And Now, For My Next Trick, I'll Need a Volunteer

On Friday morning, my bus stopped at a railroad crossing.  The gate was down, the lights were flashing, this is not anything new.  What was new was this:  there was no train.  No train in sight, no heavily-graffitied cars rolling past at a snail's pace, not even a rumbling in the distance.

So there we were.  Waiting.  The bus driver radioed in about our predicament, and we continued to wait, watching a line of cars and trucks steadily grow across the tracks.  

"I'm sorry, but we have to wait here until this gate is fixed."  The driver was a small woman with a badass streak.  Two days before, a woman running late had risked being hit by a car to cross the street and then darted in front of the bus in an attempt to catch it.  By way of an admonishment (or punishment) the driver had simply glared through the side door and driven off without her.  Definitely no-nonsense.

I was happy for the explanation, however.  I'm always grateful to drivers who dare to actually use those speakers to give the passengers reasons for delays and alternate routes.  Two weeks ago I was asleep on the way home and didn't see that a traffic accident up ahead was causing us to re-route and backtrack. Consequently, I woke up in a panic, looking out at an industrial parking lot and assuming I'd taken the 5:15 to Murderville by mistake.

Another five minutes went by. Still no train. I don't think I can fully convey how long ten minutes is when you're sitting stationary on a bus that should already have picked up 20 more people and be on its way into downtown.  Well, it's not an hour stuck on an icy on-ramp to I-94, but that's another story for another time.

Let me just say that the waiting was not a problem for me personally.  If my iPod is fully charged, I have no problem sitting and staring out a window, lost in my thoughts. During the next couple songs, the cars that had been queued up across from us and behind us began to realize that they, too, could be here all day if they didn't take matters into their own hands, and began snaking around the gates.

Suddenly the bus driver stood up.  "I can't cross these tracks, or I might lose my job."

In my head I thought, "OK, but which one of us is going to say anything?  We just want to get to work.  I promise, if I'm grilled down at the Metro Transit station, I'll deny everything.  Even if they good-cop/bad-cop me, I won't squeal!"

She continued, "I need someone to spot me so I can back up."

Immediately, this man and woman, who at first appeared to be a couple but later turned out didn't even know each other, stood up and volunteered.  They then exchanged a few quick confirmations with the driver of appropriate hand signals, as if they were amateur traffic cops secretly waiting for their big chance or Eagle scouts looking for the perfect opportunity to earn their transit badges, before barreling off the bus into the street.

Now, I'm not an expert on this kind of thing, but doesn't it seem that sending two passengers out into the middle of mid-morning traffic, on a narrow road coated with ice and snow, to guide the bus two blocks in reverse and through a stoplight (so we could turn and take a route that circumvented the malfunctioning gate) is slightly more dangerous to their safety than rolling forward 30 feet across the tracks when clearly there is no imminent danger?  Again, not an expert ... I'm just saying.

Logic aside, we managed to make the turn amid comparatively few angry horn blasts, and the man and woman hopped back on board, none the worse for wear.  I shouted "Nice job!"  I couldn't help myself. The driver promised them free ride tickets.  I actually thought applause might have been in order. 

But then again, I think applause is always in order when you've witnessed something a bit out of the ordinary.  Or put your life at risk so that strangers can punch in on time and have yet another interesting story to tell over lunch.  And in a blog.

Never Judge a Monk by its Cover

So the other morning I was staring half-awake out of my bus window, and up ahead I saw a small car plastered with bumper stickers. Normally I'm fascinated by this phenomenon, which seems especially prevalent here in the Twin Cities, of using your vehicle to loudly proclaim your feelings about various topics (or, at least, as loudly as an 8x3" sheet of vinyl will allow) to the person waiting impatiently for you to make that left-hand turn.

I'm a bit torn between bumper stickers and vanity plates as hilarious social media. On one hand, the stickers are often clever. But on the other hand, vanity plates only allow you six or seven characters to be equally as clever. Plus there's the challenge of trying to figure them out. I keep a running list of my favorites. 

