Unapologetically Mundane » funner times on the bus

The Passive-Aggressive Patron of Seats

katie ett — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 15:30:24 +0000

The following is an except from today’s Examiner.com post, which I admittedly only wrote because they threatened to give my column to someone else if I didn’t produce. But all of the great things are born of desperation, right? Like Weezer’s “Pork and Beans”, Gwen Stefani’s “What You Waiting For?”, or Rilo Kiley’s “It’s a Hit”. Okay, I have no idea if those last two were actually born of desperation at all, but the lyrics semi seem like it. Anyway, I kind of ended up liking this article, anyway.

A girl standing in front of me accidentally slapped my magazine and apologized. A boy scooting past me accidentally hit my knee and apologized. The woman next to me jabbed me with her elbow and apologized. Everyone was trying to maintain civility in the face of potential meltdown. Except for the person who had the most to apologize for, of course. She had a suitcase with her, which is annoying on the slowest of transportation days and outright repugnant on the busiest. So she was lurching that thing around at every stop as people asked her to move through clenched teeth. She stepped on my toes. She smacked me in the face with her Longchamp knockoff bag. She fell into my lap. She didn’t apologize. And I’m completely understanding of the fact that a crowded bus sometimes force you to touch people in ways you’d really prefer not to, but even when it’s not your fault, you have to apologize. It’s the only thing that separates us from the animals, other than our desire for designer knockoff bags.

Read the rest here!

The Time I Lost My Cool After the Biggest Jerk on the Bus Called Me Fat

katie ett — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 16:00:57 +0000

The last time we left our hero (yes, me), I had accidentally been engaged in a fight with a man so feebleminded that the only comeback he could produce to my most snide comment was, “You need to go on a diet!” I suppose he was one of those men who thinks the surest way to offend a lady is to insult her weight, but little did he know that I’ve achieved my current level of pleasant plumpness by enjoying dinners at the very finest restaurants in town with my beloved. I thought about returning the insult:

“I could lose weight, but you can’t lose ugly.”

“I could lose weight, but you’ll never get back your hair.”

“I could lose weight, but you’re stuck with that tiny–” Brain. Tiny brain.

But I figured that someone who isn’t clever enough to argue without immediately attacking outward appearance–pointing out that someone is black or gay or handicapped as if that person doesn’t realize it–isn’t worth my time, and I really didn’t want to lose any more of my cool, so I just said, “That’s very adult of you.”

“Keep stuffing your fat face, lady!” he called back from four rows away. “Maybe it’ll at least keep you quiet.”

I laughed, because at that moment, I was eating a low-carb, low-fat nutrition bar. It couldn’t have been more ironic.

Read the “exciting” conclusion here!

The Time the Biggest Jerk on the Bus Called Me Fat

katie ett — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 16:00:56 +0000

I told you yesterday about my recent resolution to be Holly Happypants on the bus so that I might lead others to good behavior by my example. Well, everything was going swimmingly on the bus the next day, with me not blowing up at a high school kid who was propping his elbow up on my shoulder to help him hang onto the strap, me getting a really comfortable seat one stop after I got on, and the bus being generally uncrowded. By the time we got to Wall Street, there were only a handful of people left, so no one made anything of it when a man began making the longest and most obnoxious phone call.

He was clearly talking to a customer service representative at a company that deals in batteries and started the conversation by angrily demanding to know if they had his particular battery in stock, though he couldn’t actually name the battery. “The one MY radio takes,” he said, as if that was any help. He gave the person his name and phone number and told him or her that his radio looks like an iPod. And then he began berating the person, getting increasingly more aggressive:

“I’m so tired of you people not doing your jobs.”
“Do you have the battery or not?”
“I know YOU don’t know, so go find someone else who does.”
“What am I supposed to do–call back every day until you get the battery in?”
“You’re not educated enough for me to talk to.”
“Give me your supervisor.”
“I want to talk to your supervisor!”

