Suicide doors and sh*t

The following was taken from the DCist's Overheard in DC. I had no idea they had such a thing! But of course I had to copy it for you here...

Walking past two security guards outside of the Washington Hilton on 19th Street NW:

Guard 1: "Mu'fuckin car had suicide doors and shit man."
Guard 2: "What, them doors that go up? They's called butterfly doors."
Guard 1: "Like 'flap, flap'?"
Guard 2: "'Tweet, tweet.'"
Guard 1: "Word."

Where them singles at?

It's a rare and shocking evening when a ride on the X2 actually makes my night better. Reader, this is not a joke. What started out as a dangerous, crowded, and non-hygenic journey into northeast turned into a strange show of camaraderie and understanding amongst metrobus riders.

It all started when the bus driver actually waited for me while I ran through the frigid wind to catch it along with another guy who thankfully ran faster and shouted louder than I did. I stepped onto a packed bus, warmed not only by the heat, but also by the lack of personal space created by the crowds. I couldn't even move, but was happy to be out of the cold for approximately 1.5 minutes before getting really, really hot. I couldn't take off my coat or gloves, but tried to loosen the scarf around my neck- it did nothing to alleviate my discomfort and near panic. Guy next to me agreed. Irritated that the bus driver continued to let people onto the bus despite it's being well past safe and sanitary capacity, he began grumbling loudly to himself: "Got-damn. This murrf*cker (murr=mother?) keep lettin' people on we ain't got no place to go. Got-damn. Murr-f*cker damn crazy." Clad in long dreads and a cross tattooed on his face below his eye (care to interpret, anyone?), I didn't want to get in his way, but I had no choice. My leg was positioned firmly against his, and there was nothing either of us could do about it. Luckily, he took the opportunity to hit on the woman next to us: "that your daughter? My daughter look just like her. See? (shows pic on iphone) She be 9 months. Lookin jus like her an sh*t." Strangely, the woman seemed somewhat responsive!

Finally, in response to the bus driver's repeated commands to "move to da back o' da bus," a woman in the back somehow hollers loudly above all the commotion to where the whole bus stopped talking to listen to her. "Look," she calmly but (really) loudly explained. "I done gone as far back as I could do. See? I'm all da way at the back. I even took my man with me, see? There ain't no way else we gettin back here." Surprisingly... the bus driver listened! No one else was allowed on at that stop. Truly, it was incredible to see that level of noise, commotion, and disarray respond to such plain logic.

By the next stop, I had enough room to move a bit farther back. The woman (and her man) found a seat and started a lively conversation. Woman: "Hey! Who got the singles? Where the singles at? I know someone know where the singles be up in here." I knew I had been riding the bus too long when I knew right away that she was not referring to eligible bachelors or bachelorettes, but to Newport cigarettes. She confirmed: "Where dem single newports?" A man in the middle of the bus hollers back: "I got em right here. One dolla." Woman: "Alright, that's what I'm talkin about. Hand 2 of em over." Seller: "You needa give me the dollar first. Then I give them to you. (chuckles) I'll sing you dem newports." Woman's man: "Give her the two cigarettes and I give you one dollar. Two cigarettes. And a piece of chicken." Seller: "Hahaha. I ain't got no more chicken (it should be noted that there was never a public or visible indication that he ever had any chicken). All I gots da bones." Woman: "Well hand over dem bones. I'll suck on dem bones. I'll suck errrrthing off dem bones. Haha. I'm tellin you, I'll suck all the meat off dem bones."

I was almost sad to get off at 14th Street, especially given the human wall I had to break through to leave. But to my surprise, I was not met with hostility, but with people almost violently advocating for me: "let the lady through," "let the blonde sister by," and "let the white sister through!" Was that comment a tad racist? Probably. But totally sincere? Definitely. I felt taken care of and in a good mood after seeing the free market in play (the woman finally got her newports), humans looking after one another and, although a little gross, a lil' romance on the x2.

Seen on the way home? A license plate that read: "HIS LOSS." Because nothing says "I'm over you" like going out of your way to immortalize the bastard on your license plate.

Lil Wayne and chicken wings. Metro, congrats- you class up the bus.

So you'd think that I've run out of cool bus stories since I've been riding my bike- not the case. Just last night, a bus nearly hit me. It's awesome - it's like they don't think they have to wait for anyone, just swerve right into the bike lanes like they own it. Best when you have nowhere to go, and are going downhill.

So the other day, I had an awesome time with the metro. Overtired, hungover, and inadvertently biking on a highway while trying to get home in time to leave and go babysit, I was not in the mood to deal with WMATA's stellar service. On a Saturday morning, I know it will be bad, but I needed to be in Crystal City, and straight up didn't know how to get there on my bike. In retrospect, I would've figured it out.

I got to the Potomac Ave. metro, and snuggled up next to an oversized man who smelled of chicken wings and old tobacco while we waited for 18 minutes for an orange line train to come. Of course, I needed the blue line. Thinking I should get on a train if it's there, I planned to transfer at L'enfant Plaza. Once I got there, there was no indication of whether a yellow line train was coming at all (the one I needed), but it did have 3 different green lines posted (what, do you think I'm crazy? I listen to Glenn Beck, damnit. Wait, what?). I waited it out about 5 minutes before a notice popped up: yellow line train, 19 minutes. Ugh! I was so late already and my head was spinning and I was trying to stabilize myself on the pink bike... terrible. Long story short... the indicators changed their mind four times before a yellow line train showed up unannounced 15 minutes later.

At least I got there safelyish. On the way back, it was much cooler. After waiting out the delays (not sure why their delays last all day), I got on a yellow train where I sat in the back of the train. This is much worse than the back of the bus, but I had no idea. Covered in cigarette ash, mud, and ketchup, I was careful not to shift at all. It's amazing- considering you can't smoke in the metro, there sure it lots of evidence of it! Do people juts pull ash out of their pocket and sprinkle it around because it's funny?

The only good part of this seat is that it lets me read over people's shoulders. This is the best way of reading the back pages of the Express (the only pages worth reading, of course). But when "Express" lady left, I was left with "Bomb" guy. He's named this because when I peered over his shoulder to read the time off his iphone, I discovered he was actually staring at a timer on the phone, ticking backwards from 5 minutes. A little creepy. But I really did freak out a little when the train stopped abruptly and the unusually articulate metro lady announces that the train will be moving shortly, that we have enountered a red signal (or alert or something). No description of what that means, except I know that we're stopped in the middle of a tunnel in a red signal with a dude whose iphone is counting down.

I never learned what happened, but was relieved when the timer ran out and I was still alive. Because- hell- I needed to live in order to witness the female Lil Wayne who greeted me on the way out of the metro with a "Daaaaayyyym, she phat (fat? I dunno, I'm giving myself the benefit of the doubt) on that bike." With her scrappy build, gold teeth, interesting hairstyle, and face tattoos, she was far more intimidating than your average male sexual predator. I rode away while she was verbally assaulting a group of college girls with a "Damn, I lub dem blue eyes and dat blonde hair," while gyrating her hips towards the air. It was glorious.

I like you order pizza.

You would think for someone who typically rides some of the sketchier bus routes in the city, the yellow line from gallery place to King Street would seem to be a commute free of seedy dudes. No chance. On said metro route, I sat next to a heavyset middle aged man with a bald spot and a heavy Southeast Asian accent. I had my head buried in a document I was reading, but I could still see him reading over my shoulder. If I'm reading the Express? No problem. My performance evaluation from work? Not so much. I subtly tried to tilt the page away from him, but he just sticks his eyes out farther.

