what appeared to be colossal toilet paper rolls. (It's true.)
And they still hand-stuff some sections of the paper -- we thought about volunteering to help. And we also debated asking if the bosses would let us stage an epic game of capture the flag with the interns.
Haven't asked yet. But still thinking about it.
adventure #16: what not to wear
Belated update. Life's been busy, etc.
So while my dad was in town... I went shopping. And I had J.Crew put a dress on hold for me on a Thursday, going to pick it up on Friday. Slept in on Friday, woke up later than I would have liked, so I threw on some clothes, pulled my hair into a bun, put on my glasses -- no makeup -- and we went out to breakfast.
My dad dropped me off in Georgetown so I could buy the dress. The plan: Run in, buy the dress, run out -- before anyone could see me looking like so.
But of course, there was great sale stuff at J.Crew, and I, of course, had to browse.
Finally, I pried myself away from the treasure trove of clothing long enough to make my purchases and escape. I walked back toward the Metro and had to pass an Anthropologie. Feeling so motivated based upon my finds the day before and that day, I ducked in.
Mid-wandering about, a woman approaches me.
Woman: Excuse me, I hate to interrupt.
Me: Oh, no worries.
Woman: -- But I couldn't just walk by and not say anything. I just couldn't -- your hair, that is. It looks like you're in bad need of a color correction, or maybe some highlights.
Me: Oh...?
Woman: I'm a hairstylist over on Wisconsin, and I do coloring, and I'd be more than happy to help. I mean, I think you could go lighter, definitely, but the color you have is just a little too buttery for your skin tone.
Me: Ah, well, I mean, I know my roots are grown out, I've been looking for a place to go and get them fixed...
Woman: I have some openings tomorrow, if you'd like, or Monday, if that would suit your schedule better. Here's my card, and like I said, I just couldn't walk by and not say anything.
That's right. I so got fashion-policed in Georgetown.
I have never, ever before been fashion-policed. I didn't flee the scene immediately, mainly because I was just so surprised that anyone would have the guts to just approach someone and offer their so-called help.
And then I meandered my way out, where I proceeded to make several astonished phone calls to several sympathetic family members and/or friends.
I have a hair appointment first week of August. Gonna get this taken care of.
Moral of the story: Never ever go shopping in Georgetown without full hair and makeup and trend-appropriate attire.
So while my dad was in town... I went shopping. And I had J.Crew put a dress on hold for me on a Thursday, going to pick it up on Friday. Slept in on Friday, woke up later than I would have liked, so I threw on some clothes, pulled my hair into a bun, put on my glasses -- no makeup -- and we went out to breakfast.
My dad dropped me off in Georgetown so I could buy the dress. The plan: Run in, buy the dress, run out -- before anyone could see me looking like so.
But of course, there was great sale stuff at J.Crew, and I, of course, had to browse.
Finally, I pried myself away from the treasure trove of clothing long enough to make my purchases and escape. I walked back toward the Metro and had to pass an Anthropologie. Feeling so motivated based upon my finds the day before and that day, I ducked in.
Mid-wandering about, a woman approaches me.
Woman: Excuse me, I hate to interrupt.
Me: Oh, no worries.
Woman: -- But I couldn't just walk by and not say anything. I just couldn't -- your hair, that is. It looks like you're in bad need of a color correction, or maybe some highlights.
Me: Oh...?
Woman: I'm a hairstylist over on Wisconsin, and I do coloring, and I'd be more than happy to help. I mean, I think you could go lighter, definitely, but the color you have is just a little too buttery for your skin tone.
Me: Ah, well, I mean, I know my roots are grown out, I've been looking for a place to go and get them fixed...
Woman: I have some openings tomorrow, if you'd like, or Monday, if that would suit your schedule better. Here's my card, and like I said, I just couldn't walk by and not say anything.
That's right. I so got fashion-policed in Georgetown.
I have never, ever before been fashion-policed. I didn't flee the scene immediately, mainly because I was just so surprised that anyone would have the guts to just approach someone and offer their so-called help.
And then I meandered my way out, where I proceeded to make several astonished phone calls to several sympathetic family members and/or friends.
I have a hair appointment first week of August. Gonna get this taken care of.
Moral of the story: Never ever go shopping in Georgetown without full hair and makeup and trend-appropriate attire.