Everything was repeated twice for emphasis and said in the loudest and rudest of voices in the sort of accent that Angelina from “Jersey Shore” had. It was unbearable and almost incredible that a human could talk to another human that way, but we were almost at my stop, and I had that whole pact with myself about trying extra hard to behave myself on public transportation, so I grabbed a nutrition bar from my bag and popped a chunk of it in my mouth to keep myself otherwise occupied.

Just then, the bus stopped at the traffic light before the turn into the Staten Island Ferry station, and people in the back started yelling. The bus has to wait at that light every single day, so there shouldn’t have been a problem, but that day was strange for some reason. Traffic had been inching along all the way down from 42nd Street, the sky was overcast with rain, and this guy had been literally yelling into his phone–the air was thick with tension.

Someone in the back was saying, “The light is green! THE LIGHT IS GREEN! GO, bus driver!” Hilariously, I realized it was the same lady from the day before who complimented my hair and whom I was glad I hadn’t been rude to before despite her totally deserving it.

People began yelling back at her: “The light’s red!” “Check your eyes!” “Be quiet if you don’t know what’s going on!” It was complete chaos, as if everything everyone had wanted to say to one another all morning and every morning was spewing out now.

Someone said, “Some people around here need to get driver’s licenses!”, and I believe she was talking to the woman who didn’t know the difference between a red and green light, but the guy who had been making the obnoxious phone call screamed out, “YEAH! ALL THESE BUS DRIVERS SUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

And at that point, it was just too much for me, and I said, “Oh, my gosh, shut up!” That’s not really a phrase I use, but it had been building up in me for ten minutes, and it came out without warning.

I had been talking into the ether, but I guess Obnoxious Phone Call Guy took it personally and said to me, “YOU shut up!”

Read the super-juicy ending here and get so mad both for me and at me!

The One Time I Didn’t Speak Up on the Bus Pays Off

katie ett — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 16:00:02 +0000

In theory, I love everything about public transportation, but in practice, there are those days when I just plain want to be left alone, when every sound anyone makes annoys me, when friendly conversation going on around me seems as grating as an alarm clock at 6 a.m. One of those days was a couple of months back, when a gaggle of older women were clucking around the front seats of the Select M15 bus, where I like to sit, finding something to say about everything. This one’s hair. That one’s purse. This one’s son. That one’s dog.

And then a lady from Australia or New Zealand (sorry that I can’t tell you apart, Aussies and Kiwis) got on the front of the bus and tried to use her MetroCard with the driver to pay, not knowing that you have to pay outside at the fare collectors on the sidewalk. The bus driver told her to stay on the bus to save time and to get off at the next stop to pay, and that set the ladies off on a race to determine who could say the most negative things about the way the Select Bus Service runs. I’m so used to riding the Select bus and being able to pay outside and enter through all three doors that I get confused as to why everything seems to be running so inefficiently when I find myself on a local, non-Select bus. Why are all of these people entering through the front door? Why are they all stopping by the driver, and why are we sitting for minutes at a time at every stop? Ohhhhh, right.

But after a year and a half of SBS service, apparently these women were still having a hard time coming to grips with the ease of use of the thing and took the opportunity to unload onto this poor, unsuspecting woman who nodded understandingly to all of them in turn and consoled them in her charming accent. I was going to speak up and ask them to pipe down, but I decided not to add to the hullabaloo and just quietly put on my headphones.

Then, just as we were pulling out of the bus stop one night this week, the woman in front of me turned and said, “Your hair is looking really good. I like it that way.” I said, “Oh, you see me on the bus often?” And then I realized that it was one of the ladies. The loudest one, the alpha complainer. I said, “Actually, I recognize you, too.” She asked, “You get on at 23rd Street in the mornings, right?”, and I told her my actual stop. “So you’ve seen me in the mornings?” I asked, adding, “I’ve seen you at night, but I’m always in such a trance in the mornings.” “Oh, please, I’m always still asleep,” she said, “but I sometimes see you, and you seem very nice.”

Read the rest here!