"You must work for the government," he tries? (great guess, buddy. but no)."Nope. nonprofit," I tried to respond dryly. Bad choice. He took my response, simple as it was, as an invitation into conversation. He asks me about my work, which I told him about- felt obligated due to the nature of my work. Then he quickly transitions into what he's really interested in... "Do you have boyfriend?" "Yes, I have boyfriend," I reply. "What does he do?" "Uh, he's an attorney." "Oh, he make good money?" "Uh, I guess." "So that's great - that means in a few years you can stop working?" "What? Uh, his job, not mine. I stil have mine." "But you won't stop working in a few years? Doesn't he want you to? I would want someone to be home- so when I get back, they're not tired like I am." Anyway, I explained to him the idea that some people get into romantic relationships because they value each other as people rather than the crap one can buy in exchange for house cleaning and regular sex. He stared at me, dumbfounded, as if he'd never heard of such a concept. It was awesome. I told him the reasons behind the feminist movement, and why many women choose to work even though their husbands have good jobs.

Finally, he looked at me and said, "I guarantee you that 90% of people don't feel the way you do." I asked him what population he was sampling, and ensured him that 90% of the people on the metro right now probably agreed with me. Since he was sitting right next to me, and the seats aren't that big and he wasn't that small... it took me some time to realize that his fingers were grazing my thigh the entire time. Gross.

Other interesting commuter quotes in the past week? "I've gotta take a leak. So don't steal my cab. Cuz if you do? (pause...) killing you would be too easy." -moustache-clad cab driver in upstate NY, told to me and three other women at 2 AM.

"Take it! Take the ride for free goddamnit, I'm not gonna argue with you, it's too early!" -DC cab driver, said while throwing my money back at me after I refused to pay a $2 charge he made up.

"Are you a virgin?" -an anonymous phone call at work to me while I was writing the first paragraph of this entry. I hung up the phone after a foreign-accented dude asked me this, following a series of non-sequitors including "I like order pizza for you" and "no. you no understand. pizza. i like order."

Bizarre. I'm not writing anymore because I'm disturbed that I could go on.

Title. Yup, that creative.

As a passenger on the D6 with my roommate this morning, I watched what could have been a perfect documentary of my own life. Lines of people dressed in dark colors marched obediently yet chaotically in front of the bus, stomping through puddles in their sensible shoes. They held an umbrella in one hand, and a styrofoam coffee cup in the other. Like drones, they sullenly walked to their respective places of employment. This crossed socio-economic lines... hardhats replaced ties, or workboots replaced pumps in some instances, but the gloomy representation of our patterned, predictable existence looked me in eye as if to mock my voluntary compliance. Women carried smaller, less effective umbrellas evident by the water spattered across them. Men carried larger umbrellas that reinforced the ridiculous gender roles into which I too often fall, my floral, pocket-sized umbrella a rude reminder.

My roommate and I sat in horror as the bus just barely missed running down a pedestrian. No matter how many times that almost happens, it's never any less terrifying. Rainy days are the worst on the bus. People stand with their umbrellas dripping on the floor, on your shoulders, and in your purse. They all smell a little worse because the water brings up whatever aromas were marinating in thier jackets or hair before and they waft across the bus. No one talks, so I have no good stories. In fact, the audio highlight of this morning was a lonely guy singing off key to his ipod and swaying a bit strangely to what was, presumably, a rhythm of sorts. A sorry story for DC bus goers accustomed to a higher caliber entertainment on their morning commute.

Leaving the bus, I laughed a bit as I opened my pretty little useless umbrella in attempt to keep, at the very least, my hair dry on the way into Caribou coffee. My morning commute is reliably hilarious, but it is less frequent that I identify myself as the object of said humor. Crossing my fingers for a dry commute back and entertaining rap lyrics or something.

What lies beyond whack

The other night, I got my fix on the X2. I waited with an elderly gentleman who walked with a cane, and shared with me an anger towards the untimeliness of the bus. He had been waiting long before I got there and, apparently, had watched too many other, non-X2 busses pass. He tells me: "Maaaan... I been waiting up in here for too long. I seen two P6s pass, and not a single X2. That is beyond whack." The X2 is beyond whack? Interesting. So I asked myself... what lies beyond whack? I was about to find out.

What lies beyond whack is a scrawny teenager whose pants actually fell down as he gets on the bus. He only looked a little embarrased after tripping over his left pant leg- not about exposing his cartoon boxers or the top of his buttocks, or about the fact that his hair was stacked a full foot high and wrapped with what may or may not have once been plus sized womens' hoisery.

What lies beyond whack is a group of people who have to get up and move to the front of the bus far in advance of their stop... the kind who push past you while the bus is moving and you're standing, causing you to squish between a pole and a random old man who is far too happy that your backside is pressed uncomfortably against his arm - totally out of your control.

What lies beyond whack is someone in a wheelchair being turned away from the bus because there are already too many wheelchairs on board.

And finally, what lies beyond whack is a drunk man who leans into you as you stand in line to board the bus, cracks up, stumbles away, lightly smacks the back of a woman's knee, cracks up again, sits down, gets up, pushes past you in line to board first, gets turned away because he doesn't want to pay, then pushes past you to leave. Cackling uncontrollably the whole time.

Thanks, X2. Til next time.

Mountaintop Removal on the D6?

This morning, I joined the usual group of high school students with attitude, blue collar guys with cigarettes tucked behind their ears, and elderly men and women with frowns on their faces, profanity on their lips, Bibles in hand, and walkers for stability for my ride on the D6. This time, we had a visitor: a pretentiously normal looking older white gentlemen clad in an Obama t-shirt and Obama baseball cap with Mom jeans. To top off the look? A cause button reading: "Stop Mountaintop Removal." Seriously? I didn't realize that was a thing.

Predictably, he started asking the local guy sitting between us for directions to "The Smithsonian," "Union Terminal," and Freedom Plaza. Aww, tourists- how endearing. Eventually, I asked if there was an event he was heading to at Freedom Plaza so I could hear someone get worked up on my morning commute. Turns out, he was an Obama supporter from Appalachia (seriously I didn't know that was real) who is tired of the EPA allowing coal companies to blow off mountaintops, creating flooding and environmental damage to the people living in the towns below. He told me he was hoping to get his first arrest today. How sweet- it's almost as if he honestly believes his spending three hours in a holding cell with a few crackheads and prostitutes will help convince the government to listen to his opinion more.

I can understand the people coming in for big things- anti-war rallies or immigration reform stuff or- hell- even rally for restoring honor- at least it's an actual march for an actual cause, albeit an annoying and probably sorta racist cause. But these super obscure ones just seem like a waste of time. Nevertheless, once he calmed down from educating me on the Appalachian hippie environmental concerns, he was a nice fellow to share the bus with into downtown. Al Gore would be proud of him, if he ever noticed.

Huuuge Thighs!

The other day, I took a Friday off from work. It was a nice break from the routine- I woke up, went for a run, rode my bike to the grocery store, and got harrassed by my new neighbors. I was only a bit shocked by the last part. Truth be told, I never expected a casserole or a "welcome to the neighborhood" bundt cake, but I was a bit taken aback by the audible grunts. I thought they would keep them inaudible, as I live down the street, and their quiet admiration would increase their chances of catching sight of me through the window, or wherever people typically spy on their female neighbors. Now, I am keenly aware of their intentions, and I am careful to keep the blinds shut. Silly fools.

Anyway, as I biked past the D6 (suckers), three elderly gentlemen sat crouched in front of a house around 10 AM on a beautiful day. Cradling a 40 oz in one arm and dangling a cigarette out of the same hand, one points me out to his friends with a gutteral sound followed by a "Daaaaaaaamn. Ummmmmm. Look at them legs... She's got some huuuuge ol' thighs!"

What an asshole. Strangely, I think he meant the huge thighs thing as a compliment - he seemed pleased with his findings. I was literally angry about this for three hours... he simultaneously objectified me and hurt my feelings in one quick statement. I wasn't sure which one to be angry about, and my confusion only added to my desire to hit him with the handlebars on my pink bike the next time I see him.

