Total Bollocks

While standing in the elevator today, I learned something interesting. Don't say that I'm not a mobile learner, or that I've never taught you anything. Here goes. You can thank me (or argue against my point) later.

Apparently Reuters.com published a study from the University of Leicester in England that investigated the time-tested notion of "beer goggles."

Absolutely scientific, I'm sure.

After talking to 240 people ranging from 18-70, their results were published in London today. The results flew in the face of the idea that heterosexuals find members of the opposite sex more attractive after consuming large amounts of alcohol. In fact, it proved that the opposite was true—that people actually found men/women LESS attractive after drinking in pubs or bars around town.

Uhm...have these people EVER been out? More precisely, who ARE these 240 said people?

Even Wikipedia knows better. The site even boasts studies with fruit flies that supports my argument of the British study. Exhibit A: "On daily dose of ethanol, male fruit flies court male as well as female flies. This observed inter-male courtship requires dopamine transmission between neurons in the brain and is encouraged by repeated alcohol exposure."

We're not drinking straight ethanol at the local pubs, but still. I guess budget cuts don't allow the serving of chilled Stella Artois to fruit flies these days.

Let's forget "science" for now.

In terms of reality, I know that in my world, not only do OTHER people become more attractive when I'm under the influence, but I find MYSELF more attractive under those conditions, too.

I know that I've agreed to dates with people when I've met them under the influence. Upon meeting sober, for the first date, I'm not usually as impressed. They're likely not as wowed by me either, but that's besides the point.

In line with this, I also have heard countless stories from girls and guys I know about how their judgement is impaired and they drop their standards. The whole "closing time" theory. Not that a good girl like me does anything about this at 2 am, but you get the drift.

There is even a commercial for "assistance" when looking to employ the 'beer goggle technique' of mate selection. Check it out here:



Sorry if I offended anyone. I laughed out loud, personally.

So, back to the Brits.

Am I crazy here? Or is this just bollocks?

Discuss.

Over a beer, hopefully. Then we'll all find each other far more appealing.

The Garbage State

So, I know that I've renamed this blog AWAY from strictly commuting stories, but seriously, with all the travel I've been doing lately, I am going to have to have to regress for a moment.

Indulge me, wouldja?

Tuesday night, after a very hectic and long day at work, I raced in a cab, in the pouring rain, to O'Hare to catch a flight to Newark. My second one in two weeks.

I was optimistic that this one would be on time. We boarded on time. We pushed away from the gate on time.

Things were looking up.

That's when the airplane decided to do a driving tour of the airfield surrounding O'Hare international airport. We visited, driving slowly and stopping ever so often (photo op?), at not one, or two, or three, but FOUR runways. The pilot even chuckled a bit when he announced the fourth change.

Even he wasn't optimistic anymore.

We landed in Newark, eventually, and it was after 11 pm again. I'd been up a long time, and had miles to go before I slept.

Next stop? Hertz. I trot out to the parking lot, thankful my new #1 Club Gold status had finally kicked in. This was going to be fun!

Again with the unbridled optimism. You'd think I'd learn already.

I see my car. Or was it a toaster?

It was a Prius. I'm sure these things do great things for good old Mother Earth and all, but they sure do nothing for me. I got in, read the instructions on how to turn it on (a la a Toaster) and got it into gear, finally.

Then I pulled out of the space. With the noise it was making, I was just sure I was dragging a dead grandma around under the car. It was horrendous. I had to re-read the instructions to make sure I'd not accidentally turned on the Hovercraft feature of the automobile. Nope. Just put it into Drive.

I promptly put it into Reverse and backed it right into the parking spot. The old me, from high school, would have been far too shy to go back and admit I didn't want that car, and ask for a new one.

Not the new me. I walked in, confessed my fear and loathing for the Prius, and got a new car.

Aha! A Subaru! Fantastic. At least it didn't have instructions. That will be a key ingredient as the following story unfolds.

Confident in my new wheels, I leave the Hertz lot, clutching my directions and heading for the first stop light of many. I quickly notice, however, that the car is not shifting into the higher gears. It sounds, instead, like it is going to explode. Or lift off into space. One or the other.

I realize that it is an automatic, with a fancy little shifter for manual gear changes. Uhm, hello? I don't drive a stick shift! I never learned how to "listen to the car" and "shift when it is ready!"

Good grief, this was not going well.

I notice that the gear shift has a little + and a - on it. I push it towards the +. It shifts. Great. Noise abated.

For now.

Then I accelerate onto the highway entrance, still clutching my directions, and hit the + again. Aha! I can do this!

Then I notice that I'm not shifting fast, or often, enough for little Subaru to keep up. I can barely hear myself panic over the dreadful noises it was making. Poor little Suby...don't die on me now!

Oh. Crap.

I just missed the exit towards Elizabeth that leads me to 95 South which leads me to the NJ Turnpike (aka the Freeway from Hell).

Grrrrreat.

Now I'm shifting, freaking out, panicking, shifting, looking for an exit, and Oh. Crap.

Now I'm on another highway. No exits in sight. I have no idea what highway I'm on, or where I'm headed. All I know is that it is now 11:45 pm and I'm exhausted and (shift) freaking out and lost. In Newark.

Oh. Crap.

I'm headed (shift) towards the Holland Tunnel Bridge. Into New York Freaking City.

The last place on earth that you'd ever want to be driving a car you don't know how to drive.

Am I sweating? Why is it so hot? How do you (shift) turn this heater down (shift) already?

I see an exit. I exit. Shift. Sweat. I figure out how to turn down the heat. I slowly stop sweating, as I rip the scarf off from around my neck, practically blinding myself in the process.

Now I'm in downtown Newark, I think, which I've heard isn't a "lovely neighborhood." And, it is midnight and I'm alone. Shift.

I do a ridiculously bad U-turn, and make it back onto the highway and follow the signs back to Newark Airport.

I exit, shift and guide myself back to Hertz.

Square One.

I realize, while at a stop in the Hertz parking lot, that the shifter has two choices. You can be in automatic automatic, or the sneaky little manual automatic. Gratefully, I change over to the trusty auto auto choice.

I pull back out of the lot, follow my directions, and MAKE the exit towards Elizabeth.

Success would be fleeting.

I somehow miss/overlook/ignore the sign that says which way Princeton is on US-1. (It is South, by the way). I go North, and realize that NOTHING looks familiar from last week's visit. Oh. Crap.

Now I'm heading the wrong way again. I stop and flag down two guys in a gas station parking lot, only opening my window an inch or so, and find out that yes, Princeton is the other way.

For anyone that has ever driven in New Jersey, you know that the roads have these strange and awkward rules about U-turns. They are like real turns, and then they circle through a neighborhood before dumping you back onto the street from which you came, going the other way.

After all of that, I finally head the right way, and begin to recognize things again. I practically sang the Hallelujah Chorus when I saw a movie theater that I recognized.

That song would have been in lieu of the Hispanic songs that were playing non-stop on what felt like every channel with decent reception. What is it about New Jersey? I grew up in Atlanta, with a huge Latino population, and we only had one or two Hispanic radio stations. Here I am, right outside New York City, and I can't get a decent (depends on your definition) pop song to save my life?!

I pulled into the hotel parking lot about 25 minutes later at about 12:35 am, and parked near the back. I make it to the front lobby of the Westin where the guy at the registration desk says to me, in all polite seriousness, "Good morning."

Yes, I suppose it is morning. It was hardly good though, buddy.