But we were talking about bumper stickers. What I love are the messages, because they are rarely ambiguous or middle-of-the-road. You never see "Peace: Sometimes It's Nice" or "Part-Time NRA." And, in the case of what I call a bulletin-board bumper, there's usually a theme. You can typically infer a lot of things about someone from their vehicular menagerie of well-worn sentiments.

I enjoy few things more than people who are willing to deface their car in the interest of provocation. My favorite sticker to date read "God was my co-pilot, but we crashed in the mountains and I ate him." Believer or not, you have to appreciate the person who thought, "Yes. When people gaze upon me in traffic, this is the sentence I'd like them to take away from that experience."

I often wonder whether there are people out there who are driving around in used cars with bumper stickers that scream things they don't personally believe. Maybe they were too lazy to remove them, maybe they wouldn't come off, but for whatever reason, they just don't apply. Do they get horn blasts or middle fingers they don't deserve?

When I was about nine, my family went to Florida to visit some friends. It happened to be Halloween, and my sister and I were invited to a party, along with these friends' kids. I didn't have a costume, so I borrowed a mask from their son, who was about my age. I didn't realize two things: 1) He'd worn this mask before, and 2) Evidently he was not well-liked. 

So I got to this party and was immediately set upon by three or four older boys, who mistakenly thought I was him. I remember thinking, "What the hell did I ever do to you a-holes?" Well, that, and "Holy crap, I'm never gonna see Disneyworld!"

The point is this: Maybe we shouldn't assume that what's on the outside accurately reflects what (or who) is on the inside. Let me take you back to the small car outside my bus window the other morning. All the bumper stickers read "Free Tibet," and I was immediately and irrationally annoyed by this, since it seems a trendy thing to advocate. (I'm all for freeing Tibet, I just don't think you should cover your car with the slogan unless you're intimately acquainted with the situation and genuinely dedicated to the cause.)  

Which, in this case, the passengers were. As the bus pulled up alongside, I looked down into the car. Chock full of monks. Touché, monks. Touché.

Fastest. Shower. Ever.

Another two weeks have flown by, and again I apologize.  In an attempt to regain focus, I will give you two very important words from this morning.  The first is "myopia."  The second?  "Spiders."  You'll see how the two relate with horrific consequences below.

I have to set this up by explaining that, since I got my first pair of spectacles at age 9, I've been bound to these frickin' things (in increasing lens thicknesses) during every waking hour.  My goal for 2010 is to give contacts another shot, since they've never quite measured up vision-wise but would spare me from the constant paranoia of worrying whether someone (or some kid) is going to whack me in the face and leave me dizzy and disoriented for the next month.

But I digress.

Suffice it to say that with my glasses on, I see about 20/15.  Without them, I see about 20/1000.  So it will be no surprise that, upon noticing a blurry black mark on my bathroom wall early this morning, I had to lean in VERY close to discern that it was, indeed, a spider, who was very much alive and none too happy with being squinted at and subsequently cursed at.

I don't know why I had to verify what it was.  That spot isn't normally there, and what else could it be, really?  A piece of fuzz?  Hardly.  A wandering blob of mold?  Please, I keep a relatively clean house.  I guess I wanted to confirm that it wasn't anything worse than a spider, something that would require not simply hopping backward but fleeing immediately from the vicinity.  Naked.  

Did I forget to mention this was just before I stepped into the shower?

So there I was, knowing it was there but unable to do a thing about it, because the countdown clock for my bus arrival was ticking away, and I couldn't see well enough to hit it with anything.  I decided to turn a blind eye (pun intended) and brush my teeth, hoping that it would simply disappear.  I operated on the same principle that guided me safely through public bathing experiences in Japan:  if I can't see it, it's not there.  If this tenet can apply to other people's cash and prizes, I can apply it to wayward insects as well.

When I turned around two mintues later (thanks, Sonicare), the spot was gone.  "Hurray!" I shouted.  Actually, I shouted another profanity, but this is all about the pursuit of cleanliness, so let's keep it nice.  Confident that the bug had taken advantage of its reprieve and scuttled away into a dark corner, I pulled back my shower curtain ... and found it clinging to the wall, now even closer to my exposed skin than before.