Should I switch back to the bus, a kinder forum for writing with better opportunities for listening, and fewer opportunities for showing said huge thighs? Or should I stick it out on the bike riding tales?

Overheard in IKEA

"Daddy... I told you we should have brung the measuring tape." Preppy looking little blonde kid, about 8 years old. Far too old to talk that way, and his daddy said nothing. Gross.

Overheard at lunch

"Awesome! Now I can say that I'm employed on my OK Cupid profile! Girls are going to come running... nuthin' like a man with benefits." - volunteer in my office, upon finally finding a job

"It's not easy being a midget." -Lawson's deli employee, approximately 5'9, while trying to reach the top shelf

Biking on Florida Ave.

This morning, I rode my bike to Catholic University via Florida Ave. NE... what a piece of work that road is! The traffic lights are non-sensical, potholes are the size of small craters and are filled with black and stagnant water, and the people look at you threateningly. The sidewalks begin and end without pattern or purpose. As a biker, you can't ride on the street or on the sidewalk. Of course, I choose the street and, of course, people hate me. It's ok - I feel like my hatred or disregard for drivers, depending on the day, still puts me in the "I win" category.

This morning, there was traffic you couldn't bike around- multiple busses, tractor trailors, you name it! I, for the life of me, will never understand that weird Florida Ave/New York Ave turnabout where you have to loop around the Wendy's... it's ridiculous! I always shamelessly ride through the Wendy's parking lot where, inevitably, a gaggle of construction workers yell at me with a combination of angry orders to not bike through cones and catcalls/offers to take me home. That is a phenomena I'll never understand. As a pedestrian, cars are highly favorable and efficient forms of transportation. As a biker? How in the world are you, in your oversized gas guzzler, going to get me home faster than I can? You are stuck at this light. Once I'm through being amused by your commentary, I'll speed around you and run it. But nevertheless... I get offers for rides all the time. My pink bike is a dude magnet. Who knew?!

Anyway, it was a cold bike ride for me and, while I'm not looking forward to being bound by the bus when the weather turns legit cold, I am looking forward to the lively conversations I've missed so much.

Until then, I'm stuck writing about Florida Ave. potholes. And the Washington Gas guy who, after "losing" our order two days in a row (where my housemates and I waited and waited at home), called this morning informing us that he may have to come back later because "Parking is tough on C Street." He met the angry and threatening glares of three pissed off women first thing in the morning, and finally got to work even though he thought it was our problem. Here's to crossing fingers for hot water!!

A 92 First Timer, and an Irish Times Bathroom...

Last night, my friend M had her first ride on the 92 bus going to U Street. I was really disappointed that her "first time" wasn't a little more special. Honestly, there were no direct threats made to us, we didn't come out of the bus with any visible scarring, and the psycho dude was far enough away that we couldn't take down his incoherent ramblings. Yes, there were repeated utterances of: "When I get home, I'mma smack the sh*t outta you. I'm tellin you now. You don't believe me, but that's 'xactly what I'mma do... I'mma smack the sh*t outta you" from an elderly gentleman in basketball shoes yelling at someone on the phone (wife? mistress? boxing coach?).

Yes, there were the requisite peanut shells and sunflower seed shells (is that what they're called?) strewn about. Yes, we sat a few rows away from a man who had a conversation with himself that started before we got on the bus and continued until we left (and presumably didn't stop there). Yes, we were a touch frightened. But really, all in all, it was a disappointing showing.

Much better? Being told by the Cowboy Mouth manager in a pretentious and probably fake British accent: "You look even more stoned than I do." Geez, thanks dude. Actually, it's just the way my face is put together, but have a lovely time trying to hook up with my friend. Fail on his part, thank God.

It's been an interesting weekend. The night before, my friend R an I went to Irish Times (another first time, this time for her. Am I corrupting my innocent friends?). Overheard in the bathroom?

X: "Ugh, how are we still on a date with these guys?"
Y: "It's still early..."
X: "I thought we were going to meet new men. Ugh."
Y: "We could leave them and go somewhere else..."
X: "Meh... f*ck it. We're already here."

Then the two ladies waltzed outside to two seedy looking gentlemen and embraced them enthusiastically. See, men (haha see-men)? Y'all aren't the only ones who date/hang out for convenience. The coolest part? Upon emergence from the bathroom, the two gals looked totally convincing in feigning interest in their undoubtedly lame conversation!

I just moved to a new hood...

"Amy... I saw the prostitute... I saw the bullet hole just one inch from the gas line." -J, in a gentle Wisconsin accent. He was worried about my safety in my neighborhood where, just weeks before he saw said prostitute and bullet hole a few blocks away.

Fun news? I'm moving even closer to the decour he so aptly described. Thanks, DC.

92 forced me into bikestitution?

Since I started riding my bike more frequently, I don't have as many "overheard" moments- many more "almost killed" moments. It took me about two blocks of riding before I was a full fledged agressive DC driver of a bike rider. I thought it would take me a few months, but I was wrong... I'm cutting people off, running red lights, going the wrong way down a one-way street... it feels good. Although I hate cabs even more than I used to for the many and creative ways they continually try to run me over.

One recent overheard on a bike moment? "Hey! You dropped something!" Yes, this juvenile utterance was shared by a group of fifty-something year old men. While I was riding down a busy street near gallery place, I assume the attempt was to make me turn aroud and look to see what I dropped and fall on my ass, seriously injuring myself? I'm not sure. Since my backback was zipped shut, there was no way anything dropped, but my momentary reaction to turn around while riding fast in a dangerous intersection was almost a bloody one. I would have much more appreciated random, uncreative crude comments about my body or something. More like the "mmm, mmm- damn that's a fine ass" that I got earlier this week. As if he could even see what my ass looked like while it was planted on the seat of a bike. Anyway, that's all for now.

Last night...

Back on the 92! On the way to Adams Morgan, anyway. I waited for about 15 minutes at a bus stop with four teenage thug boys who were, ahem, getting crunk, I believe. One of them couldn't have been any older than 16... he starts throwin' these hardcore rhymes my way, and looking me intensely in the eye. Some that I was able to capture:

"I been lyin in this coffin since befo' I got to coughin."
"You may not believe me cuz I be sippin (boy gestures to the styrofoam cup in his hand), but believe me... I ain't driftin."
"I see you with love, not hate (nods at me, as if to emphasize)- I don't mean nuthin sexual, it's yo' intellectual state."
"I like yo' bow (gestures to an ostentatious bow on my shirt) cuz it's black and white. And that's how the world be- black and white. (Points to hat) Black, white, and red like the blood. We bleed the same, black and white. You better believe it. You better believe it."

Finally, after informing me (after all this) that he is a "Metaphorical Rhymer," I told him I dug his rhymes (what else could I say?). He replied: "I respeck that If any n*gga try to step at you on that bus, I got yo' back."

At that point, the less drunk/high friend pulled him aside and coyly pointed out the giant police van that was parked in the driveway 1/2 a block away, presumably waiting for the crime they were about to commit. I couldn't tell, but they started throwing rhymes about the po'lice. I couldn't catch any good ones because their words were too slurred and I couldn't even capture the slang - it was beyond me. I got on my bus at that point, but believe me... I didn't really want to leave the scene.

Later at the bar? Let me preempt this visual masterpiece by apologizing for my lack of pictures, for words will never properly describe this haircut.

Culprit: middle aged lesbian bartender. heavyset. homemade tattoos.
The cut: the head was buzzed, except for the following: 1). a big highlighted tuft (slightly larger than a fist) that stood straight up on the top of the head, 2). little hairs (down to her shoulder) that started just at the nape of her neck, 3). One singular ponytail-dread (like one dreadlock) a few inches below the tuft. About the size of a pickle. Maybe a little longer, and 4). A few isolated really long braids starting just around her ears and hanging down in front.

