Transit Torture Confronted

Public transportation is a strange place. A smelly, cramped, strange place.

When my car died in 2010, I planned on buying a new one. But I know nothing about cars and care even less (at least until the Tesla Model 3 comes out), so I figured I'd wait and save and research.

I have neither researched nor saved, but I've waited.

Four years later I use Uber a lot and I take the bus to and from work almost every day.

If you take the bus a lot, you know you see the same people regularly. In my case, I take the bus a lot, but I see people semi-regularly, because I have about a 30 minute variance in when I catch the bus going downtown (between 8:15 and 8:45) and about a 90 minute variance (5:15 to 6:45) coming back, so it's not every day that I see the same people.

Also, I don't like talking to strangers. I've also discovered there aren't many cute girls on the bus who don't have rings and I assume that cute girls don't want to talk to anyone (including me) on the bus

Given all of that, I don't have (m)any conversations on the bus.

But there's one woman that I see occasionally that I find very attractive. She shares my stop downtown but I've never talked to her for a variety of reasons. Mainly reasons involving emotional cowardice and insecurity.

Last night, for some reason, she popped into my head and I said to myself, "Next time I see her, I will talk to her!" Even as I said that to myself, myself said to me, "Yeah, right."

Well, sure enough, this morning she was on my bus. She sat across the way from me and I fortunately had my phone as a security blanket for the minute we were facing one another. Fortunately some dude was in the way, which let me avoid awkwardly making eye contact with her the whole ride, and also gave me an easy out to not talk to her at all.

Still, my mind worked as I stared at my phone.

Would I say something to her when I got off the bus? What if she looked annoyed when I talked to her? I'd be embarrassed and then feel bad every other time I saw her on the bus.

I decided I'd talk to her. No matter what. (With, of course, the omnipresent asterisk that maybe I wouldn't.)

What would I say to her? We were going to be moving, walking towards our respective places of employment. I wouldn't want to creep her out. I wouldn't want to sound too gay. I wouldn't want to be too predictable.

I'd want to stand out but not too much. The classic conundrum that lies at the heart of the human condition.

The stop was approaching. I was running out of time. I had ideas (her hair? Her shoes? Her phone? The weather? Something about me?) but no sure things.

The bus stopped. People filed off. I decided NOT to wait for her to go in front of me--it would have been too obvious that I was being polite and it might have seemed like I was checking out her butt.

We got off the bus. And I had a flash of this conversation run through my mind:

Me: Hi there.
Cute Bus Girl (CBG): [scowl] What?
Me: I just was saying--
CBG: *eye roll*

And then this one:

Me: What up girl?
CBG: [Bored look] I don't know you.
Me: Damn, girl, why you got to be so--
CBG: *snap*

And then, finally, this conversation:

Me: OhmygoshhiI'mEdIhavebeensoclosetotalkingtoyousomany--
CBG: [scowl] What?
Me: -becauseIloveyourshoesandyourhairandyourchestnotthatIstareatyourboobsbutIcan'thelp--
CBG: Fuck off.

So, with visions of grand failure dancing in my mind, I turned to her as she descended from the bus and engaged her thusly:

Me: I love your fingernail polish.
CBG: [confused] Thank you.
Me: What color is that? Periwinkle?
CBG: [smile] I don't know, it's [blah blah blah]

The conversation was short. But she smiled and I got her name. I don’t think I creeped her out and I don't think that I seemed too gay (at that is accounting for my use of nail polish as an opener).

Next time I see her on the bus I'll have some reason to talk to her again... I'm already savoring the torture that my imagination is imposing on me in anticipation.

Post-mort of three deaths... or maybe six

I recently got back from an amazing trip to Scotland (which I plan on writing about soon) and one of the things that I spent a considerable amount of time doing there (at least based on the percentage of the pics I took) was hang out in cemeteries.


I was fascinated by them. For the design of the tombstones, for the variety of size and intricacies involved, for the dedications, and for the level of decay.