Just Whining About People at the Bus Stop, As Usual

katie ett — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 17:00:22 +0000

I’m waiting for the bus on 50th Street, having just eaten fried pizza at the new and much-hyped Don Antonio’s. It’s cold and raining, and the girl next to me is gawking as I struggle to pull on my gloves while keeping my umbrella upright. She had already been at the bus stop when I arrived, so I’d of course stood to her left to form the beginnings of a line. Another girl walks up moments later, stands to my left, and consults a bus map that’s no doubt of very little help, since the MTA refuses to actually mark the stops on it for some reason.

We wait for ten minutes, and the line gets longer. People keep stepping off the sidewalk to get a better look down 50th Street, our umbrellas blocking each other’s views. Finally the bus arrives, and I close my umbrella, knowing I’m going to be second onto the bus and not wanting to hold anyone up behind me.

But I see that in front of the girl next to me–the girl who had been alone at the bus stop when I walked up–an old lady has appeared out of nowhere. And in the time it takes for the bus to pull up and stop, an old man hobbles over on a cane and stands behind the old lady.

Read the rest here, where I actually get paid for my writing!

Blame the Bus Driver

katie ett — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 16:00:15 +0000

I was going to start a new series today about beautiful things I see from my bus window on my way to and from work. Taking the subway shaves as much as twenty minutes off of my commute time, but riding the bus is an opportunity for me to see every neighborhood from Murray Hill to Battery Park each morning and afternoon.

I was going to tell you about the little boy on my bus who pointed to the St. Vartan Armenian Cathedral and said, “Taj Mahal!” and whose mother tried to tell him where Armenia was and that moment when she realized she had no idea. Or the very tallest guy walking the very smallest and fluffiest puppy. Or the girl in the camel hair skirt with the matching cape.

But instead I’ll tell you yet another story to illustrate how New Yorkers are absolutely the most detestable people in the world.

Read the rest here! (I know I’m annoying, but I get paid per click, so I have to make you go over there to read the story.)

Bus Stop Line Jump

katie ett — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 16:00:13 +0000

Kamran and I were in Hell’s Kitchen Sunday night, having traveled to the exact opposite side of the island to pour our months of collected pocket change in one of those machines that exchanges it for gift certificates. We were waiting at a bus stop with our riches in hand, staring longingly at the side-by-side 99-cent pizza and Gray’s Papaya, when a man approached with a large instrument in a case strapped to his back. We were standing just to the left of the bus shelter, leaving enough room for someone to slip past us in line if he wanted to be a jerk. But he stood behind us instead, avoiding the waist-high pile of garbage bags on our other side.

We stayed in that configuration until the bus arrived some minutes later, when the man with the instrument came out of nowhere to stand in front of me in the line of people waiting to get on the bus. I couldn’t even help myself when my blood took a sudden surge; I simply had to march around him and insert myself back into the line where I rightfully belonged. The fact that he had waited until the last second to make his move made me so much angrier than if he had just done it from the moment he came to the stop. At least then he could’ve pretended to be looking for a seat or a place to rest his instrument in the shelter.

Read the rest here!

Your Usual Mid-Week Bus Rant

katie ett — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 16:00:06 +0000

Here’s the thing: there’s not much I really mind the MTA forcing me to do, but if you’re going to force me to do something, just make sure I can actually do it. I’ve been one of the biggest champions of the Select Bus Service that runs up 1st Avenue and down 2nd Avenue since it was implemented. It shaves more than 30 minutes off my ride to work versus the local bus. Being able to enter through all three doors means so many fewer people cutting me in line. When it runs on schedule, I almost always get a seat. (And I haven’t even minded that it doesn’t run on schedule about half the time.) I have fought little old ladies to the death for insinuating that it’s anything but revolutionary.

I love that I pay my fare before boarding the bus via a machine that then dispenses me a receipt, but here’s my complaint: the machines don’t always work.

Read the rest here!