That's not even a hairdo... that's an evolution. I'd never seen anything like it! Anyway, no good "overheards" from her because she was too angry to make conversation. Maybe it's because she knew I couldn't stop staring at her haircut. Seriously, it pulled me in!

Anyway, the ride home was exciting only because I had to pry my eyes open to keep from sleeping past my stop. It was a challenge at that point, but unfortunately no exciting passengers.

Property ownership. How you like me now?

On the X2: "Me personally? I own PG County!"

Hmm. A few initial reactions?

1). No you don't. If you did, why are you riding the bus to work like me?

2). Wait, you do, and that's why you're taking the bus to work like me. All of PG county is probably worth like 50 cents. Maybe worse, when you factor in costs/deficits from all the crime/unemployment/general deviant behavior.

3). Who the hell would brag about owning such a God forsaken piece of ground as PG County?

4). No you don't. You probably sell poor quality marijuana in small quantities to a few underprivileged kids there who pay you respect because they don't have a father figure in their life. Yes... you should be proud of that.

Anyway, my postings have been dwindling because I'm now confined to the x2 and rarely take the 92... X2 riders, would you believe that you have it good? You do! In the last month, I've witnessed such startling behavior as parents hugging their kids, young people giving up their seats for the elderly, and someone complimenting my haircut instead of glaring at me. Who would think I'd be disappointed by this?!

Comedy. Yo.

Come check out loyal "Overheard" follower & DC comedian Reggie Melbrough at Wonderland Ballroom in DC! Doors open at 7. If you're lucky, he'll include some fabulous 92 moments just for you.

Overheard at Work

One volunteer to another, in front of me: "She (me) kind of reminds me of Laura, right?"
Other volunteer: "Yeah, kind of. They do look a lot a like."
First volunteer: "But Amy got a little more weight on her."

Thanks, guys. Now I'm going to eat a giant ice cream sundae and think about the little more weight.

Courts and Marriage. But not together.

"You gon' have to go to court for stabbing me, motherfucker." -said calmly and sternly by a young woman to her male companion on the x2 this morning. Said woman was holding the hand of a toddler. Is it a problem that I hardly found this comment blog-worthy? Am I running out of material from over-stimulation?

The following exchange also happened this morning outside the Rite Aid where I went to get my Monster energy drink fix.

Older, disheveled, drunken man stumbling off the bus: "Hey miss - can you help me out?"Me: "What do you need help with?"

Man: "Will you marry me?"

Me: "Haha.Ha."

Man: "Seriously... will you marry me?"

Ah, H Street. It does wonders for a gal's self esteem .

Puttin the Man in Romance

Last night on the x2, I was spying (because, clearly, that's what I do) at this girl's facebook update in front of me. She types on her phone: "I don't understand why someone would have the nerve to come up and sit next to you when there are a thousand seats, and then have the nerve to by stinking, and then to top it off be a female." Pretty girl then opens the bus window and spits on the ground disdainfully. The next time she checks her phone, her message reads: "Well, Safe Sex is Great Sex. So Use a Latex." Sound advice. I then felt guilty spying so much, so I forced myself to look away.

This was not difficult, however. An entire corral of crazies came on the bus. It was so weird... just like Dawn of the Dead. People's vacant stares, blistered skin, lips parched as if they're coming from the desert, scratching their skin violently, blinking eyes hard as if to clear blurry vision. The corral (I'm serious - like 10 people) included 3 kids who wandered in carrying school books in plastic grocery bags with no sign of parents or responsible parties in the mix. I spent the whole way home wondering where they came from!

This morning, also on the x2, I saw a ~50 year old thuggish looking man buried thoughtfully in a book. Of course, this is a huge anomaly in conflicting stereotypes, so I had to see what he was reading. The book was called: God's Gift to Women: How Much is One Night of Passion Worth? I loved it! Who knew guys read romance novels? I always thought literotica was geared towards women because dudes like pictures more... I thought wrong! Anyway, hopefully I'll see more people in long chains engrossed in romance novels.

How Now Brown Cow

"Brown cows are boy cows. Duh." -7 year old boy on the metro, in response to his little sister's question of the difference between black and brown cows.

"They make me run faster, they make me walk better, they make me taller, and they're comfortable." - same kid a few moments later, describing the obvious superiority of his spankin' new Asics. They were pretty cool.

Now that I have a new job, I get to ride the x2 both ways, every day. I expect endless stories. This morning, I sat next to a girl who sobbed to her friend on her cell phone for 10 blocks. From what I could tell, her boyfriend had eaten some of her mother's fettuccini, thinking it was hers. And the boyfriend (maybe it was a male roommate - I couldn't tell) was ridiculous because she "eats little things, not a whole meal like that." Drama!

Also, my old boyfriend in Southeast referenced in my last post? He was a barber. This is significant because there is a barber that stands at 7 and H where I catch the x2 in the mornings, every morning. He looks me up and down and asks if my ankle is doing any better. I wonder... if I bat my eyelashes could I charm him into being my rebound morning commute boyfriend? I'll work on it.

My Anacostia Boyfriend

So after quitting my job recently, I got a fantastic report from my former co-worker about the state of the neighborhood in my beloved Anacostia. This story took place by the bus stop, hence its place here.

A little background... boyfriend below stands about at my shoulder height, and is probably 50-60 years old. He thought of himself as my protector I think, but don't know that he ever remembered my name, no matter how many times I told him.

Co-worker CP's intro: Were you aware that you left an angry boyfriend behind in Anacostia? remember our little friend who always came up and hugged us at the bus stop? well, he is more than a little upset that you have not been around lately. he came up to me today and we had the following conversation:

BF: "I used to have a girlfriend over this way. But I never see her anymore. She worked right over there."
CP: "Oh? I think I might know who you're talking about. What does she look like?"
BF: "Taller than you, great smile, blond hair." ....well we know that while you worked there, there was only one girl in southeast with blond hair right?
CP: "Oh you mean my friend Amy?"
BF "Yeah! You seen her? I loooove that girl. She's got a great personality. Great smile. I used to always come talk to her. I mean I'd give anything-pay anything just to touch her. She was beautiful. Man I love her."
CP: "Well, I'll tell her you say hello."
BF: "Will you?! I used to tell her 'tell your boyfriend that a black man is gonna steal your heart away.'"

A little disturbing, a little charming... just the combo I love about DC.

Hobbling on the 92

Since spraining my foot over the weekend, I've gained a new perspective on exactly how annoying my morning commute can be, and how sweet it was before. Now don't get me wrong... some people are really nice. For example, the man who told me, "Baby, if you'd let me, I'd carry you anywhere you need to go." Or the guy who held open the door for me with his cane.

But geez... hobbling onto the 92 this morning, it was incredible how rude people are! I was very obviously limping and unable to get around easily, but three grown men as well as several women had no interest in allowing me to sit down. If you've ever tried to balance on one foot while grabbing the window for stability with one hand, you can imagine how difficult this is on the crickity, crackity bus, and the aggressive driver speeding up, then slammming on his brakes as hard as he can. Among the people who wouldn't move? A strapping young fellow with a wife beater tank top stretched tightly across his vast expanse of gut. He would nod off, then snap awake, then nod off while watching something (sadly, I couldn't see what) on his shiny new Apple computer. Two oversized women with attitudes to match sat on either side of him. Seemingly, they didn't even know each other, but with their pursed lips, raised eyebrows, and ability to look me up and down so irratingly yet threateningly, they could have passed as sisters. Finally, the lone woman who actually needed to use on of the seats glared angrily at no one in particular and pointed her cane at several passengers, as if to warn them of something.

