The following are entries from the wildly anticipated Diary of a Neurotic Bus Rider due to be published whenever the #20 bus shows up so that the author can deliver the manuscript to the publishing house. The #20 bus has been known to be completely unreliable and therefore has caused the author to be late to work, class, happy hour, and other important functions on occasion and through no fault of her own.
April 24, 2007, 7:46AM, #20: Why did I sit in this seat? How could I have not seen that disgusting Kleenex wadded up on the floor? Disgusting-Kleenex-depositor must have been sick. Now I’m sitting here and all the sick germs are parading up and down the seat, my pants, coat sleeves, and into my ears and nose. I should get up and move to another seat. Just get up, look casual, grin, and MOVE! But then someone might think I was weird or something, to just get up and switch seats for no apparent reason. Yes, that’s right. I’m worried that the man wearing Mickey Mouse ears and debating loudly with himself whether Elvis prefers maple bars or French crullers will think that I’m weird for getting up and, quietly, moving to a different seat. I’ll just stay here and suffer.
April 24, 2007, 6:28PM, #15: With a solid twenty years of experience, I like to think that I excel at bus riding. Although I was standing at the bus stop, I missed the bus due to being totally engrossed in David Sedaris. Had to wait another thirty minutes for the next bus. Got on the next bus, but bus driver was a lunatic, angrily screaming at passengers for reasons unknown. Had to get off the bus. Waited thirty minutes, got on bus again, opened David Sedaris again, missed my stop. Had to walk twenty minutes back home. Fortunately, when I called my friend to explain why I would be late, he relayed this pertinent advice: “You have to get on the bus, stay on the bus, and get off the bus!”
Showing posts with label neurotic bus rider. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neurotic bus rider. Show all posts
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
this is how i practice compassion
I. Star Pants Man Makes Me Angry
Star Pants Man is in front of the bus trying to put his bicycle in the rack. I’m late for class, the bus was late picking me up, and now a man wearing electricolor star pants and a giant orange, spongy slice of Wisconsin cheddar cheese is taking an awfully long time to put his bike in the goddam bike rack.
The bicycle bobbles up and down, to the right, down again, up, way up. Star Pants Man grins and shrugs. Bobble. Grin. Shrug. Bobble left. Grin.
Oh. Come. On!
When the bicycle finally bobbles into its proper riding position, Star Pants Man is so ecstatic that he actually lets out a little, “Peep!” of cheer and flutters his hands in the air like someone who has amazingly managed to hammer both thumbs simultaneously. Grin.
Get. On. The. Bus. Star Pants Man!
Now he’s digging in his star pants pockets. “Huh, huh,” he shrug-gestures to his shiny blue hunk of making-me-late, “just didn’t want to get on the bus this morning, huh?” A dime rolls down the chute. Some more digging. “I know I gotta nother nickel in here somewhere, huh, huh.”
Star Pants Man, next time I’m gonna pay for you NOT to ride.
II. Star Pants Man Amuses Me
Star Pants Man is in front of the bus trying to put his bicycle in the rack. I’m late for class, but those electricolor star pants are worth it. To go with the pants, he wore a fabulous giant orange, spongy slice-of-Wisconsin-cheddar-cheese hat. It matches perfectly! It’s a good thing I caught the late bus or I would have missed out on the outfit of the year.
The bicycle bobbles up and to the right a bit. Now it bobbles off again. The bike pops in and out of Star Pants Man’s hands like an indecisive Tango partner; it just won’t settle where it’s supposed to and go along with the ride. But Star Pants Man is undaunted. He grins into the dashboard window, shrugs, and takes his errant partner for another dip.
When he finally subdues the bicycle into its proper riding place, Star Pants Man is so ecstatic that he, “Peeps!” cheerily and flutters both hands in the air like a second grader who just named all fifty states and their capitals.
Way to go, Star Pants Man!
He gets on the bus and, digging for some change, grins as if this just couldn’t be a better day. “Huh, huh,” he chuckles, nodding at his shiny blue trickster, “just didn’t want to get on the bus this morning, huh?” Change rolls down the chute.
Star Pants Man, next time your ride’s on me.
Star Pants Man is in front of the bus trying to put his bicycle in the rack. I’m late for class, the bus was late picking me up, and now a man wearing electricolor star pants and a giant orange, spongy slice of Wisconsin cheddar cheese is taking an awfully long time to put his bike in the goddam bike rack.
The bicycle bobbles up and down, to the right, down again, up, way up. Star Pants Man grins and shrugs. Bobble. Grin. Shrug. Bobble left. Grin.
Oh. Come. On!
When the bicycle finally bobbles into its proper riding position, Star Pants Man is so ecstatic that he actually lets out a little, “Peep!” of cheer and flutters his hands in the air like someone who has amazingly managed to hammer both thumbs simultaneously. Grin.
Get. On. The. Bus. Star Pants Man!
Now he’s digging in his star pants pockets. “Huh, huh,” he shrug-gestures to his shiny blue hunk of making-me-late, “just didn’t want to get on the bus this morning, huh?” A dime rolls down the chute. Some more digging. “I know I gotta nother nickel in here somewhere, huh, huh.”
Star Pants Man, next time I’m gonna pay for you NOT to ride.