Controlling Your Seat Fate

plumpdumpling — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 16:00:21 +0000

One of the greatest things about getting on the bus at an early stop after work is that I get a seat exactly always. And one of the greatest things about getting a seat exactly always is having a hand in deciding who gets it once I get off. Last night, there were probably four times as many people at my stop as usual, so it was clear a bus hadn’t come by in a while. If my stop is crowded, every other stop is likely to be crowded, so I steeled myself for thirty minutes of feeling awkward about sitting while so many people are standing yet being lazy enough to not want to give up my seat.

Our driver was apparently a fledgling stand-up comedian, because she was making comments at every stop over the bus’s loudspeaker, telling us to “step up, move in, get to know your neighbor” and calling out to the screaming baby in front, “You tell ‘em, girl!” I especially appreciated it when a woman at the South Street Seaport stop made a big deal about how crowded the bus was, and the driver said, “Oh, here, let me ask some of these people to get off so you can be more comfortable,” and then left the woman standing on the curb with her mouth open.

Read the rest here!

Grappling for the Single Seat

plumpdumpling — Thu, 19 May 2011 16:00:39 +0000

Earlier this week, I told you about the advantages of the single seat behind the driver on the MTA’s fleet of new buses. Now let me tell you what happens when everyone realizes those advantages.

For a while, I really thought I was the only one who even noticed the seat. Most people board the bus through the middle or rear door–to avoid having to say hello to the driver, I assume–so it makes sense that they wouldn’t even be aware of the hidden seat all the way in the front of the bus. Obviously I like sitting there, but I’m also young and healthy and svelte enough to be able to fit comfortably in the too-small seats the rest of the bus boasts, so I tend to leave it for someone who could use the extra room, storage space, and privacy. (That may change as the summer months approach and body odor season is upon us, but as a daily-showerer and deodorant-wearer, my sense of entitlement will be deserved.)

So the other day, I was standing at the bus stop near the marker sign where the driver usually halts. I was playing it cool, standing a couple of feet back from the edge of the sidewalk so I didn’t look too eager, but I had an armful of bags with me that day and secretly planned to nab the single seat. Only when the bus began to pull up, this wild-looking woman came from behind me, where she’d been casually sitting on a bench, hiding her ninja-like seat-stealing skills.

Read about the fight! that ensued here.

Remember When I Used to Actually Try to Earn Money?

plumpdumpling — Mon, 16 May 2011 16:00:05 +0000

Oops, um, apparently it’s been more than three months since I updated my Examiner.com column on NYC public transportation. Luckily, I saw the best little bus fight last week and am going to stretch the story of it into a two–yes, two!–part series like reporters used to back in the days when they were getting paid per word. Here’s installment one:

In the new buses the MTA is rolling out, there’s a special, single seat that only the luckiest person on the bus gets to sit in. The older buses have single seats, sure, but those are in the middle of the bus like every other seat. On the new buses, the single seat is up on a little platform directly behind the driver, separated from him or her by a thick grey plastic divider.

Even better, though, is that the seat is also separated from the other passengers by a thick grey plastic cabinet that I imagine contains some of the bus’s inner workings. And even better than that is that the wheel housing is immediately beside the seat, and the thick grey plastic covering for it creates a little table where the seat-sitter can rest her bag, umbrella, extra pair of shoes, book, coat, and other items that are usually totally obnoxious to other passengers on the bus but are entirely out of everyone’s way when placed next to the single seat.

Read the rest here!

I’m Really the Victim Here, When You Think About It

plumpdumpling — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 17:00:51 +0000

The other day, I had just bought some pastries from the Financier in Grand Central and was standing against the marble column outside its doors to text Kamran a question about electrons that had just hit me when some elderly gentlemen passed by and said, “You get the prize for stupidest person! STUPIDEST PERSON!” I think he was hitting on me.

The other night, I was walking up the hill to Kamran’s apartment behind a mother and her three kids. The two oldest ones, a boy and a girl, were wearing backpacks that were almost as big as they were and were holding hands. They started lagging behind their mother and saying, “We’re too weak to go any farther!”, and the other reason I didn’t speed up and pass them is that they were Asian, which everyone knows is the most adorable brand of children. (I mean, up until a certain age, of course, when they get too precocious and start babbling nonstop about math on the bus in the loudest voices possible. Stereotypes!) At a certain point, though, they were just walking too slowly for me to maintain any distance, and as I got right behind them, my shadow fell over them, and they turned around and yelled, “KIDNAPPER!” and ran to catch up with their mom. As if I would purposely acquire children.