Presumably Seattle has some cool graveyards, too, but Edinburgh has tombs that are older than the state of Washington, and that, for some reason, introduces a different level of gravitas that appealed to me.

I've been fortunate to not be touch with much death in my life. I lost a grandfather who was quite dear to me (and, indeed, my namesake) but I retain all of the rest of my family I've ever known and I've never lost a close friend. I suppose this is partially a function of my relatively small family and my inability or unwillingness to make many friends, but I understand I've been lucky and I don't look forward to the pain that will inevitably occur when I lose those close to me.

(Although I guess I might go first. Many more nights like my last one in Scotland (again: blog coming) and that might be the case.)

Actually, I have lost those close to me. When I moved out of my house to strike out on my own in a post-marriage world I had three cats. Houdini, Truman and Potter. (Truman actually moved out to join me a couple of months later, but close enough...)

Three cats is so many to own. Three cats are so many to know all at once.

Along with an inability to approach women, an unwillingness to consume alcohol, my divorce and my advanced age, I had to explain how and why I had three cats.

It's crazy-lucky that I ever got lucky.

Three cats. They were a pain but I loved them. They snuggled me when I was sad. They got in my way when I had something to do. They peed everywhere but the litter box (ok... that was Truman).

It would have been a lot easier if I had owned three plants.

Unfortunately, I never took to owning plants. They were never part of my house growing up, and I never had any interest nor talent in keeping them alive. The extent of my plant ownership is buying flowers for women I like or family members on special occasions.

The three cats I had were a pain, but I loved them. And, after loving them and sharing their lives, I started to lose them.

I lost Potter, the youngest one, suddenly in 2011. He took a nap and his body shut down, basically.

Truman, the one who seemed destined to go first, finally saw his body go out about a year later.

Then, almost like clockwork, Houdini died in the last few weeks. He was almost 16 years old and was in great health until, well, until he wasn't.

My apartment is not empty. I still live with my English bulldog, Rumpelstiltskin. He's adorable and he's got a lot of energy. But as I sit here, typing about my lost cats, and I see him jogging all over my apartment, hither and thither and never at rest, even as I remember he's a puppy, I am reminded of the scene in Rushmore where Bill Murray proclaims his lack of understanding of his own sons.

Maybe I'm just a cat person, I dunno.

After Houdini died, I received condolences from some who knew he was gone. I received three gifts, specifically, from my vet, my office, and a friend. All were plants.

You may recall something: I am not a plants person.

It was sweet, and I appreciated the sentiment, but I knew I was just counting down the hours until I killed the plants--or they killed me. (OK. I maybe have seen Little Shop of Horrors one too many times.)

I wouldn't know how to water them. They wouldn't get enough sunlight. I would neglect giving them food. Or repotting. Or any other plant-related stuff that I had no idea how to do.

As luck would have it, none of those things caused the untimely (if rather rapid) demise of all three plants. What did? Gravity.

I think that most plants are sold in little starter pots, and I guess maybe the idea is that the plant is moved from the little pot to a larger one for proper care ... ? Maybe?

Anyway, I didn't do that, and the plants were top-heavy and one by one they toppled. And broke. And died.

So I am mourning the death of three plants and three cats. And watching my dog snort and run around senselessly, oblivious to it all.

And I am smiling. What's wrong with me?

Barbershop Trio

If I were a chick, things would be different.

(I could use that as an introduction to about 85% of my blog entries. Let's see where this one goes...)

If I were a chick, I'd do my nails differently regularly. I'd wear different shoes and color my hair and try different types of makeup... eye shadow and lipstick and whatever.

I'm not saying that those things, in and of themselves, appeal to me (although I do enjoy owning many shoes). I just enjoy changing things up, and as a dude I'm limited in the number of things I can change: my clothes, my facial hair, and my hair style.