I can't wait to see what happens on the way home. The soccer hooligans were much nicer than the bus-goers, so maybe I'll just find a drinking hole close to home and have the bus driver drop me there.

Parenthood on the 92

Dude at bus stop: "Hey! Miss Lady!"
Me: "Yes?"
Dude: "You done gots the prettiest legs I ever seen."

I feel a little guilty that I was 50% freaked out, but mostly that I was also 50% flattered. You think he noticed my calves since I've been running more?!

So last night I tried to catch the X2 home. I waited for a few moments while the angry she-bus driver attempted to "service" the bus herself rather than just telling us all there was no chance. I stood beside a heavyset (an understatement) woman who sat with a baby on one hip and a hand on the other (the DC signature pose, if you will). Her too-tight, sorta see-through t-shirt read, and I kid you not: "May all of your ups and downs be between the sheets." How's that for parenting? And common respect for your fellow metro-goers?

Anyway, I eventually gave up on the bus driver (Ms. Lady. Funny how her name is the same as mine), and got on the metro. Good choice.

On the metro, I sat in a group of wife beater-clad twenty something guys featuring cartoon boxers peaking out from above their waistband (note: waistband falls at upper-thigh). But they were wearing sagging baggy jeans, not sagging skinny jeans (puke!), so I liked them a little more than the hipster-thug-teenager hybrids that sat across from us. My group was discussing "dem new jordans," and whether or not one of them could afford them. The group concensus? No, because "Son, you got 8 kids." Please see my previous statement where I pointed out that they were all in their mid-twenties. The guy explained his budgeting techniques in a pretty clear way: "Man... I handle my biznass. I takes care of my kids." Cool. I was impressed. Because a job that allows you to sport cartoon boxers with wife beaters and support 8 kids and an expensive shoe habit? Sign me up!

Let Jesus Lead Me and the Government Feed Me!

On the 92 this morning, I had a lively conversation with a woman about chocolate. She prefers chocolate ice cream to nearly anything else in the world and, quite honestly, I couldn't agree more. She looked up and saw this old guy who, presumably, she knew. She says "Hey baby! How you been?!" They made small talk for a few moments. She tells him she's job searching. He tells her: "I ain't lookin' for no job. I just applied for SSI. I'mma sit back, let Jesus lead me and let the government feed me."
Moments later, she asks what time of day she should call him. He replies: "Anytime. I'm still around. I'm still black, single, disengaged, and old- no baby drama and no baby momma drama." I actually asked him to repeat this so I could keep track of each adjective.

It's go-getters like him that keep DC running smoothly. That, and the lady the driver had to kick off the bus just moments before for cursing him out wildly and schizophrenically. She called him a stupid b*tch repeatedly.

Hold me closer, Metro Dancer

http://dcist.com/2010/06/man_dances_with_abandon_on_dc_metro.php

I'm only sad I didn't capture this gem before the DCist did.

Thanks, DC Public Schools, for making us so smart!

If I didn't see this bumper sticker at a bus stop in Southeast DC, I would just assume it was a joke, but I did so I didn't. What do you think? I mean, I supppose inmate of the month in DC Jail is a pretty competitive process, so why not brag?

Other great signage spotted on my commute this week? A clothing shop on H Street NE called "Unik Clothing." It features brands including "Blac Label," "Antik," "Luxirie," and a few other fantastically named brands.

Oh, and has anyone noticed this sign in the metro (I coudn't get a good pic?... It's like a mock dictionary entry:

Sumpnspicious: a supsicious package or odd behavior reported to bus driver, metro train operator, or metro police at 202-962-2121.

I paraphrased the definition, but not the spelling of the word. Or the phone number to metro police. I've got that one down pat, due to last years incessent message: " See it? Say it. If you see something suspicious on a metro bus, train, or station, kindly say something to the nearest metro employee. Or call the metro police at 202-962-2121." I'm a little sad that this message is gone. Remember the other one, "Is that yo' bag?" That woman was awesome. I also regret my inability to indicate inflections in the voice in my writing. I'll work on this.

Till next time, DC? Pay attention in school, kids. Learn to spell out "something suspicious." There are two separate words there. Learn to spell difficult words like "unique" or "luxury." Otherwise, you may find yourself competing for the title of "Inmate of the Month" so your baby's momma can brag.

My job REALLY is like the 92

Image here is an artistic representation of my life today. A random toilet with a crushed can of steel reserve in the bottom. Best part? Toilet is located on the sidewalk. 8th Street NE neighbors, have y'all been following the abuse to which this toilet has been exposed in the last few days? Why?!

Anyway, I eventually got to work to find that they will no longer be paying for employee health insurance. Now, we get to pay for it ourselves! How fun is that?! And what does it mean for the 92? Hopefully one more disabled drunk to adorn the speckled seats of the metrobus. Because no health insurance, coupled with no dental insurance means a set of rotted teeth complimented by an anger-fueled beer addiction (maybe I'll switch to malt liquor), no regular check ups, and best yet? No coverage for all my meds. Which means? You guessed it. Knocked up and drunk with rotted teeth. Aw yea. Way to go, anonymous-ish employer... way to use your values of equality and taking care of the poor to propel cycles of poverty while pushing newly poor folks into the "system." Way to use your voice of social justice to preach the need for no health coverage, while giving a raise to employees who are openly racist. Venting? What? Me?

Weaves, Protection, and Moustaches... elements of any girl's week

I'm thinking that maybe the name of this blog should be something like "seen near the 92," since that's where my material has been from lately. The day after I returned from my exile in Texas where I rediscovered the simple pleasures of hula hoops, starf*cker shots, and handlebar moustaches, I came across a chunk of weave right on the sidewalk by my house. The next day? A used condom. Placed neatly in front of someone's car.

Today, my friend CP submitted this jewel of a conversation that took place while waiting for the 90 in Anacostia, the birthplace of artistry, poetry, and wifebeaters on children:

him: you from the hood, aren't you?
me: um...not really
him: well, you work with people like me, don't you?
me: what do you mean people like you?
him: well, i don't like to say black cause that's ignorant. i'm not black, i'm human, we're all human. i'm adriatic. that's a race, not a color. like you, i wouldn't call you white, you're european, that's your ancestry. see, i'm a intellectual. we not all stupid you know. and we not all dogs.
me: who's we?
him: you know...us adriatic people. we have hearts ya know.
me: i know...
him: well, it was a pleasure meeting you. see ya around nigga.
me: what?
him: sorry, sorry, no disrespect. that just means i think you're cool
me: haha, ok
(he shakes my hand and then leans down and kisses it as i'm about to get on the bus)
him: you're gonna go home and sanitize that shit aren't you?

Gold. Pure gold, son.

These actually kind of scare me for very different reasons

"I'd chop his ass up and leave it on the flo'." -angry teenager by the x2 stop, talking to his overly affectionate girlfriend. Do you think she's extra affectionate because she's extra freaked out by his violent tendencies?

An interesting switch from the awesome hipster love fest I got to be a part of this weekend. It was a glorious caricature of a caricature of hipsterdom. The scene: the park in the super trendy Columbia Heights. About 15 people gathered on a a few blankets to share yuppie organic food and drink too much during the day. Serenaded by the ethnically exciting drum circle and random people practicing tai chi, yoga, and other peace loving and sexually provocative physical exercise, I joined a cluster of ironic mustaches, old man shoes, dark framed glasses and pretentious conversation about racism in America. Hipsters love feeling extra cultured and having ethnic friends, so the multicultural drum circle is perfect. I got an actual fist bump from the requisite black guy in the group (I warned you I was going to blog about you if you're reading as promised), and watched a few white people play bocce. This is not a joke. This awesome display of pseudo-intellectualism was the perfect compliment to some of my favorite quotes of the day: "You want some brie? I'm so high." And "Man, these shrooms are really kicking in. I can barely roll this." The latter quote was from a former cheerleader-turned-feminist with a "Feminists are hot" t-shirt. I participated in hula hooping with strangers, and witnessed someone longboard into the park with a huge iguana on his arm that hung out in the park for a few hours. As one of the hipsters in the group pointed out, puppies just became to mainstream. An enlightened chick will be attracted to a more exotic animal.