This morning, I had to be at work early to make nice with the sales team, so I was hungry for a seat on the bus at 7 a.m. But after helping a rather frail old woman with the ticketing machine and having her tell me how nice I am, I was eager to keep the good times rolling and let her go ahead of me to get an open spot. The only remaining option was next to a very . . . large . . . hulk . . . of a sleeping person who was taking up three-quarters of a two-seater and was allowing his or her coat to spill onto the rest.

Usually I would’ve just stood, but I really want to relax, and I almost wanted to punish this person for having the audacity to be heftier than I am. (I have issues, I know.) So I plopped right down on top of that coat and scooted myself as far into that seat as I could, not caring how uncomfortable my closeness made this person. I figured it was a woman judging by the impeccable tweed of the coat and the amount of bosom it had to take to create such a soft pillow in which conceal the lolling head, but it also smelled distinctly of men’s cologne. He or she spent most of the ride snoring, coughing, and gurgling, and all I could think about was what sort of diseases I was being exposed to and would be bringing home to my delicately-immune-systemed boyfriend, godblesshim.

At Fulton Street, a heavy arm reached across me to the metal pole on the outside of the seat in front of us, and I thought it was aa hint to me to move so the person could hoist his or herself out of the seat, but you know I wasn’t moving without an “excuse me” and a “thank you”. So I continued on with my Hunger Games (what a ripoff of The Giver and Gathering Blue, right?) and ignored the hand. When it came across me again, though, this time with an “I’m sorry”, I wondered what was up and looked over at the person.

It was a lovely older lady with the nicest smile, and she explained that she was trying to push the button to signal for a stop but that it wasn’t working. I tried the button myself to no result and suggested she try pulling on the rubber yellow tube that runs the length of the bus high against the windows. Of course she couldn’t reach it, though, because I was sitting on her coat. We had a little chuckle, and then someone hit the button in another part of the bus, so I got up, and she scooted past me with some effort and many thanks.

This is your fault, other New Yorkers! If 4/5 of you weren’t awful, I wouldn’t have to treat you all with disdain just to be sure.

Get Back on the Slow Bus and Quit Your Bellyaching

plumpdumpling — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 17:00:51 +0000

I love New York, but I think of most of the other people who live here as miserable narcissists who put razorblades in their Halloween apples and board up their chimneys come December. So it wasn’t surprising to me when on the bus yesterday morning, an otherwise polite woman next to me started going off on the M15 Select Bus Service.

Read the rest here.

A Tale of Two Crazy People

plumpdumpling — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 17:00:34 +0000

Crazy people exist in such abundance here that I usually forget about them moments after our encounter, but here are two from last week I happen to remember:

1) I was on the bus Friday morning, reading A Short History of Nearly Everything on my Kindle, when I realized someone was singing. It was soft enough that I thought it was coming from the back of the bus, and I figured maybe he was just so excited to be getting off and going to work that he felt like humming a little ditty.

But when most of the people left the bus at Wall Street, he moved to a seat quite near me and began singing loudly and reeeeeally awfully, all high-pitched but not on-pitch nor even close. He was a 50-something black guy, faceskin pock-marked to beat the band, navy blue suit, brown loafers, thick white gym socks pushed down, and one of the nicest Jheri curls I’ve seen since A.C. Slater. He was singing some song that went something like, “Girl, I’m going to get you,” which freaked me out a little at first, but then I realized it was actually much better than the time the guy behind me in the train sang into my ear, “L-l-l-l-lick me like a lollipop.”

2) On Thursday night, I went down to the lobby of Kamran’s building to pick up our dinner from the delivery guy, because for some reason, food delivery guys are allowed to come upstairs at lunchtime, and wine delivery guys are allowed to come up at all hours of the day, but at night, you have to go downstairs to meet the guy.

