I couldn't plan a trip to the bathroom if we were in a bar, there were three of us and I had a map.
No really. For my eighteenth birthday I wanted all of my friends (all five of us) to take a trip to Philadelphia to the Mutter Museum. It's basically a "Ripley's Believe it or Not" of the medical world.Chang and Eng's lawn chair? They've got it. The woman that was buried in a lye field whose body turned to soap? They've got it. The guy with the broken dick that managed to still rape three women? They've got it. (Well, not his whole body. Just the magic broken dick.)
None of us had cars at this point, (well, Rob did, but he was adamant about not trucking four idiot children across state lines to look at broken penises, and plus, his hooptie car could only seat two). And so, I turned to the New Jersey Transit website. After forty-five minutes of looking at a map that had more red and blue lines than a frog that had been soaked in formaldehyde and been readied for dissection, I planned our trip. We would leave Rob and Steve's house on Outwater Lane at mrpphhrhrphr AM to arrive at Newark Penn Station at mrrrppphhrr PM to board an Amtrak train to Philadelphia which left at hmmmphmmrhr PM and catch the SEPTA (PA's version of the PATH) at gobbledygook PM. We would then take a cab (costing somewhere in the area of twenty dollars) to 19 South 22nd Street, Philadelphia, PA by four PM. The museum closed at five.
FUCK.
Back to the drawing board.
I had the basics figured out, when other people expressed an interest in tagging along. I told them that I guessed the train + the train + the train + the subway + the cab would equal to about forty bucks per person. Plus admission to the museum, plus the ride home. Said people backed the hell out. Back to the original five.
Mery came over at some point, to help me plan. Mery already had a seat on the first passenger flight to the moon at this point, so you can guess that the girl knows what the hell she's doing. She told me I was making it waaaay too complicated, and to seek out different methods of transportation. I yelled at her, told her to leave me alone, and kept hacking away at the computer. She ended up falling asleep to the clacking of my keyboard on Steve's bed.
The next day I had figured out a more direct route to Philadelphia. Mery had long since gone home and wished me well since Steve had ashed his cigarettes into her shoes that night and Rob had put them up for sale on Ebay the next morning. Poor thing went home shoeless, but I HAD A PLAN. We would walk to the Plauderville train station, take the train directly to Philly, and take a cab to the Mutter Museum. It would now cost seventy dollars to get there, but at least the route was shorter. I showed my plan to Steve who told me to get bent, he wasn't spending seventy bucks on my birthday, and spent the next four hours in the bathroom trying to pierce his own ears with a wholesale supply of stud earrings he got from Afterthoughts in the mall. I plead my case to Rob. He told me I should just get a Subway six-footer tuna sandwich and stop trying so freaking hard. He then proceeded to dig out a four pound chunk of earwax with a Q-tip and went into the bathroom to show Steve. I collapsed in a heap and cried.
Ten years later, I'm still dating Rob, Steve is married, and we still have the same stupid relationships we had when we were kids. Steve rolls his eyes at any dumb weekend thing I come up with, and Rob is still as adamant as ever about not driving, and is still digging shit out of his ears with CVS brand Q-tips.
Last week, Rob's sister, Tammy, asked me to plan her fiancee's bachelorette party.
OH FUCK.
... to be continued
No really. For my eighteenth birthday I wanted all of my friends (all five of us) to take a trip to Philadelphia to the Mutter Museum. It's basically a "Ripley's Believe it or Not" of the medical world.Chang and Eng's lawn chair? They've got it. The woman that was buried in a lye field whose body turned to soap? They've got it. The guy with the broken dick that managed to still rape three women? They've got it. (Well, not his whole body. Just the magic broken dick.)
None of us had cars at this point, (well, Rob did, but he was adamant about not trucking four idiot children across state lines to look at broken penises, and plus, his hooptie car could only seat two). And so, I turned to the New Jersey Transit website. After forty-five minutes of looking at a map that had more red and blue lines than a frog that had been soaked in formaldehyde and been readied for dissection, I planned our trip. We would leave Rob and Steve's house on Outwater Lane at mrpphhrhrphr AM to arrive at Newark Penn Station at mrrrppphhrr PM to board an Amtrak train to Philadelphia which left at hmmmphmmrhr PM and catch the SEPTA (PA's version of the PATH) at gobbledygook PM. We would then take a cab (costing somewhere in the area of twenty dollars) to 19 South 22nd Street, Philadelphia, PA by four PM. The museum closed at five.
FUCK.
Back to the drawing board.
I had the basics figured out, when other people expressed an interest in tagging along. I told them that I guessed the train + the train + the train + the subway + the cab would equal to about forty bucks per person. Plus admission to the museum, plus the ride home. Said people backed the hell out. Back to the original five.
Mery came over at some point, to help me plan. Mery already had a seat on the first passenger flight to the moon at this point, so you can guess that the girl knows what the hell she's doing. She told me I was making it waaaay too complicated, and to seek out different methods of transportation. I yelled at her, told her to leave me alone, and kept hacking away at the computer. She ended up falling asleep to the clacking of my keyboard on Steve's bed.
The next day I had figured out a more direct route to Philadelphia. Mery had long since gone home and wished me well since Steve had ashed his cigarettes into her shoes that night and Rob had put them up for sale on Ebay the next morning. Poor thing went home shoeless, but I HAD A PLAN. We would walk to the Plauderville train station, take the train directly to Philly, and take a cab to the Mutter Museum. It would now cost seventy dollars to get there, but at least the route was shorter. I showed my plan to Steve who told me to get bent, he wasn't spending seventy bucks on my birthday, and spent the next four hours in the bathroom trying to pierce his own ears with a wholesale supply of stud earrings he got from Afterthoughts in the mall. I plead my case to Rob. He told me I should just get a Subway six-footer tuna sandwich and stop trying so freaking hard. He then proceeded to dig out a four pound chunk of earwax with a Q-tip and went into the bathroom to show Steve. I collapsed in a heap and cried.
Ten years later, I'm still dating Rob, Steve is married, and we still have the same stupid relationships we had when we were kids. Steve rolls his eyes at any dumb weekend thing I come up with, and Rob is still as adamant as ever about not driving, and is still digging shit out of his ears with CVS brand Q-tips.
Last week, Rob's sister, Tammy, asked me to plan her fiancee's bachelorette party.
OH FUCK.
... to be continued
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