Magic Fingers... Yeah, I'm not okay with that

There's a monotony associated with commuting. It's written across the face of every commuter. Rarely does one notice someone who is not sporting a glazed, half-asleep look. Part of it is because, well, let's face it, most people don't WANT to go to work. Most want to stay snuggled in their beds beneath warm covers, wake up naturally instead of from the screech of an alarm clock, and pour themselves a nice hot cup of coffee or tea whilst catching up on the news of the day still in pajamas and cozy slippers... but they're not. Instead, loaded like cattle, we commuters load into a bus or train, and make our way to the salt mines. (Okay, so I've used this term many times before and yet never knew its significance. Well, apparently it IS as crappy as it sounds. From Wikipedia "salt mining in the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany was performed by persons being punished." Nazi's AND Soviets! Christ, that's rough, and now I feel as though I should NEVER use the term "salt mine" to describe my job. It's about as hard as petting kittens all day in comparison to mining salt as a punishment for being HUMAN (the Nazis and Soviets were assholes when choosing people fit for punishment))
As I was saying, commuting is, generally speaking, crappy. It certainly has its interesting moments. I mean, hell, I have a decent (but not very well updated) blog occasionally discussing it. Yesterday, I experienced one such "interesting" moment. As many of you are aware, it's cold outside. Not as cold as it will eventually get (oh yes, it will get colder. It will get bone-crushingly cold. Your fingers will ache and your tears will freeze to your cheeks when that wind slaps you across the face *OVER DRAMATIC but true*), but still chilly. With cold weather comes heated buses. I've come to the realization that there are two settings to bus heat: blast furnace and ice maker. Yesterday we were on blast furnace mode. I just blinked repeatedly to prevent my eyes from drying out and found a seat.
This is where things took a turn. The seat I chose was situated above a heating vent. Every time the vent decided to blast, the WHOLE seat vibrated. Because the heat was CRANKING, the seat vibrated A LOT. The woman next to me seemed to be in a coma. The bus was packed, so even getting up and out of the seat wasn't an option. I was essentially riding a bus with magic fingers, but it was neither the time NOR the place (but it was probably just as dirty). Seriously, the last place anyone wants to feel a low-down tingle is a bus. Unless you're a pervert. Luckily, after the initial shock wore off, the vibration only served to make my ass go numb. I would have moved to another seat otherwise, because, like I said, I'm not okay with that.
As I got off the bus, I felt even more dirty than usual, not Silkwood shower dirty, but rather unclean. I turned to look back as the bus pulled away. I knew then that the bus would never be the same again. We would never be okay... (actually, I'll ride it like always because I have to. I'll just never sit in that seat ever again.)

Unpublished works!

Wow, so I wrote this whole post back in August and realized, just now, that I never hit the "publish" button. Don't judge me people. Life is hard! Just be happy you don't have to live inside my brain, too.

So without further ado, a months old post that is new to you so you should enjoy it:)


---Shoes for One, or Thanks Mom

I've had my eye on a pair of shoes for most of the summer. I covet them, and while they're not too expensive, they're rather frivolous. I find myself more in need of work-friendly shoes. Sturdy, water/fluid resistant, and comfortable when standing for hours on end... aka, not super fun and usually on the ugly side. I know that when push comes to shove, I will spend my hard earned money on the work shoes.

Like many people out there, I have a job, and most of the time I do enjoy it. I'm budgeted down to the last penny though and I miss the carefree days when I made enough to cover all my expenses and buy any shoes I wanted (in my defense the shoes I wanted were always either a new pair of Vans or Chuck Taylors... I still want them).

The other night I was having a pity party while doing bills (I think that's really the only kind of party you can have while doing bills. Bills + pajamas = the most boring pajama party ever, OR just a Monday night doing bills for me). I like to have the TV on in the background while working (I don't do well with total silence. If I went to the library to study, I spent most of the time reading the graffiti on the study carrel and wondering whether Michelle and Dave have been together 4-evah or if Erin really was a slut). We've entered the Back to School season, so the commercials hocking all sorts of things that every school age child must have are incessant. I stopped mid-calculation when a commercial for shoes appeared. 45% Off!!! Children were bounding through the air! Mom's were smiling and lacing sneakers! Skinny jeans and skateboards were everywhere! Life was good and I thought how I could take advantage of such a spectacular sale and get the shoes I've wanted. I could buy MY shoes, which often look like a 15 year old would also buy and no one would be the wiser. I don't have to buy shoes for anyone but me.

