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.