And then, to make things worse, it sprang off the wall and disappeared.  Where?  How the hell should I know!  I can't even find my razor blade on the tub floor if it pops off mid-shower. There was no way I was groping blindly for this little shithead, who just took a swan dive off the tile like Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive."  For all I knew he was now bobbing around just waiting for me, and let's face it, eight legs can probably tread water indefinitely.

At this point I think I yelled something akin to "What!? You did NOT just [expletive deleted] do that!  Ahhhh!  You did NOT just do that!  Now you're in the tub?  Ahhhhh!"  In case you haven't noticed, I'm very witty and articulate at 7:30 a.m. when facing down brazen creepy crawlies.  

In the end, the worst part wasn't the fact that this thing had the balls to interrupt my morning routine. The worst part was that it used up all the soap.

It's a Friggin' Free Couch

Back from hiatus ... and exhausted by my first day back at the grind.  I've decided that the truest benchmark of whether your job is stressful is when you have two weeks off and your skin clears up. 

So, in the interest of preserving my energy (at least for today) I'm posting a Craigslist ad for a couch that a friend stumbled across and sent me for amusement.  God, I love people.

Deep reddish, almost purple-ish in color. Corduroy-type material. About 8 years old. Comes with 4 couch pillows. Does not come with the blue blanket shown in the photo (sorry, it was the best photo I could find at the moment, since the couch temporarily has some stuff stored on it while I rearrange my living room). 

PLEASE NOTE: 

Until Friday, January 1st, I will NOT BE AVAILABLE to respond to any emails or make arrangements for you to pick up the couch, so please be patient. And no, I will not measure the couch, calculate its mass or specific gravity, call you, help you move it, high five you, or even give you some sort of barely perceptible knowing nod. It's a friggin' free couch of average size. Come and get it or don't. 

Also, couch may or may not come with free awkward discretionary hug. 

Do You Hear What I Hear (Six)

Technically, this one should be titled "Do You Read What I Read," but let's just go with it, shall we?

I want you to think way, waaay back to when Facebook was but a glimmer in social networking's eye and MySpace ruled the internet universe.  Back in the day (which was about two years ago) I had a MySpace page, and I would periodically receive messages from random men looking to hook up with me.

Remember how I only get hit on by crazy/drunk men in real life?  Well, in cyberspace my demographic seems to be middle-aged black men.  I don't know why.  I'm an equal opportunity dater, but I don't skew my profile to appeal to any race in particular.

In any case, I received the following message, which I have copied and pasted verbatim below. I haven't altered this in any way.  Please keep in mind that the guy's screen name was Big Boom and his picture featured a cartoon of George Bush as a vampire sucking on the Statue of Liberty's neck.

Subject:  "You have the deepest dimples."  (Again with the dimples!)

Whatz up pretty young misses? I like your height. You look super hot and tempting. Your smile and dimples are eating away at my sould as we speak. You look like a business woman and I'm loving it. Can I talk you you? I know you are busy doing your thing and all that, but you gotta squeez me in. I'm a cool fellow. You wanna have fun then come with me. I keep the blueberry Smirnoff on deck and the VSOP lately, I’m a homeowner and I have a car too so we can do whatever. I don't need to play gamez. I just wanna have fun shit.... can I know you? Iz that too much to ask? Um just sayin though for real..whatz up..can I get a number or give you mine? I'm a young, honest and fun King looking for a proper Queen. Can you handle that?

I honestly don't know what's better -- all the z's or the fact that I had to google VSOP (Very Superior Old Pale cognac).

What can I say?  You learn something new every day.

Do You Hear What I Hear (Five)

Let me start this one by sharing something that I think is important for you to understand:  I don't get hit on by non-crazy men.  Never, at any point, in a restaurant or at the movies or at the library or at the grocery store, has a respectable, sober man randomly complimented me or expressed in any way that he would like to make sweet love to me at some point in the future.

But while waiting for the bus?  Frequently.  And by drunken and/or homeless men?  Absolutely. 

I would like to think this is because I'm so stunningly beautiful that males need to be in a generally addled state to work up the courage to make advances on me.  I'd like to think that, but it's not true.  I'm not what you'd call a "looker."  I'm about as average as you can get. 