That's when it hit me... no one but me. It wasn't sadness that hit me, it was the realization that I don't have to worry about buying shoes for my kids. I don't have any. I don't have to panic about where the money will come from for shoes I have to buy for my kids, knowing that they'll likely outgrow them in six months. It was at that moment that I felt the anxiety that my mother must have felt for years. I know we didn't have much money after my dad left, but we made do. I wondered how many pairs of shoes she didn't buy for herself and I thought about how I always had a nice new pair of shoes on the first day of school.

I called my mother to tell her about my revelation and to ask her how she did it. Her reply was "I still have no idea, but we did alright." I explained how I want a new pair of shoes, but don't have the extra money for non-essentials at the moment. She offered to send me a check, but I told her no. I wasn't calling for help but to tell her thank you for wearing shoes that had seen better days so that I could have the latest kicks. She got a little teary and we had a wonderful conversation. I hung up feeling better about life.

I'm thankful that I don't have to worry about other peoples' shoes at the moment, but I'm also thankful that I never had to worry about shabby shoes on the first day of school. Thanks, Mom.

Stop, Shop, and Roll

Near work and very near home exists a grocery store. This store is part of a very well know chain in the New England area, but this store is, how you say, low rent. Example: There is a prominent sign above the hot food bar that tells patrons that they cannot use their food stamps to buy food from the hot bar. I don't want this to sound elitist that I mention this, but seriously?! That food is crazy marked up. Use the stamps to buy food that is not over priced and significantly better for you. That and I just don't see how fried plantains that have been sitting under a heat lamp for five plus hours are appetizing.

This post doesn't have much of a point, but just a general feeling of "whaaaaat?" that I experienced this past weekend.

I'll start with the sign that was next to the Stop Diabetes table. It read: "Famous Diabetes People" where People was a complete afterthought. Now, perhaps I'm a stickler about such things, but I believe the term they were looking for was "Diabetics." Further more, if you're trying to stop people from developing diabetes, shouldn't you know the proper terms? Also, not to malign those people with type I Diabetes, but that's an autoimmune disease. You can't prevent that, at least not yet. I would try to focus more on type II DM. These people were all about Mary Tyler Moore, who has type I. I enjoy MTM, but let's face it, she's not really well known by the younger crowd. They should have picked that Jonas brother with type I (I hang my head in shame for knowing that).

After standing and judging the fake doctors in white coats discussing 1970's television stars, I moved through the produce section only to be met with a flood from the seafood case. I can't express the grossness of this. The flood puddle was too wide to jump and I was not about to walk through it and be stuck with the scent of fish juice on my new Converse sneakers. I gave my cart an extra good push and jumped on the back for a ride, thus fording the river of disgustingness. I safely bailed before I hit the bacon case and my Chucks were unsullied.

Cart surfing was exciting (BTW Who are these people that call carts "buggies"? Are you 90? Do you bring your food home and put it in the icebox?), but then my trip took a turn for the infuriating. I kid you not, in nearly every aisle there was a shopper using one of those motorized shopping carts. I get it, you need it, but do you have to take up the whole aisle???? I just want some milk and Golden Grahams (mmmm, Golden Grahams). At one point, two motocarts were at either end of the aisle. For a moment I thought they would joust! Sadly, they did not, but they did succeed in knocking over an Adobo display. I was sure that there would be some flavorless chicken dishes later that evening.

I made it to the checkout counter after an exceedingly long time. Thankfully, the check out procedure was relatively painless. I purchased my items and went home. Next time, I think I'll be hitting up the other grocery store. I don't need this kind of excitement when I'm trying to decide between smoked gouda or extra sharp cheddar.

East Coast vs. West Coast, Beyond Tupac and Biggie

I've recently returned from a trip to visit my mother. As many of you know, she's in Oregon. Each time I visit Portland, I realize just how much of an East-coaster I am. I walk brusquely, on the RIGHT side of the sidewalk/hall/etc. I don't often make eye-contact with strangers. I will hold the door for you, but I greatly appreciate it when people hurry to get to the door so that I'm not standing there forever. I have places to be. Most importantly though, I do NOT talk with strangers on the bus/train.

I realize that this may seem incredibly rude, but let me explain. In Boston, there exists a healthy dose of skepticism when it comes to the motivation of others. Perhaps this derives from our age as a city, or the often brutal temperatures, or the fact that we were founded by Puritans who were pretty much skeptical bastards, but I'm just going to chalk it up to the fact that we're on the east coast. If someone were to sit down next to me and strike up a conversation, I would instantly think that they're trying to rob me. When I'm in Portland, without fail, someone will turn to me and start chatting. My initial reaction to this is a blank, awkward stare. Am I truly that much of a kurmudgeon? I don't think so. I know that with the right people, I can talk a blue streak, but when a perfect stranger decides to talk to me, I can barely remember my own name. Portlander's seem to do this with ease. Is it a nature or nurture situation? No idea.

