Do you brake for "booty"?

Hello again Dear Readers!

How are you all? So sorry for my absence; yours truly has seriously missed her blog. I was pretty sick for a few weeks with a nasty bug (I just finished fighting off the remnants of a cough), and work has been insane. Late hours and illness do not inspire my writing jones; they inspire my sleeping jones. Plus, I could barely look at food for almost two weeks. I recently went to brunch with a good friend, who said "Look at you! Baby girl, you have lost weight! Have you been working out?" Well, no, and I have to say that I don't recommend the Deathly Ill Diet. It is quite unpleasant. Anyway, I'm almost 100%, I'm back, and I'm ready to blog! I'd like to say a quick thank you to those of you who have checked up on me to make sure I was still alive. It's nice to know that I was missed!

I have a very long post coming up in the next day or so, but I'm going to wade my way back into blogging with a shortie.

So. About three weeks ago (immediately pre-sickness) on a Wednesday night, around 8:45pm, I was rushing home after an exhausting 12-hour day so that I could catch LOST on TV. Almost everyone has at least one particular TV show for which they'll rearrange their schedule, and LOST is The Show That I Will Not Miss Come Hell, High Water Or Apocalypse. I am completely LOST-obsessed. My friend Stephanie and I have a sort of standing Wednesday night 'date'. We go to a pilates studio and work out for an hour, then go back to her house, order pizza, and watch LOST. However, on that particular night, we couldn't get together because we were both overwhelmed at work. I don't have TiVo like she does, and I can't set my apartment TV/VCR to tape, because its remote is missing; hence the rushing home.

I had just stepped onto a crosswalk on my way to my car when a taxi came barreling around the corner a little too fast. Since it was dark, I figured that the driver couldn't see me. I was experiencing one of those fight-or-flight moments - do I stop dead, back up fast, or run forward to avoid getting hit by the taxi? I backpedaled, but I needn't have worried. The guy caught me in his headlights at the last second, and slammed on his brakes.

Whew! Readers, I could have been road pizza, which would have meant hospitalization and, worse, no LOST! I breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded to cross, giving the taxi driver the "wave" (that universal 'thanks for letting me go/not running me over' half-arm raise). As I crossed the street, I walked through the glare of the taxi's headlights, and as I came around the driver's side of the taxi, the man leaned out of his window to say, "Very beautiful!"

Well, not exactly. He had a very heavy Middle Eastern accent, so it sounded more like, "Veddy booty-full!"

I have to say, it gave me a chuckle. I'd had a long day, I was tired, I was cranky, and readers, I looked like ass. Picture it: hair in a messy ponytail, barely any remnants of makeup remaining, overstuffed work bag falling off of my shoulder, jacket half buttoned. Yet here was this speed demon taxi driver, who clearly did not speak English as a first language, taking the time to give me a holla as I rushed home. Street harassers are hard workers, always on the clock. Would he have charged me extra for that service, had I hailed a ride? Would he have run me over, had I not met his personal standard for cuteness?

Truthfully, he wasn't being threatening. His tone was playful, and he didn't call out after me or try to follow me when I said "Have a good night!" and kept walking. I just shook my head and laughed. Besides, all I really cared about that night was getting home to my boy Josh Holloway.