In short, it was like overheard on the 92, but for privileged white kids with anarchist/socialist views (I don't know how the hell that works but it does). It felt good being able to be a part of the hipster scene in their natural environment, but I felt frightened. Extra frightened when I felt like I fit in. Good thing I wore my chucks.

Thanks, C and H - I will always make fun of you, but had so much fun this weekend. Love y'all :)

My job looks like the 92.

So this wasn't an overheard on the 92 moment, but I really needed to tell someone!

At yesterday's staff party, I arrived late enough that the only seats left were on the degenerate end of the really long table at lunch. Already filled with anger and disdain for most of my co-workers given the events of the past few weeks, I tried to paste on a smile and make small talk, but it's hard to get along with people quite that weird.

Across from me, my friend M is texting on her droid, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Beside her, directly, this skinny guy refuses to talk. Seriously - he doesn't say hi, he doesn't respond... he just silently tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt like a bib, orders TWO entrees at the Mexican restaurant, and devours them wordlessly, except his pointing out of the obvious: "I have a large appetite."

Next to her, another one sporting false eyelashes at lunchtime grimaces as she pokes and prods the shrimp on her plate, as if they were some unknown thing. She mutters, "Ugh - this ain't what I ordered." She looks around to get the attention of the waiter to scold him f'or not reading her mind about the dish she actually wanted. She pouts while she pushes rice around on the plate and thinks about the shrimp. I don't think she ever ate any.

Next to shrimp girl, sits the ever famous, emphysema-bound sixty year old grandmother of like 34 with three teeth in her head. She is most famous for ranting statements in meetings like: "Once we has given the client the services then they has the information," and "I use the computer for two things: email." Between hacking coughing fits, she also yells at the waiter about how much she doesn't like beans. I wanted to tell her that they pretty much come with any Mexican dish, anywhere and she could just leave them aside, but I didn't want to get into it. Eventually, she gets a doggie bag to take her food, along with the food of the two people beside her, home for her grandkids.

I sat there, wondering exactly which bad decision in my life landed me in this fine establishment at the age of 25. My co-workers are so freaking weird.

Not worth a title

"Ray, whats you doin, boy? Git back over here, or imma take your phone..." Said to a ~7 year old boy by his mother. Meanwhile, his younger sister is making beatbox noises and dancing provocatively. Really cool.

Spotted by the 92

Spotted near the 92? A confused looking 300 + lb woman. She is most likely on drugs given her dazed, disheveled presentation. Her eyes are almost all the way closed. She is not walking in a straight line. In fact, her zig-zag walk pattern is impressively complex. She appears to be in her mid-fifties, although it's sometimes hard to tell with her... lifestyle. She is wearing an over-sized aqua blue T-shirt. The t shirt reads: "Single and Looking." Yes. Gentleman, hold on to your pants. This one's comin' after you.

It's good to be back.

"Oh, I could tell you was a cowboys fan when you walked on the bus, baby." -dude on the 32 to me, after I finally caved and took a side in a bus-wide screaming match (including the bus driver) about whether the Redskins would beat the Cowboys this year.

"Think he real tough beatin' up on women. He like killing people? Let's see him try and kill one of us."- same dude moments later, describing how the UVA lacrosse guy would be treated in jail. I like this guy. Fortunately, as he was exiting the bus, he asked if I was married. I said no (I never learn). He looked at me with a glimmer in his eye and said he was sure he'd be seeing me around. Damn.

Met you once in a Williams play...

Person 1: "This whole family is crazy."

Person 2: "I'm not crazy."

Person 3 (to person 2): "Mom... you're kidding, right?"

Unfortunately, this was not overheard on the 92... this was overheard at family dinner... my family dinner. Meanwhile, 5 dogs circled the table for scraps while intermittently barking ferociously at the the neighbors. Oh yes.

Blind and on the 92

Great 92 moment, submitted by loyal metro bus rider and champion skeeballer. Glad I have people to keep their ears and eyes open when I'm out of town:

Blind woman reading Braille magazine in front seats of bus

Two dudes sitting across from her

Guy 1: ( loudly) look at that - she's reading Braille and shit.

Guy 2: man, everyone can see that! (clearly embarrassed his friend has called attention to this fact)

Blind woman: I can't!

Overheard in Church

"Can I sit down here, mi'ja? I had knee surgery the other week and the pain is killing me... Hijo - I can feel the pain up to my privates."

The Bard

This is why it's fun to be abnormally nosey...

While riding the 32 home from work (East of the river, if you will), I thought I was sitting across from your average pot smokin', pants saggin' teenagers. Little did I know, I was in the presence of a modern day Shakespeare. He left behind two pieces of notebook paper in flawless script. The first read: Kill the Bus Driver.

The second was a few lines of prose, although as you'll see, the poet's ability to rhyme randomly and without pattern is impressive. It follows (and yes, I still have the original):

Cause all I kno is get money

Iam strap on the rip for N**gas

that wanna take it from me you ain't my

homie n**ga soft that a cookie Iam

pro these N**gas Rookies

Getth money playin Hookies pleas can

you Help me fully automatic if a n**gas

want satsie [sic] Iam grippin the automatic

What do you think this is, kind reader? I'm simply at a loss when trying to interpret this masterpiece.

At least this is better than Monday when, on the 92, this old, hardened thug who no doubt spent some time in jail clutched 3 DVDs in his hand, presumably to return to Blockbuster. On the top of the stack? The unsuccessful pre-teen flick "Stick It" from a few years ago, featuring the infamous line: "It's not gym-nice-tics," spouted off by a perky brunette 13 year old gymnast. This dude's appreciation of cinematography is sure to make him a hit with the ladies.

Growing up on the 92

"Wait, you're still a virgin, too?!" - one pre-teen boy to another, in disbelief

The Scent of a Bus

This morning, the 92 smelled like feet. I don't know why. Usually, it's either old cigarettes or the unmistakeable breath of an alcoholic or sunflower seeds (the official snack of the 92, in case you were wondering). More upsetting? The fact that this morning's first bus ride was one of those days where it just quietly reminds you that life would be easier with a car. Nothing funny happened, nobody flashed any body parts... just the smell of feet permeating the air, a creepy old man staring at me with predictably unabashed lust in his eyes, a ridiculously high ratio of disabled to non-disabled riders (seriously, I know that seems wrong, but if the rest of the population were this mobily impaired while also incapable of forming complete sentences, our economy would be in even worse shape) lingering, creating this feeling of ever so slight but nagging discomfort. In some ways, I hoped for the loud, raunchiness I'd come to expect. Like last night, which was so full of activity I haven't even blogged about it. Words so often fail us when trying to describe new stereotypes and unexpected situations. I'll think about it more, maybe I'll write later, but it definitely involved a bunch of drunk transgendered teenagers yelling at one: "Girrrl, I'ma shove this hammer up your ass" to a person with a full beard. I felt confused in so many ways.

At least I had to take the bus again over my lunch break. A Random Crazy Dude (RCD) spilled coffee on me, didn't apologize, then spent the rest of the ride looking at me, cracking up inexplicably, and rapping. Too bad I couldn't decipher his lyrics. They were probably magical.