However, something about me must attract attention.  Sometimes it's the dimples, which I typically forget I have, but which are a source of endless fascination for some people.  (Obviously I haven't learned to "work them" to get what I want, but I'm looking into that.)  I don't have junk in the trunk.  I'm an A-cup.  But for whatever reason, crazy guys love me.

Just the other day, as I hurried to my stop, I passed a man who surveyed me and proclaimed emphatically that he would "hit that."

Thank you, sir.

A couple months ago, as I waited patiently for the bus, a disheveled man staggered up, complimented me on my hair, and asked me to the movies.

Thanks, but no thanks.

The best was the drunken man who approached me asking for money.  The conversation went like this:

HIM: "Can I have a dollar?"

ME:  "Sorry, I don't have any cash."

HIM:  "How bout some gum?"

ME: (Oh what the hell, I actually have the gum.)  "Sure."

HIM:  "How bout your phone number?"

Yes, because you meet all the right criteria for someone I want calling me.  And I don't see how asking me for money is the best segue into asking me out.  But I see where I unintentionally gave him a glimmer of hope -- if she's willing to give me gum, what else will she be willing to offer?  If I can reach out and touch her over the phone, maybe I can do so in person as well.  You never know.

Do You Hear What I Hear (Four)

This one is short but sweet ... in a dirty sort of way.  Parental advisory.

I was standing at the bus stop, and off to my right this guy (pretty clearly hammered) was just ranting aloud to no one in particular.  I wasn't paying much attention until he said this:

"I tell you what I'm gonna do!"

To which I thought, well, this should be interesting. I expected the next sentence could go any number of ways.  Here are some examples:

1.  "I'm gonna deal with my rage by shouting incoherently!"

2.  "I'm gonna get myself arrested!"

3.  "I'm gonna not remember any of this tomorrow!"

Yes, all viable options.  But, drunken free will being what it is, he went with this:

"I'm gonna eat me some good, old-fashioned, down-home pussy!"

He could have ended that sentence with about a billion other words that would have been less offensive but certainly not as funny.  And I guarantee you none of them would have required me to lean against the bus shelter while I shook uncontrollably with laughter. 

Well played, sir.  Well played.  You managed to catch me off guard.  I thought for sure you were going to say "ribs."

Do You Hear What I Hear (Three)

Okay, this was a great one.  As often happens after a long day of staring at a computer screen, I nodded off on the bus ride home.  Typically, this is an uneventful little nap that's punctuated by brief spasms as I'm startled awake every time we hit a major bump.  No doubt my head lolling around and my limbs jerking every which way are hilarious to observers, and that's why I do it, really.  For the entertainment value.

Anyway, on this particular day, I snapped awake in the middle of a catfight between a black woman and a flamboyantly gay man sitting across from me in the back of the bus.  Why anyone would tangle with such a woman, I don't even pretend to know.  Maybe he thought he could out-diva her.  

In any case, it's important to note that not only was she holding her own in the on-board verbal exchange, but she was also giving a play-by-play to whomever she was talking to on her cell phone. Here's what I awoke to in my foggy stupor.

Woman: "You need to shut your mouth!”

Me:  (Shit, I can't believe I missed the first part of this!)

Man: “You better shut YOUR mouth!”   

Woman:  “You saw I was on the phone when you sat down.”   

Man:  “You need to be more courteous to the people around you.”  

Woman into phone:  “Girl, I know he didn’t just tell me to get off my phone.” 

Me: (Oh, it is ON!)

Man: “I’m going to get you kicked off this bus.”   

Me:  (You and what army?)

Woman into phone:  “Girl, something wrong with him!”   

At this point, the man exited the bus in a huff, and I quit worrying about how I was going to revive him before the paramedics arrived.  But just as things were settling down, this skinny white teenage boy who had also overheard everything thought it was the perfect moment to interject.  He leaned over to the woman and said very casually, "He's probably just racist."

[Insert uncomfortable silence as the woman looked the boy over, deciding whether or not to end him.]

Woman into phone:  “Girl, he’s probably just racist.”