Like, the other day, I was in the lobby, and the doorman called up to someone’s apartment and asked her to come down to pick up her delivery, and she said all annoyingly, “It’s WINE!”, and he said all apologetically, “Oh, so sorry; I’ll send him right up.” Meanwhile, I’m there in my flannel pants and Christmas slippers with the fringe that Kamran says makes it look like my feet have mustaches picking up my food.

Anyway, on Thursday night, I was coming up the elevator after grabbing our dinner from the delivery guy, and this old lady was their with me, but neither of us even acknowledged the other, which is fine with me. But then, seriously out of nowhere, she looks at me and says, “I did my laundry earlier today and then went to D’Agostino, and when I came back, someone had stolen my jeans out of the dryer. They were nice jeans! At least five pairs of Ralph Laurens.” I’m too nice, and she had a pretty great Irish accent, so I pretended like I cared and said, “Oh, that’s terrible. Maybe someone just took them out of the dryer and put them somewhere else.” The door opened to her floor, and she stepped out. “Oh, no,” she said, “I looked everywhere down there.” I said, “Oh, I’m really sorry. It’s awful to think that could happen in this building.” The door began to close, and she said, “Goodnight, honey.”

And I thought, “Why did she just tell me that? Was there no one else she could tell?” And that is why everyone needs a blog.

Best NYC Store Names #1

plumpdumpling — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 16:00:00 +0000

After some initial trepidation with the Select Bus Service, I overcame my fears and have been heartily enjoying my bus ride to work with its view of the maybe-slightly-cleaner-and-fresher-than-the-subway great outdoors for the past few days.

My favourite of the things I wouldn’t have seen had I taken the train was this, painted on the side of a cargo van:

Apparently it’s the seafood catering division of the gourmet grocery store Citarella:

And you can bet I’d hire them for my next (first) dinner party if seafood didn’t swim in its own poop.

A Scary Start with the MTA’s Select Bus Service

plumpdumpling — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 16:00:34 +0000

I have to admit something embarrassing. Even though I’m constantly championing the buses to my stick-to-the-subways friends, I got scared off by the Select Bus Service the other night.

I had gotten off the L train at First Avenue coming in from Williamsburg and saw the express M15 waiting at the stop already when I reached the top of the stairs. I usually leave running to the overanxious anonymous and try to maintain some dignity for myself, but there were still enough people lining up for the bus that I was sure I could avoid the humiliation of being left behind, screaming and waving with bus exhaust in my face. I took off for it and got to the doors just as the last passenger was climbing aboard.

Read the rest here.

Can My Karma Withstand Altercations with Two Old Ladies in One Week?

plumpdumpling — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 16:00:29 +0000

I was alone at the bus stop yesterday morning and standing at the far corner of the glass enclosure, which is where I always like to stand when it’s available, because it shields me from the wind coming off the river. A younger man approached, and rather than walk past me to also stand in the enclosure, he stood just on the outside, as if he was lining up beside me. A few more people walked up as we waited, and all of them also stood outside in line, and I was thinking, “What a civilized people we are.” I moved to the other side of the enclosure so all of them would feel free to move over and come inside, too.

When the bus pulled up moments later, it stopped directly in front of me, and I casually stepped forward to claim my rightful position as first on, when out of nowhere, this older lady rushed over from the right and attempted to intercept me. I have no idea how long she had been waiting there, because the right side of the bus stop enclosure is covered over with an ad for an opera singer who looks like Russell Crowe. All that was clear to me was that I had been the very first person at the bus stop, so no matter how long she’d been hiding, I’d been there longer.

Read the rest!

The Only Person to Apologize in All of NYC Still Gets Trash-Talked

plumpdumpling — Mon, 11 Oct 2010 16:00:10 +0000

A friend recently asked me how I managed the adjustment from smalltown Ohio to big city culture, and I told her I was prepared for everything but how truly out-for-themselves people are in NYC. I told her that in Ohio, there seems to be more of a collective conscious, a bit of an “if I do this horrible thing to this person, everyone’s going to find out” mindset, and a bit of an “if I do this nice thing for this person, both of us will benefit from my niceness, and the world will be a better place” mindset. She asked if I think NYC has changed me, and it just so happened that I had the perfect story to illustrate my very definite yes.