So, when it comes time to get a haircut, I not only tend to get them all cut, but I tend to get a bit excited. It's a socially acceptable time to post a selfie (although I've limited my social circle online (and otherwise, although that's irrelevant to this post) enough where "socially acceptable" means something different for me, I supose). And it's a time where I can use less shampoo and/or hair product without worrying too much about how my hair looks at work.

This past weekend it was that time. Time to get my ears lowered, as it were.

I waited for my friend and stylist. I was called and I removed my jacket (superfluous for such a nice day, but oh, well). I took the center of three empty chairs. As I spoke to my friend, she cut and we caught up and I paid close attention to my surroundings.

I walked out with a shorter 'do and a trio of mini-stories. Enjoy.

Stylist-Client Privilege

To my right, a gentleman sat down for a cut. I have gone a while between hair cuts before, and my hair has been pretty shaggy, even long, but this guy's hair was crazy. Not crazy-long--it was just out of control.

"Why," I mused internally, "that fellow has quite a style. I dare say it will be interesting to see what he prefers, given his current state!"

(I'm not quite sure why I was musing in such an amusing fashion, but I was.)

I didn't have to wait long to find out as I overheard:

Stylist: So... what do we want today?
Dewey: Something for court.
Stylist: Uh, oh. What happened?
Dewey: DUI.

Ouch. The dude might get behind the wheel drunk, but at least he's honest with his stylist.

I felt a little uncomfortable listening in on the conversation (plus, they started talking about something else) so I turned my attention to the left.

Shorter isn't Better

The dude to my left had crazy hair, kind of, too. It wasn't wild and long like Dewey's, but it was (to use a technical term) totally crappy.

It was frizzy and long and sort of spikey. It looked like he hadn't been to a barber or stylist or a location with a mirror in a long while. In fact, it looked exactly like this:

"I dare say," my internal voice exclaimed in consternation, "he has come to the right place to set his wrongs right and to improve upon his appearance."

Now this may come as a shock, but I'm not a professional hair stylist. I barely know what's going on with my hair and I've got a fair bit of experience with it.

Even as a non-pro, though, I was thinking it could be made shorter, styled, with maybe a bit of product.And the guy would look slightly less like he had never thought about making his hair look decent.

I don't know what conversation took place (although we'll talk in a moment about how I definitely paid attention in other ways) but I was surprised when the dude got out of his chair about 10 minutes later and looked exactly like this:

Again: I'm not casting aspersions at the stylist. I'm restricting my aspersions to his hair.

Forever Young

Perhaps one of the reasons I didn't hear Badhair tell the stylist that he wanted a shorter version of the same pile of crap he currently had was because I was staring at the stylist.

"Zounds," my internal dialogue supplied, "I know not whether to gaze at her amble bosom or lick my lips lasciviously at her exposed legs!"

I enjoyed my conversation with my friend--honest. I was eager to see how my hair turned out--trust me.

But the stylist to my left made me eager in other ways.

My hair cut finished, I paid the tab and departed. I snapped the obligatory selfie, sent it to a few friends and posted it on Facebook and Snapchat, and caught a bus home.

On the bus, I sent a txt of thanks to my friend. And I hinted, in a middle school manner, that she should introduce us. Our txt conversation went something like this:

Me: Thank you! It was great seeing you. And nice work on my hair.
Her: Thanks. Good seeing you too.
Me: I am sorry if I was distracted by the chick to our left.
Her: What?
Me: I found her extremely attractive.
Her: Haha.
Me: Obviously the feeling was mutual. We almost made eye contact once.
Her: Obviously.
Me: I just have a gift, what can I say? Seriously, though: when she asks about me, feel free to sing my praises.
Her: I would, but she's 19. I don't know if you're into that.
Me: Oh.
Her: Yeah.

I guess it depends on what one means by "into that", but ... ugh.

Couldn't she have been 21, at least?

Placebo Response (or: The Light Bulb Post)

I don't believe in a lot of things.

I guess that can be said for most people (most don't believe that 1+2=17 or that "asnjk" is a color, for example) so I will rephrase this: I don't believe in a lot of things that many people do believe.