7.19.2009
adventure #15: roadtrip with dad
My dad came to visit this week. I didn't get to see him after graduation, so it was great to see my old man. Plus, he bought me lots of food. (And brought a box of pantry items from my momma dearest. Also appreciated.)
We did the National Air & Space Museum on Monday, and then, to get out of the District, took a roadtrip to Gettysburg on Wednesday. A few caveats to said excursion to yonder Pennsylvania territory: "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" premiered on Tuesday night at midnight, and like any self-respecting Potter junkie, I went with a pack of interns and didn't return until 4 a.m. the morning of the excursion. So I got about... 3.5 hours of sleep... picked up my dad and made him drive so I could continue to sleep.
Dined at a lovely French bistro in downtown Gettysburg (if one could call it a downtown) and then tromped all over the battlefields. Somehow, in my misled perception of the battlefield, I thought it was one large, sloped field that a lot of soldiers died at.
Did not realize it was a series of battlefields that sprawled miles.
Did not realize father intended to tour all sprawling miles. However, after a brief (15-minute walk), we returned to the car and drove to nearly each major point of conflict.
The weather could not have been better, and the area by the visitors center was covered in orangey wildflowers. And afterward our long and winding adventure in history, we grabbed pizza and beer at a local restaurant and headed home.
I had warned my father that the timeline he'd put together for our return to the District meant we'd inevitably hit rush-hour traffic. And I quote, he said, "Naaaaaaah. We'll be headed in the wrong direction."
Well, in the D.C. area, any direction is the wrong direction in rush-hour.
I napped again on the drive back and woke up just as we smacked into traffic.
TomTom, my GPS with a New Zealander voice named 'Paul', was navigating. In an exit no one was taking, we suddenly seemed to break free of the Capital Beltway gridlock and were cruising. Cruising completely by ourselves. Cruising, at the behest of TomTom/'Paul,' toward MacArthur Blvd. ("Tern roight at seeeex hundrad yaaards.")
Cruising toward a dead-end. The roadblock read: "Road closed. No waiting."
No waiting? What, had anxious drivers sat in front of the blockade for hours, hoping construction workers would quickly remove the wood and cones prohibiting passage on a key thoroughfare, and thus prompting the need to declare "No waiting"?
Idiots.
So we turned around. But TomTom/'Paul' had other plans. Now, I'm quite familiar with the antics of the contraption, and I know that unless you get far enough away from your original intended route, it'll just keep finding ways to turn you around and take you back in that direction, assuming that you're an incompetent fool of a driver who is heading in every direction possible but the right one.
Me: OK, just keep driving along this road.
Dad: But it's telling me to turn.
Me: That's because it's going to loop you back around to the spot we just were.
Dad: But maybe not.
Me: No, it is. Don't turn.
Dad: I'm turning.
Me: Seriously. Just keep driving straight.
Dad: Well, I'm going to take this new turn it just suggested.
Me: You have to be smarter than the machine. Keep. Driving.
Dad: But it's telling me to turn right at this road, too. All roads turn right.
Me: That's because it's trying to turn you around.
What followed was a series of him following the GPS's directions and me growing more exasperated as we continue to keep looping through vast suburbia previously unexplored us. The conversation was also punctuated by great moments like this:
Me: You gotta move over to the right lane.
Dad: I know, I'm trying.
Me: Turn on your blinker. They don't know you're trying.
Dad: They'll let me over.
Me: Not if they don't know you're trying to get over.
And this little gem:
Me: Speed limit is 35. Not 70.
Dad: Naah, that's just the guideline.
Me: That is so not optional. You're going to get us pulled over.
Dad: But we've got out-of-state plates. Can't ticket us.
Me: That's it. Pull over. I'm getting out.
And this:
Me: For the love of God, stop speeding out of every stoplight like a bat out of hell.
Dad: But, Mogi, I have to win.
Me: You're going to get us shot. People do that here.
Dad: Naaaah. Handguns are illegal in D.C.
We also got into an extended debate over where exactly we were. I insisted we were in Maryland, Dad insisted we were in Virginia, but I kept telling him that you have to cross the Potomac to get to Virginia, and he kept saying that the Potomac isn't the whole entire boundary between Maryland and Virginia, but I kept telling him that we weren't a billion miles out of the District, so for where we were, yes, we needed to cross the Potomac to get to Virginia and dangit, we were in MARYLAND. Plus, we were driving on like Md. Route 215 or something. Never any Va. Route signs.