Tobacco on the bus

While waiting for the 28X in Falls Church (usually a safer bet than the 92) the other day, I saw this kid smoking two cigarettes, simultaneously. He was smoking them together, like one large one, as opposed to alternating puffs or something. When the bus got there, he put out the cigarettes on his pants leg and shoved the butts in his pocket, presumably for future use. Gross.

This reminded me of a time not too long ago where I saw a guy on the 32 storing a cigarette in the gap between his teeth, again, presumably for future use. Unsurprisingly, it was difficult to understand his speech with the sparse and unpredictable arrangement of teeth, half-smoked cig between them, and a probably crack habit, but I did understand him when he suggested that CP and I get married (CP is a good female friend of mine, initials used in case she actually values her privacy, unlike me). He said he'd really like to see us married, and seemed genuinely sweet about it.

Ok, and in other related news, the other day I thought I'd forego the debauchery of the bus in favor of a leisurely stroll home through the park since I'd had a rough day. Some guy walking towards me shook his exposed penis at me. Yup - it was pretty terrifying, particularly because it took me so long to process what was going on that by the time I looked away, I'd already subconsciously committed to memory every curve, color change, and little wiggle. Now, every time I close my eyes, my dreams are raped by the image I never wanted.

So for the future, I think I'll take the 92.

Beltway Hipsters

On the red line this afternoon, I saw a couple of tea-baggers get their giant ill-informed yet witty signs stuck in the metro door while they used their non-ironic white keds to try and pry it free. Heh. If they knew more about my beltway mentality and not just main street, they'd realize that the metro doors aren't like elevator doors... they'll totally close on you! It's been fun having the teabaggers in town... crowding the metro elevators, inciting more political controversy (because DC doesn't have enough of it), but watching out of towners struggle with public transportation just somehow never gets old. I can't help getting a little defensive when the "real" Americans talk crap about DC and our "beltway mentality," whatever that is. Hey guys! You're in my neighborhood! Your lovely protest will make me late for work because all the streets are blocked off. I am not some faceless entity that is taking your money. Oh, and one more thing... I think your fanny pack makes you look fat.

Oh, Beltway... other sightings included a serious man in business attire, conservative hair and... a hot pink wrist watch! They also included a 55 year old woman (guessing on age) with a low cut "Apple Bottoms" T-shirt. She held what was presumably a grandchild on her lap. And finally, I saw a thugged out guy standing outside the metro playing Ray LaMontagne for tips. The hipsters have taken over! Wait for MGMT to start playing in the background for congressional hearings.

Gangster Bump Its. Yes Please.

Yesterday, I saw the top of a man's crotch while waiting for the 92 on Florida Ave. You may be thinking to yourself that this is not a bad way to break up your mid-morning routine, but I assure you it is not. Said man was a heavy set, hairy fellow with visible poor hygiene. He turns around to face the wall (maybe he thought he was being discrete), unzips his pants and drops them halfway down his rear to properly tuck in his shirt. He saw that I saw him, and instead of apologizing or feeling embarrassed, he shrugged his shoulders as if I'd just caught him picking his nose or something.

But this horror was properly balanced by the combination of excitement, surprise, and admiration I held for... wait for it... a real live bump it on the 92! Yes, I'm talking about those plastic hair pieces on the infomercials that will give you instant "lift" that New Jersey is famous for - trashy accent included, I think (sorry New Jersey friends, you know it's true).

The proud wearer of the bump it was a fashionable young thing - leopard print chiffon shirt/jacket/scarfish thing and died and fried hair down to her waist a la Crystal Gayle. I spent most of the bus ride trying to figure out whether, in fact, she was sporting one, or she had just properly teased and sprayed it into cooperation, but just as I decided on my own that her hair was too fine to support that kind of height and precision sans bump it, she turned her head and I caught sight of the white plastic shining between pieces of hair. Yes! Proof at last- people actually do wear these things non-ironically.

Oh, and I got to watch this whole thing sitting beside a 50 year old man in gray camouflage shorts, a matching gray camo bandana wrapped around his head like Tupac, and an oversized T-shirt that read: "RESPECT MY GANGSTER." I'm not entirely sure what that means. Does he mean a gangster that he owns? Or maybe his gangstership? Gangsterdom, Gangsterocity? Thoughts anyone?

Hittin' up the D6 this morning. Happy Friday!

Overheard in Texas

On my weekend trip home to Texas, I learned (or maybe re-learned) a few things I thought I should share.

Lessons on Gender Identification:

"In a gender defined world, it's important to show that you're a girl. So that they know you can keep your pants on."-My wise youngest sister

On this note, she helped me realize that if, in fact, you are a girl, you must have your toenails painted and have earrings on at all times, lest someone mistake you for one of your male counterparts. I made the mistake of wearing strappy sandals in Texas with, gulp, unpainted toenails. It should be noted that I also had a floral headband and sundress. I will still subject to this:
"If someone were to guess your gender, they'd guess man." -aforementioned sister

The next day, in response to my grave error of bare toes, my sisters pulled together to take me for a pedicure. As I mocked them for a). being a regular at a nail salon, b). being so regular that they had a specific person they had to have do their nails, and c). their larger problem (although they would call it a skill rather than a problem) with material consumption, the woman doing my big sister's jeweled pedicure pointed out: "Usually, you all have more shopping bags when you come in here." Geez family - y'all freaking rock. Even the nail tech knows you have mall issues.

Lessons from Church:
"The Easter Bunny did not rise from the dead." -billboard outside a large Church, presumably on the secularization of the Easter season.

How to deliver an appropriately confusing complimensult:
Lady at church choir: "Your hair looks nice curly... I wasn't sure about what you'd done."
Me: "Err... thanks? Um, so you don't like my hair straight?"
LACC: "You know how much money people pay for curls like ours?"

"That Eucharistic prayer was shocking... full of surprises!" - quote from my sister and fellow singer, on the challenges of keeping up with the music and chant of a tri=lingual mass in which the Priest skipped around without pattern between English, Spanish, and Latin.

Lessons on Relationships:

People get fat when they get married. Sometimes not both spouses, but at least one. This is even more likely to occur when two good looking people get married because they are good looking. According to one wise sage: "Wedding cake has delayed release calories. They take several years to really kick in."

Lessons on Fashion (more!)
The airport is a great place to find great new styles, like the ever-coveted jeans suit, or the floral capri pant.

I became so overwhelmed at the airport that I began a 'stache count. I got to 17 before becoming pre-occupied with the age-old dilemma of donuts or cookies for breakfast. Among my favorite 'stache sporters (and please note that I'm not just talking about any facial hair that includes a mustache - I'm talking card-carrying, no-excuses, clean-shaven-except-the-molestache badasses)?

-One guy wearing high waist jeans, a fanny pack, and a blue tooth earpiece tucked neatly beneath his greasy, 70s porn style curls that perfectly complimented the targeted 'stache.

-Middle aged man with a prominent potbelly, basketball jersey, jeans shorts, dress socks, and dress shoes. Oh, and a big flavor-saver creepstache. Yes, please!

-Long ponytail (Joe Dirt style) with a whispy blonde 'stache.

-Aggie polo tucked into high waist pleated khakis with no belt. Perfect for the bigot-stache he perfected, less perfect for the inevitable scrambled egg stuck between the stache hairs.

That's all for today. I look forward to joining the more normal Washingtonians on my usual bus route.

How hard is it to conjugate the verb "to be?"

So far today?

"I've been married twice. That shit don't work."

"Girl, you know how sexy you be. And yo' daughter look just like you."

Know the law in your state.

The 92 delivered this morning. After an episode of pre-thuggery on the x2 watching middle schoolers bicker on the way to school, I was lucky enough to observe the following conversation among post-thug adults...

The players: a man and a woman, presumably acquainted, maybe family, but not. Roughly in their late 40's or early 50's. They are sharing a cell phone. Enter a younger woman, presumably unacquainted with either of them.

