Tales from the City, Part 2

Alternative title 1: In which the big dork gets carded. Again.

Alternative title 2: In which the general populace wonders what the hell she was thinking, anyway, buying wine - wine!? - on that fine gastronomical and oenological institution that is the Amtrak commuter train.

(And in which she answers: Listen. It sounded good at the time, and I clearly wasn't thinking, so just leave me alone. You try sitting on a late train for four hours, with nothing to entertain you but thoughts of facing the consequences of your three days "off" housewifing duties, all of which will surely be lying in wait for you, which would be bad enough except you're also realizing you can no longer really postpone that spring closet changeover, too - even though you still haven't actually completed the winter one and have been simply stepping over the plastic bin in your bedroom and using it to prop up the exercycle clothing overflow.)

So where were we? Ah, yes. There we were, returning from the Big City, when Girl decided she needed dinner but her Mom wouldn't let her go to the dining car by herself because a) she had images of ax murderers jumping out of seats in the cars ahead and pushing her child off the train, and b) she spied on the menu a thing wherein it said they sold alcohol and she could really use some. (See above.) Also? It had been some time, really, since the mother been able to enjoy a glass of wine, because she found it impeded her ability to calculate tips accurately, which, it turns out, is an activity of major importance in the Big City.)

And c) and most importantly, the lady behind them had stored her bags in their overhead compartment and was obsessively checking on them in a very annoying way, and the mother knew that what the lady really wanted was to step on the seats to be able to move her bags out of the overhead compartment and put them closer to her own seat and the mother didn't really want her pants to share the same area that had been touched by the bottom of a shoe that had been walking around in Penn Station.

It has been said the mother is a little crazy.

And also maybe thinking, that, along with protecting their seats from dirty shoeage, she needed a person to watch their bags. Even if the person provided all the defense of an 80-pound 11-year-old girl. And even if the only thing to steal, really, was some candy from Dylan's. Still. You can't just leave your bags. And your seats to the mercy of clambering dirty-footed strangers.

And so the mother said, "Oh, it's fine; I'll go; you sit."

And then was forced to say, "No... I said, I'll go. You sit."

And ultimately, with a hiss: "Because-I-said-so. Stay."

Which finally worked, and fortunately forestalled the need to go to step four which was "Listen, child. Sit your butt down and shut the heck up. I. Am. Going. You are going to sit here. And. Like. It."

So then the mother gracefully stumbled her way through the moving train to the diner car, fretting about ax murderers taking advantage of her absence to steal her kid and push her off the train now that she was left in a seat alone.

(Wha-at? You're telling me you don't think of those things, too? C'mon. Puh-lease.)

In the dining car, the mother patiently waited for the old man behind the counter to finish flirting with the kid in front of her, and then she ordered crap pizza and a juice for Girl, and a glass of wine for herself.

To which the old man train guy said "Ha! I'll need your ID first."

To which another teenager in line behind the mother had the sense - if not the grace - to snicker.

To which the mother chuckled in acknowledgement because she didn't want the teenager to think that she herself was so stupid as to think she looked under 21.

Because apparently the mother cares what random teenagers think after all.

(OK. OK. I know, I know. But I don't want to hear it. I've said it before (sadly enough), but I'll say it again: getting carded does not mean I appear to others a sexy, hot, young babe who apparently shimmied down the trellis outside her bedroom window in her stocking feet in the middle of the night to escape into a boyfriend's waiting vehicle to then go jump aboard an Amtrak train for a glass of wine.

Nope. It doesn't mean that.

It just means I am a dork, who is clearly doing something very, very wrong with her wardrobe.

Alright? Are we clear? I mean, seriously: 41 never really looks under 21. Certainly not a good under 21.)

In any case, the mother produced her wallet, saying "Well, here's my ID, with all my 41 years on it," and gave it to the old man.

"Wow!" he said, "We're the same age!"

He was actually younger - a mere 40.

The mother does not have a picture of him, but trust her. There is no way she is that old. The poor thing actually gasped and recoiled in horror.

(There is no way, really, to recover from that social faux pas, in case you were wondering.)

So she can't say for certain, but she is pretty sure he spat in her glass of wine.

The mother does know for certain that she learned her lesson: she won't be ordering wine again from a train guy.

But that's OK.

It's almost summer, and beer makes a fine choice.

Just leave the cap on, wouldja, Big Guy? I'll twist if off myself.