Last Saturday afternoon, my boyfriend and I took advantage of the end of Summer/start of Fall weather with brunch at Bar Boulud, a stroll through Central Park, wrestling with giant stuffed dogs at FAO Schwarz, and buying a pound of chocolate-covered everything at Dylan’s Candy Bar to start getting our blood sugar prepared for Halloween.

We hopped on the downtown M15 bus around 4:30 p.m., and it was packed, as usual, with elderly people, because only elderly people leave the house before 8 p.m. on weekends. We stood for a couple of stops, sat down for a couple of stops when two seats were freed up, and then stood back up when we saw a feeble-looking couple board the bus.

Read the rest.

These Boots Were Made for Walkin’

plumpdumpling — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 16:00:41 +0000

I do not run for things. Like, physically. This is perhaps the reason why the gym doesn’t work out for me. I would much, much rather be late to something than to hurry myself, to rush across the street on a flashing Don’t Walk sign to catch a fleeting bus or to plow down some station stairs to catch a train sitting with its doors open for an extra second. I think people who run for things look stupid. I hate people who are too eager. I hate people who care about things too much when they’re things I don’t care about.

Yet last Friday morning, I found myself turning the corner onto 42nd Street, seeing the bus waiting at the stop, noticing there was still a long line of people waiting to get on, and actually breaking out in a run. I have no idea why. I was running late, but why would I care about running late? Maybe it’s that I knew I would be getting to the stop just as the bus was pulling away and that everyone on the bus would know I had meant to get on it and that that would be more embarrassing that bothering myself to run for it. I’m irrational like that.

So I took off in the fastest jog I could in a pair of really rubbery flip-flops, and things were going pretty well. I probably could’ve walked just as fast if I really wanted to put in the effort of swinging my arms and rolling my hips and all, so I figured I was still looking fairly nonchalant to anyone who might be judging my eagerness, yet I hopefully looked like I cared enough about making it onto the bus that the driver would take pity and wait on me if everyone else loaded quickly.

But then, halfway down the block, the toe part of one of my flip-flops suddenly somehow doubled under itself and messed up my rhythm, and I had to stop to straighten things out. Just then, this beautiful brown-skinned woman went gliding past me in a summery black dress, her natural hair highlighted with a white faux flower. Her long, slender legs, fitted with soft black ballerina flats, flitted in front of her one at a time like those of a more-graceful gazelle. I somehow expected that she’d stop, that we’d laugh about me trying to run in my stupid shoes, and that we’d walk arm in arm to the bus. Instead, she probably laughed as my shorter, stouter legs, bound in too-tight, too-hot jeans pounded the pavement in comparison, and while she boarded the bus nimbly with a bounce, I hoisted myself up, out of breath and windblown with the entire bus glowering at me for making them wait.

That’ll teach me to try.

Everyone Can See You with Your Finger Up Your Nose

plumpdumpling — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 16:00:05 +0000

I had to be at work early this morning for a meeting, and I expected that the public transportation would be less crowded, so I was annoyed when I decided to be lazy and take the bus to Grand Central and found that the usual load of people was still waiting at the stop after mine. There was one woman in particular who I just didn’t like from the moment I saw her. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was that made me want to ensure somehow that she lead an unhappy life–maybe her dour all-brown outfit, maybe her sloppy ponytail, maybe her chubby cheeks–but I was especially upset to look down from my throne at the back of the bus and see that she’d grabbed the last of the much-coveted single-person seats.

And then she started picking her nose.

(I’m sorry, but click here to read the rest. I hate to do this sort of thing to you, but one of my friends told me last night it’s the only way to do it, and I was just looking for an excuse. Looooove yooooou.)

Unapologetically Mundane » funner times on the bus

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