Man (on the phone): Man- I ain't got no kids. My kids is grown. Only one I'm babysittin is me. Man, you crazy? That's her baby. No I ain't gettin murried. I ain't never gettin married.

Female Companion: She good enough to live with, she's good enough to marry. Mm hmm. That's what I told my man. And you know what that n***ga done? (purses lips, plants right hand on hip, and proudly flaunts the engagement/wedding band on her left hand). Us females, we got to. Else they milk you like a cow. MOOOOOOOOO!! (mime the milking of a cow motion with really big eyes).

Younger woman: Watcha got to do is to milk them. If you gon' live with them, you better know the law in your state. That's all I'm sayin. Know the law in your state. Know it guurl. Cause you know he gon' take half of what's yours. I know that much.

Too bad I had to get off the bus here. That conversation was going somewhere awesome. Happy Friday, everyone.

Perfection

On the X2:

Small child: "Ma, you tried to knock out my tooth."
Mother: "Well... it was loose, ain't it?"

Later that day: "I'm a perfectionist, Ok? I do it perfect or I don't do it at all. I like things to look gooood." - spoken by a two-toothed, cursing, possibly addicted woman speaking of her skills as a cosmetologist.
In that same conversation: "I don't get paid to fight, so I don't fight. I like to travel, though."

Religion and Gettin' It

"'Cause you see... Jesus... he can change things into, like, other things."
- said to a woman who was totally sold on his powerful musings.

"How a n**ga not gonna want to hit that?"
-Said by a woman, presumably talking about herself

Tellin' it like it is.

"If you wanna see me, I'm like a f**kin' doctor. You gots to make an appointment."

Overheard at the homeless shelter...

"Bitch, I'm a doctor. They just ain't build my office yet. I don't neeeed no job."

Swipe it like a credit card!

I rode the 92 yesterday with two friendly homeless women who offered their take on a certain woman who walked down H Street... "skinny, but with a big ol' butt," as they described her. Apparently, a man grabbed her ass (without her permission, unsurprisingly), and she was angry (also, unsurprising). But the poetry that was used to tell that tale! "Damn! He swiped his hand across that ass. Swiped the whole thing. Just swiped it like a credit card!" "Yep. I guess he couldn't help hisself it was all out there." "Maybe if he would've asked her, she would have let him." "Swiped it like a credit card, gurrrl!"

I sat beside them with my perma-smirk that allows me to silently soak up such a scene. The guys behind me yelled out the bus window at a passerby: "Damn gurrrrl! Look at that ass. I'd like to handle that ass. Mmm mmm." So apparently it was the day for the glutes. Glad I worked mine at the gym earlier - this way, I can be sure to draw positive commentary.

CP- I'm waiting for the tale of your Muslim conversion to publish.

Introducing.... THE ANGRIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD!!

This woman was somewhere between the ages of 48 and 78 (depending on the length and intensity of crack and cigarette addictions), hunched over, and wrapped in a sweet little shawl riding the 32 bus into Anacostia. She shared the story of her bad morning with three different people who were lucky enough to sit next to her on the journey into SE.

I sat in the seat across the aisle, next to a serious looking woman with her face buried in a Bible, presumably trying to cleanse her soul of the profanity being injected pretty much directly in it from the titular angry woman. Behind me was a 10 year old boy yelling at his classmate: "B, I'mma sue you! I'mma take you for every penny you got! You know I'mma sue you." Across from him was the omnipresent militant Muslim touting racist Biblical phrases that I'm pretty sure aren't actually in the Bible... "The Lord said, the white man will be the least..." (Really, dude, where did it say that?!).

The woman's terrible morning went something like this: "I woke up, n**ga gave me coffee with no cream and sugar. Shit. That some bullshit. Every day is same shit, different day. Different day, same shit. Black coffee give me indigestion. And I know that shit, and I still do it. I shouldn'ta drank that shit. Bullshit. Now I don't feel good. Shit. Man, you know that bitch had her car right in the bus lane! She thought she was gonna hit me with that shit? Shit. She don' know how who she be fuckin with. I just wanna know what made her that stupid that she gon' be in a bus lane. She think her car can just jump up through a bus? Shit. I couldn't believe that shit."

I'll stop here and let you read the abridged version. Presumably, there is a segue between the indigestion incident and the near car accident, but I didn't catch it. I also didn't type the word "shit" nearly enough times to do her glorious diatribe justice, and for that I apologize.

Stay tuned for my co-worker's accounts of her unintentional conversion to Islam, and rebirth as a virgin on the 34. Shit.

Whiskey and Running

While I was waiting for the x2 this morning near Gallery Place, no one got arrested.

Sorry, I thought that was note-worthy, even though it was 10 AM. But despite the lack of entertaining criminal behavior, the trip still delivered. Drunk man (again, please note the time) at the bus stop wanted to have a conversation about my athletic ability after seeing my bib number on my shirt from the race I ran this morning. He told me of his ability to run back in his day, before he had a punctured lung and was 51 years old. He paused to take a swig from a bottle that smelled of cheap whiskey, but the label was printed in Chinese, with that Chinatown-esque decor. He looked at the girl waiting beside me, who reeked of east coast snobbery and country clubs, and began singing the popular Taylor Swift song to her: "She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts..." and actually got angry when east coast girl couldn't finish the lyric for him. He asked if I knew the song. Of course I knew the song! Sadly, the bus came before he could sing me the Pink Floyd he promised.

The Power of Love

While listening to my ipod on the 92, I sat down next to nervous looking, strung out, yet also dangerous older man. He was covered in tattoos he clearly either did himself, or got in prison. I noticed him eyeing me, looking creepily pleased. He kept looking down at what I thought was my chest, but he then indicated that he was actually checking out my ipod.

He takes out this old school ipod in a big, heavy case, and points to the song currently on his play list: Celine Dion's The Power of Love. No joke. He closed his eyes and proceeded to sway in his seat the whole way down 8th Street.

Hey there...

This blog is an attempt to pay tribute to the complete and shameless debauchery that is the Washington, DC Metro bus system. For those of you who live near the Capitol Hill/Atlas district, you are all too familiar with the X2, the D6, the 90 buses, as well as other lines that run nearby. Surely you have your own experiences and words of wisdom to share.

As I approach my 3rd year as a DC resident, I am choosing not to tune out or ignore the racist, sexist, drunken, and sometimes genuinely wise commentary spewing from the mouths of my fellow bus riders, but rather to celebrate it for its sheer artistry.

Inspired by years of old favorites like, "You married? Can I go home with you?," "Hey light skin, I like to wine 'em, dine 'em, get behind 'em," and "You do what you do, you get what you get," I will use this forum to start documenting what will eventually be an integral part of my life memoirs. I'm not sure how old I have to be to start writing memoirs, but I'll have a lot!

Last night, as I waited for the 92 at 9 and F NE, I joined a group of stealthy young thuggish types, complete with the obligatory malt liquor in a paper bag and black n mild cigar tucked behind ears. Dressed in patterned tights and wool miniskirt, I was certainly out of place, but really, how different from my morning commute is this? I was soon approached by an older, drunker, probably homeless man with a bottle in his hand, freestyle rapping as he staggered towards us. "Hey there, white lady," he said, offering his fist for the customary "terrorist fist jab" (compliments of Fox news circa June 2008). I responded, offering my fist in return. He quickly retracted his and leaped back exclaiming, "Aw, shit! I can't believe this motherfucka (me)."

Confused and amused, I faked disappointment at his public blow off, and asked what I ever did to him. He staggered off and began to hit on the only other female in the area.

Finally, one of the quieter of the original group tapped me on the shoulder, looked at me with genuine sympathy in his eyes, and asked if I was nervous being around all these black people. Ah, the 92.