Best Friends

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

You've Screwed Me Again, DST

Daylight Savings Time and I have a love/hate relationship. She's prissy and flaky, always changing the time of sunrise and sunset; I'm grouchy and inflexible, always wanting my daylight consistent.

In theory, though, I love Daylight Savings. I can play basketball with my friends later, and studies generally agree that there is less crime and fewer traffic accidents. Plus, DST means that the perfume of spring has finally put a sleeper hold on the chills of winter. We're that pathetic couple who can never break up because the sex is too good.

But all practical reasons aside, DST is like any other woman: devious.

Back in April, when Spring Forward was still new to 2010, I was having a drink with a friend after work. We met up around 6 when, and thanks to DST, the sky was still "afternoon bright." Time passed quickly as we sat sipping our beverages and laughing. And because our conversation was so engrossing, I didn't mentally recalibrate my mind that "twilight" equaled 9 pm.

Losing track of time, and DST being a harpy of timekeeping, I arrived at home to my dog shamefully apologizing for dropping a bomb on my bed. And like any other woman, DST laughed at my having to wash poop off my white duvet.

DST is a beauty, but every end of March/beginning of April, it's like I'm on a business trip to the East Coast. I love the summer warmth of 8 o'clock at night, but I always feel slightly restless knowing that sunset is that much closer to midnight.

Tyrannosaurus Cookie

At first, I just assumed the outline on the display was misprinted. But then I found tyranno after tyranno with the weird proportions and confusing appendages.

Is that his jaw? His arm? And what about the larger protuberance near his other leg? I am so confused. And of course, the Sur La Table sales person thought I was being a jerk when I asked, "Can you describe this cookie cutter to me?"

Maybe a baker with frosting and imagination could salvage the basic shape into something recognizable. But for me, laymen baker, this tyrannosaurus cookie is simply strange.

What a shame. The king of the dinosaurs deserves much better cookie representation.

Airport Driver

While at the airport, I saw this well-to-do gentleman with his sign. He cradled it in one arm and patiently presented himself towards the escalators leading from the terminal.

I watched him for a moment or two. He never shuffled his feet or fidgeted his hands, and the only time he checked his watch was to make sure his client wasn't going to miss their appointment. Stoic and classy to the end.

I hope that one day, I'm important enough to necessitate a driver. Nothing will ever replace the smile of a friend or loved one at the baggage claim. That after hours confined in a pressurized tube, someone is waiting just for you, waiting just to give you a hug and talk to you even though your breath stinks from the nap on the plane.

But the next best thing would be an airport driver, a hired friend. I imagine it would be quite thrilling to walk around the corner of a foreign city and see my own name in bold Sharpie writing. I imagine the driver taking my carry-on bag and providing witty banter to pass the interminable wait for my checked luggage. In the lonely cities of the business trips, the airport driver would be the welcome party, the guide, and the friend.

Yes, if an old friend can't greet me, a salutational handshake with a driver would be the next best thing.