II. Star Pants Man Amuses Me
Star Pants Man is in front of the bus trying to put his bicycle in the rack. I’m late for class, but those electricolor star pants are worth it. To go with the pants, he wore a fabulous giant orange, spongy slice-of-Wisconsin-cheddar-cheese hat. It matches perfectly! It’s a good thing I caught the late bus or I would have missed out on the outfit of the year.
The bicycle bobbles up and to the right a bit. Now it bobbles off again. The bike pops in and out of Star Pants Man’s hands like an indecisive Tango partner; it just won’t settle where it’s supposed to and go along with the ride. But Star Pants Man is undaunted. He grins into the dashboard window, shrugs, and takes his errant partner for another dip.
When he finally subdues the bicycle into its proper riding place, Star Pants Man is so ecstatic that he, “Peeps!” cheerily and flutters both hands in the air like a second grader who just named all fifty states and their capitals.
Way to go, Star Pants Man!
He gets on the bus and, digging for some change, grins as if this just couldn’t be a better day. “Huh, huh,” he chuckles, nodding at his shiny blue trickster, “just didn’t want to get on the bus this morning, huh?” Change rolls down the chute.
Star Pants Man, next time your ride’s on me.
Friday, March 30, 2007
quitting smoking stinks
The worst thing about quitting smoking is that the whole world stinks. And I don't mean the world is a dreary place since I decided to deny myself one of life's greatest pleasures. I mean the world stinks.
Four weeks ago I walked in the world blissfully unaware of what it smelled like. Today, a stroll through the mall, or a quick jaunt across town, induces the olfactory equivalent of nails screeching down a chalkboard. Aside from the intrepid piss smell that permeates public transportation as naturally as clogs permeate Portland, getting on the bus used to be a relatively benign olfactory experience. Now, a bus ride is a malodorous assault on my virgin sniffer. Aqua Net, Downy, Pabst, Revlon, Marlboro, Calvin Klein: all agents of scentual harassment. And these are the masking scents.
Like the elephant exhibit, humanity smells like sh*%.
The ability to smell someone’s dirty hair and watermelon Bubblicious from five feet away is a horrifying side effect of not smoking. At school, I passed a guy in the hall that smelled like a combination of bad breath and leather waterproofing spray, and I had to move from my seat when someone sitting next to me smelled like moldy socks and salmon.
Yesterday I took a long bus ride home from the dentist and, unable to endure the stench of damp humans, I stuck my nose into the sleeve of my jacket and quietly pleaded for my old, dulled sense of smell back. I imagined sniffing bleach every day before I left the house to damage my olfactory cells. I thought about carrying around a small container of coffee beans that I could bury my nose in for bus trips, and I envisioned sneaking sniffs of whiskey from a flask during classes.
What happened to my right to choose what odors are allowed in? If I wanted to smell a pink geranium, I could lean in close, stick my nostrils right up to the blossom, and wah la. If I wanted to find out what my tomato soup smelled like, I could put my nose near the bowl and take a whiff. Twenty-seven days after my last breath of non-scented air, my right to a serenely odor-free existence has gone with the smoke.
According to the Daily Success calendar that came with the nicotine patches, Day 27 recommends: “Treat yourself to a bottle of cologne to celebrate your improved sense of smell.”
Listen, if you’ve ridden the #33 bus on a rainy day, you’d know there ain’t nothing to celebrate.
Four weeks ago I walked in the world blissfully unaware of what it smelled like. Today, a stroll through the mall, or a quick jaunt across town, induces the olfactory equivalent of nails screeching down a chalkboard. Aside from the intrepid piss smell that permeates public transportation as naturally as clogs permeate Portland, getting on the bus used to be a relatively benign olfactory experience. Now, a bus ride is a malodorous assault on my virgin sniffer. Aqua Net, Downy, Pabst, Revlon, Marlboro, Calvin Klein: all agents of scentual harassment. And these are the masking scents.
Like the elephant exhibit, humanity smells like sh*%.
The ability to smell someone’s dirty hair and watermelon Bubblicious from five feet away is a horrifying side effect of not smoking. At school, I passed a guy in the hall that smelled like a combination of bad breath and leather waterproofing spray, and I had to move from my seat when someone sitting next to me smelled like moldy socks and salmon.
Yesterday I took a long bus ride home from the dentist and, unable to endure the stench of damp humans, I stuck my nose into the sleeve of my jacket and quietly pleaded for my old, dulled sense of smell back. I imagined sniffing bleach every day before I left the house to damage my olfactory cells. I thought about carrying around a small container of coffee beans that I could bury my nose in for bus trips, and I envisioned sneaking sniffs of whiskey from a flask during classes.
What happened to my right to choose what odors are allowed in? If I wanted to smell a pink geranium, I could lean in close, stick my nostrils right up to the blossom, and wah la. If I wanted to find out what my tomato soup smelled like, I could put my nose near the bowl and take a whiff. Twenty-seven days after my last breath of non-scented air, my right to a serenely odor-free existence has gone with the smoke.
According to the Daily Success calendar that came with the nicotine patches, Day 27 recommends: “Treat yourself to a bottle of cologne to celebrate your improved sense of smell.”
Listen, if you’ve ridden the #33 bus on a rainy day, you’d know there ain’t nothing to celebrate.
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