(For the record, I know my region. We were so in Maryland the entire time.)
We did the National Air & Space Museum on Monday, and then, to get out of the District, took a roadtrip to Gettysburg on Wednesday. A few caveats to said excursion to yonder Pennsylvania territory: "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" premiered on Tuesday night at midnight, and like any self-respecting Potter junkie, I went with a pack of interns and didn't return until 4 a.m. the morning of the excursion. So I got about... 3.5 hours of sleep... picked up my dad and made him drive so I could continue to sleep.
Dined at a lovely French bistro in downtown Gettysburg (if one could call it a downtown) and then tromped all over the battlefields. Somehow, in my misled perception of the battlefield, I thought it was one large, sloped field that a lot of soldiers died at.
Did not realize it was a series of battlefields that sprawled miles.
Did not realize father intended to tour all sprawling miles. However, after a brief (15-minute walk), we returned to the car and drove to nearly each major point of conflict.
The weather could not have been better, and the area by the visitors center was covered in orangey wildflowers. And afterward our long and winding adventure in history, we grabbed pizza and beer at a local restaurant and headed home.
I had warned my father that the timeline he'd put together for our return to the District meant we'd inevitably hit rush-hour traffic. And I quote, he said, "Naaaaaaah. We'll be headed in the wrong direction."
Well, in the D.C. area, any direction is the wrong direction in rush-hour.
I napped again on the drive back and woke up just as we smacked into traffic.
TomTom, my GPS with a New Zealander voice named 'Paul', was navigating. In an exit no one was taking, we suddenly seemed to break free of the Capital Beltway gridlock and were cruising. Cruising completely by ourselves. Cruising, at the behest of TomTom/'Paul,' toward MacArthur Blvd. ("Tern roight at seeeex hundrad yaaards.")
Cruising toward a dead-end. The roadblock read: "Road closed. No waiting."
No waiting? What, had anxious drivers sat in front of the blockade for hours, hoping construction workers would quickly remove the wood and cones prohibiting passage on a key thoroughfare, and thus prompting the need to declare "No waiting"?
Idiots.
So we turned around. But TomTom/'Paul' had other plans. Now, I'm quite familiar with the antics of the contraption, and I know that unless you get far enough away from your original intended route, it'll just keep finding ways to turn you around and take you back in that direction, assuming that you're an incompetent fool of a driver who is heading in every direction possible but the right one.
Me: OK, just keep driving along this road.
Dad: But it's telling me to turn.
Me: That's because it's going to loop you back around to the spot we just were.
Dad: But maybe not.
Me: No, it is. Don't turn.
Dad: I'm turning.
Me: Seriously. Just keep driving straight.
Dad: Well, I'm going to take this new turn it just suggested.
Me: You have to be smarter than the machine. Keep. Driving.
Dad: But it's telling me to turn right at this road, too. All roads turn right.
Me: That's because it's trying to turn you around.
What followed was a series of him following the GPS's directions and me growing more exasperated as we continue to keep looping through vast suburbia previously unexplored us. The conversation was also punctuated by great moments like this:
Me: You gotta move over to the right lane.
Dad: I know, I'm trying.
Me: Turn on your blinker. They don't know you're trying.
Dad: They'll let me over.
Me: Not if they don't know you're trying to get over.
And this little gem:
Me: Speed limit is 35. Not 70.
Dad: Naah, that's just the guideline.
Me: That is so not optional. You're going to get us pulled over.
Dad: But we've got out-of-state plates. Can't ticket us.
Me: That's it. Pull over. I'm getting out.
And this:
Me: For the love of God, stop speeding out of every stoplight like a bat out of hell.
Dad: But, Mogi, I have to win.
Me: You're going to get us shot. People do that here.
Dad: Naaaah. Handguns are illegal in D.C.
We also got into an extended debate over where exactly we were. I insisted we were in Maryland, Dad insisted we were in Virginia, but I kept telling him that you have to cross the Potomac to get to Virginia, and he kept saying that the Potomac isn't the whole entire boundary between Maryland and Virginia, but I kept telling him that we weren't a billion miles out of the District, so for where we were, yes, we needed to cross the Potomac to get to Virginia and dangit, we were in MARYLAND. Plus, we were driving on like Md. Route 215 or something. Never any Va. Route signs.
(For the record, I know my region. We were so in Maryland the entire time.)
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