This blog entry isn't about God or extraterrestrial life or Sasquatch.

It's about things happening for a reason. It's about that which doesn't kill us making us stronger. It's about having a soul mate. It's about fate and destiny and kismet. (Evidently it's about synonyms, as it turns out.)

It's also about light bulbs.

Before I get into the light bulb part of it, I'll get back to the lofty stuff.

I don't believe that we are foretold to do things or to be things--either for good or bad. I think that the universe is a series of mathematical likelihoods and, while we can barely scratch the surface of the math (especially people like me, whose math dominance atrophied as his teen years progressed) it doesn't change the fact that predisposition is not the same as predestination.

So, with this in mind, when I hear things like, "Things happen for a reason," I smile sadly.

I have a friend who was diagnosed with throat cancer this week. I have another friend who lost her father this week. Another lost her grandfather last week. Death and decay and cells breaking down.

Obviously I've been more fun than a barrel of monkeys lately.

The thing is that for all of this doom and gloom (almost all of it, let be said, not directly impacting me), I managed to have a minor epiphany this evening. More on that in a moment.

A couple of years ago, I had a bit of a cold. To be honest, I can't recall how much of it was me really feeling under the weather and how much of it was just a nap-desiring body grayout. In either case, someone in my office said I should pump myself full of Airborne, which is a supplement that allegedly boosts the immune system. Another coworker scoffed and said it was all a placebo response.

Which wasn't what I was expecting the guy to say. I knew he wasn't a fan, but I was expecting him to say "placebo effect".

Rather than taking some silly supplement, I got rid of my sore throat (or alleged sore throat; I can't recall) by thinking about that saying. Breaking it down and breaking the phrase I'd become so accustomed to and whether it made sense. And it makes a lot of sense.

If the placebo is inert, it can't project anything. It can't affect unilaterally. A placebo match won't burn trees--that seems to be the essence of what "placebo" means. A placebo medicine should not have an impact on us.

But we often have a response to a placebo... and that's why I currently use "placebo response" now, instinctively, and it sounds weird when I say, "placebo effect"... because that doesn't make sense to me.

Back to light bulbs.

I live alone now. My apartment is far too big for my dog, my cat, and myself. I don't entertain many visitors, and while I make  fair living there's simply no reason for me to be spending as much as I do on rent. I have a plan to move out, but a lease is a lease. And the apartment keeps seeing stuff wearing out. Death and decay even impacts inorganic items, and light bulbs are no different.

A couple of weeks ago I noticed one bulb upstairs was out. Then I noticed one in the bathroom. Then another. And then, last weekend, a fourth went out. It was getting dark and I knew that another couple of lights going out would cause me to walk up the stairs in the dark and/or shower by tablet light. I still gave it a week, though, to see if I'd lose a couple more.

After not losing any more, I decided to hit up the store on the way home from work tonight. Four new bulbs, heavily subsidized because they're energy efficient, and I was happy. I considered buying extras, but I thought I'd reached an equilibrium and walked out with the four I needed.

I got home, opened the door, turned on the kitchen light and...

*POP*

The light went out. A fifth light when I had only bought four.

Immediately, I thought, "This is a metaphor, right? Or Murphy's Law? Or God punishing me for making fun (deep, deep inside my own mind) for a dude who wouldn't scoot over on the bus so I was halfway into the aisle on the ride home..."

In any case, it took the wind out of my sails. I walked the dog, and thought about it.

I decided that the light was not destined to burn out. It was not my fate to be one lightbulb short.

What happens to us does not always have an effect as much as it gives us an opportunity to respond.

I chose--I choose--to smile when I walk upstairs now. It is well lit. All of the bulbs are working.

Maybe not forever, for sure, and I still have one burned out in the kitchen. But it's OK. I can always buy more tomorrow.

And if another bulb goes out, even if it doesn't make me stronger or even if it didn't happen for a reason, I will remember that it's just a light bulb and light bulbs don't work forever.