I've kicked around the idea of moving west for while and wonder if I would fit in. Would I be too unfriendly? Would they consider me rude? Would I care? I'm pretty sure that I can fit in anywhere given time to adjust, but there's a part of me that enjoys the pluckiness of my current city. I like the hustle and bustle. I feel like a local. I think that's just it. When you truly feel at home, you love even the rough edges. I think that's what I love the most. For now, I am content to zone out with my headphones in watching the city roll by my window. Maybe one day I'll find that in a different city, who knows?

Um... They're just exercising

Just a quick note on something that happened this weekend.

This past weekend I spent a good deal of time with my nine year old cousin. He's a good kid and I think we had a lot of fun. I have Nintendo thumb for the first time in years and I was schooled in Mario Kart. I'm still bitter about that, but he set it to 150cc. THAT'S TOO FREAKIN' HARD! I kicked ass at 50cc and occasionally forgot that you have to actually move the controller to stear instead of using the up/down buttons (muscle memory from nearly TWENTY years ago does not go away). Anyway, as we were leaving my house to go pick his parents up from the airport, I heard this odd noise. Now we're standing on the street and walking to the car. He asks me what the noise is, and I suddenly realize that one of my fantastic neighbors is watching PORN. Not just watching porn, but watching it with the volume FULL BLAST. WHO DOES THAT?! So there I am with a nine year old asking me what that noise is. I do what anyone in that situation would do and told him that I think it's someone exercising and that he needs to get in the car or we're going to be late. He shut the door just as a steady stream of expletives as well as a question as to whether someone was enjoying the "excercise" poured from a window.

SERIOUSLY PEOPLE! I do NOT need to hear your porn NOR do I need to explain it to a nine year old. Mr. Pornasaurus Rex, YOU SUCK (and you need to get better porn because that sounded horrible and low production value).

I like trains, changing weather, and the perpetuation of bad habits

Today, for the first time all week, I was able to stand at the bus stop and not feel like a drowned rat. I wore sunglasses! I wore a cotton hoodie (which would have been horrible in the rain as cotton is very absorbent.) I was able to hold my coffee cup without juggling an umbrella and my iPhone, while desperately trying to prevent said phone from getting wet (water + technology = death). I also felt like one of the mole people. THE LIGHT! IT BURNS MEEEEE! Thank god I had sunglasses. (and thank god this thing autosaves since I just refreshed the whole damned thing and almost completely lost what I had written, and thus my will to write) Anyway, I'm just glad that Boston is drying out. It's nice to not feel soggy.

I'm taking tomorrow off from work. Yay four day weekend! It won't be all fun and games. This weekend, or at least part of it, I will be babysitting a nine year old and an 80+ year old. I feel like there's some sort of joke/amazing movie treatment that could be made from all this. Don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to the break. I foresee pizza and Guitar Hero in the future. Maybe McDonalds. What? Every kid needs an adult in their life who will indulge and sneak them candy before church. This is what builds the ties that bind.

I am excited about my pending train ride though. I love riding the train. Give me a window seat, some good music streaming through my headphones, and a cup of coffee and I'm a happy camper. I like watching everything whoosh by. One thing I've always wanted to do is take a train ride across the country. I think it would be much more interesting than a plane ride and just think of all the fun stories I can blog about.

I just re-read everything that I wrote. I'm a huge dork. And to all of you who scoffed at me about "Gleeking" it's in Wikipedia, bitches! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gleek

Turning over a new leaf... maybe

I've come to realize that I'm not the best blogger on Earth. I have a very hard time actually writing something everyday/month. It's not that actually as much as I feel like I have to write something of quality every time I post. I could totally write something every day, but would it be worth reading? I'm hypercritical of myself so I'm not a good judge of that. Maybe I'll try writing something everyday. I have to warn you though, some days the post may be as succinct as "life can blow me." Although, when I start a post with something like that, I will most likely be compelled to explain. I'm all for being entertaining, but I don't necessarily want to chronicle every waking moment of my life. It's mostly boring. Life, in general, is boring. Imagine having every moment of your life be exciting. Sounds EXHAUSTING. Seriously! It would be like living as a Jack Russel Terrier. OMG! You woke up!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! That's awesome! Now you're peeing!!!! (In all fairness, peeing can be pretty exciting, especially if you've had to hold it FOREVER. Your eyes are watering, you're doing the weewee dance and praying to god that you don't actually wet yourself. I know I'm not the only one who's let out a sigh of relief and a silent prayer of thanks for a bathroom.) You get my point though, right? Life is not supposed to be a non-stop, action-packed ride. That much excitement would kill me dead.

