Smell Ya Later! (RideSharer’s Lament)

This is a true story, absolutely 100% free of exaggeration, embellishment or embroidery.


“This morning, a young man requested a ride.

When I picked him up, I just couldn’t decide:

Was his sense of smell deadened from years of abuse?

Or did he think cologne was a valid excuse

To forgo all societal bathing conventions;

I hope that seduction was not his intention,

As women aren’t usually too enthusiastic

When the scent of a man makes their bronchioles go spastic!


I wanted to tell him ‘Get out of my car!’;

I honestly doubted I’d make it as far

As the corner engulfed in that odious stench;

But I sucked up my misery, cuz I am a mensch.

I drove him uptown, each minute an hour!

No unit of time could diminish the power

Of that foul perfume, as it dug in its claws –

Surely this bastard is breaking some laws?


I tried to engage in some light conversation

But found that I couldn’t ignore the sensation

Of icy-hot knives stabbing into my nose;

Such was the force of the scent that he chose.

My eyes watered freely to try to assuage

That odious odor’s relentless barrage

But I suffered in silence, counting each second

While outside my window sweet SWEET fresh air beckoned!


After what felt like days, at last – we arrived!

I honestly couldn’t believe I’d survived.

He set out from my car with a smile and a wave,

Not seeing the under-dash finger I gave.

I wish that I’d mustered the courage to tell him

That even folks living in China could smell him!

I hate that his scent trailed me all the way home,

But at least this ordeal spawned a half-decent poem!”

Leggings are not pants (and other things that are none of my damn business)

I have no problem with leggings in general. I wear them all the time, under dresses and skirts and long tunic tops.  I have at least ten pairs in my dresser right now! They’re warm, they’re cozy, they prevent chafing and, if worn properly, they look super cute.

And therein lies the rub (if you’ll pardon the pun): IF they are worn properly.

Look, argue all you want — in my opinion, if your butt/ladyparts are not covered by something more substantial than lycra, you are not wearing pants.

tacky i hate you school of rock
Not ‘slutty’, not ‘asking for it’ – just tacky. And I don’t actually hate you.


Of course, that’s just my opinion.  If you want to go out in public pantsless, why shouldn’t you?  What does it matter what I think of how you look?  Your outfit is not interfering with my ability to live my life to my current standard (other than sorta activating my gag reflex), so it’s none of my damn business.

I wish I could brand that across some people’s foreheads (or perhaps the ass of their leggings?).  What other people wear is none of your damn business.

Don’t like the implications of that Muslim lady’s hijab?  None of your damn business!

Think that girl’s tube top is better saved for the bedroom?  None of your damn business!

Tempted to tell that teenage boy to pull up his damn pants? None of your GD, MF business!

none of your business

The next time you’re tempted to unload your opinion of someone’s outfit, ask yourself these questions three:


  1. Do they have a body part hanging out in a way that appears unintentional?
  2. Is something about their outfit endangering their life in the immediate future?
  3. Can what they’re wearing qualify as hate speech?

If the answer to these questions is no, then —


barney stinson wait for it how i met your mother neil patrick harris


The Kids Are Alright!

Back when I worked as an educational tour guide, my bread and butter was leading high school trips to New York City.

Molding young lives...
Molding young lives in New York’s Financial District…

It goes without saying that there are lots of awesome things to do in New York, so you can imagine that no two trips were ever the same.  But there WAS one quintessential New York experience that groups requested more than almost anything else: a trip up to the Bronx for a Yankees game.  I love baseball, and Yankee Stadium is so inextricably woven into the mythology of the game that I can’t help feeling a thrill of excitement every time I find myself under its big, bright floodlights.

On one trip, I took a particularly sporty group of Toronto kids to see a game.  They were a great bunch, and I was thrilled to be able to share the experience with them.  But this time around, I found my excitement clouded by a sense of unease.

For one, our tickets were for “The Bleachers”, the one area of Yankee Stadium in which you couldn’t buy a beer.  I’m sure the teachers who booked the trip thought it was a great place to seat a bunch of minors under your protection, but unbeknownst to them, the Yankees fans who buy bleacher tickets generally get their whole night’s drinking done before they get to the stadium.

Combine that with the fact that the Yankees were hosting the Toronto Blue Jays that night, and you’ll understand what I was feeling.  My uneasiness deepened as I brought up the rear and realized that one of the students had unfurled a Canadian flag.  In the rest of the stadium it would have earned him some loud, good-natured ribbing.  In The Bleachers, though, the ribbing took on a more sinister overtone.

So-called 'Bleacher Creatures' getting their jerk on.
So-called ‘Bleacher Creatures‘ getting their jerk on.

The kids were too excited about the game to notice the rumblings around them, at least at first.  I’ll spare you the details of what was said, since I don’t like to speak ill of those who are too drunk to know better.  Suffice it to say that eventually the kids (particularly the girls) started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. I felt sick for them; they’d come here to experience one of the best parts of life in New York, and instead they were getting a taste of the worst.

I gave them what I thought was a pretty good pep talk about rising above the negativity, but I wasn’t sure that they’d take my advice.  Not entirely convinced of the power of positive thinking myself, I went up for a chat with the very large security guard at the top of the aisle.  I figured that if things got ugly, it would be good to have him on our side.  He said, and I quote: “I effing hate Yankees fans.  I got your backs.”

But to my surprise, the kids took care of their own backs.  I saw a few of them put their heads together for a minute, then pass the word to the rest of the group.  I watched in amazement as they rose to their feet, put their arms around one another and started singing “Why Can’t We Be Friends?” at the tops of their voices.

The drunken rumblings around us stuttered and then died.  A chuckle from a few rows down echoed outward, and soon most of the crowd was laughing, and a few were even singing along.  A skinny middle-aged woman staggered over to us, put her arm around me and said “You kids are ALLLLL RIGHT.”

Photo Credit:
Photo Credit:

And they were all right.  They had a great time at the game, laughing and joking with everyone around them, all bad feelings forgotten.  And our Canadian flag flew unopposed for the rest of the night.

As we walked back to our bus after the game, the aforementioned security guard (who insisted on accompanying us to our bus ‘just in case’) said “That was pretty cool.  But I still effing hate Yankees fans.”