BUUUUUUUT I have digressed yet again. Yeah, posting. I'm going to try and do it. Even just a few words. Feel free to prod me/remind me. Or better yet, you guys should totally start doing interesting/weird-ass things. Then I'll elaborate and write something about it. I'm not the only one who rides a bus, people!

I leave you all with a completely non-bus related story, but I find it humorous and educational.

A few weeks ago I was over in the MGH area with some time to kill. It was a beautiful day so I got a non fat, no whip, grande cafe mocha and decided to walk over the foot bridge and sit next to the Charles and watch the sail boats and duck boats. (ASIDE - whenever I walk along the Charles, or any river for that matter, I always look for a body. It's reedy. It's Boston. I like to be prepared! Imagine the shock if you're not prepared, or WORSE you don't see the body! Then you're of no help and evidence is degrading by the second! I like to be helpful.) As I was walking over the foot bridge I somehow splashed cafe mocha all over my shirt. Luckily, I was wearing scrubs so no harm, no foul, BUT cafe mocha looks like poo. I'm wearing scrubs, which are in existence to prevent ruining REAL clothes with all sorts of bodily yuck. I was faced with a decision: should I just roll with it and feel as though I have to explain to everyone that it's just coffee and not poo, OR do I take off the scrub top and walk around in the wholly in appropriate t-shirt underneath (A billiards themed shirt declaring "Nice Rack!" #laundryday). I took off the scrub top and went with the t-shirt. I did have a hoodie to wear so only "Nice" was showing, but I was a little too warm for the rest of the afternoon. Oh well. Moral of the story - Don't spill cafe mocha on yourself, but if you have to make sure that you have a decent undershirt on.

NOTE:
This entry was started weeks ago. As some of you know, my life has been crazy busy and it's a triumph that I have survived with coherent thoughts intact. Anyway, I'm just going to finish and post this because it's too good not to!

You ever had a moment where you're going about your life as normal, but everything around you is completely not normal, as though you're in an avant garde movie that's supposed to be earth shattering and a piece of cinematic elegance that was created by some dude on an opium derivative? If not, I suggest watching anything by Ingmar Bergman.

Anyway, Monday began per usual, at least for the first 30 minutes. I leave my house and begin walking towards the bus stop. As I'm walking down the street, I see it. A man, I assume, running down the street in what looks like serious jogger wear, everything skin tight, BUT he's also wearing a bicycle helmet... no, there is no bike anywhere. Another thing of note was his lack of shoes. Just to remind anyone who may be reading this in the future because my writing is worth going back to repeatedly, it is eeeearly March, specifically the first day of March when I witnessed the first float of the crazy day parade. No shoes, no bike, and running would maybe be okay for a very short distance, but I better see a bike within a short distance or I'm going to start thinking that you fall down a lot and need to protect your melon. (side note on recent events: I fall down a lot, but I don't wear a helmet. In the process of moving, I decided to carry a 40 inch TV down a flight of stairs all by my lonesome. MG promised to guide me with the customary "step, step, step, etc.", but she saw something shiny and neglected to say "step" again. I nearly broke both the TV and my kneecap. The TV works just fine, but my knee clicks a little. Oh well, at least it doesn't go numb like my right hand! That's a story for another day, and I've also told MG that I'm revoking her "helping the blind" merit badge.)

The Running man kept running. He made it to the end of the street and turned left. I made it to the end of the street and did the same (my bus stop is that way. I wasn't following). Running man kept running. He passed my bus stop, where the high school kids were waiting with iced coffees, tight pants, and slippers that they're trying to pass off as shoes. (Note to kids: THEY ARE SLIPPERS. Wear REAL shoes. A) you look stupid. B) it's very bad for your feet to wear shoes with poor support. One day, you'll realize this, and you will grunt when you get up and then walk slowly. This shall be your fate.) I watched as the Running man kept going down the street and around the bend until I couldn't see him any longer. Still with no bike and no shoes. It was rather sad and then my bus came. I often wonder about the Running Man and those thoughts make my feet ache. I hope he found his bike and/or shoes.