Holy ORCA Card!

Let's talk about my commute. My wonderfully unreliable '98 Mazda named Phyllis or, more recently, PIECE OF SHIT, lived up to her name about 3 weeks ago and broke down while I was reliving my middle school experience by drinking in the woods with some old friends. After many phone calls, a rushed train ride back to Seattle, and my parents towing my car for me, I find out it's dead for good. I later discover out that the not-working transmission was "the least of your problems dear."A part that isn't working is the least of my problems? Yes. The motor is about to spontaneously com bust and turn into a black hole apparently. Great. So I'm stuck taking the bus to work until we can find a replacement. For the first couple of days my wonderful boyfriend took me to and from work, until he got tired of picking me up at 6am. He insisted that he take me to work though, because I am a scrawny white girl and I have a stop over downtown. Now, I see myself as pretty street smart, but when I am spending 15 minutes at Crackhead Ave and Heroin Corner at 11:30 at night, it's not really up to me. (remember, scrawny white chick here) By 6 AM though, everyone who would potentially rape, rob, murder, then rape again is passed out or dead at that hour, and if they are STILL awake, they are easily shooed. My father, who has taken over finding me a new car, told me to plan to be without a car for 2 weeks. Well, it's almost a month later and I have gotten used to my morning commuters as I am heading home. I give them names.

I have a background in Anthropology, so I have an annoying habit of studying the people around me like they are a rare tribe in Africa.

First, there is Headphone Man. You guessed it, he is always wearing HUGE headphones. He also has this look on his face that makes me think that he has seen some serious shit, and is changing his life because of it. So, he's got these headphones on every morning, and I am just itching to know what such a hard-faced man listens to at 6 AM. I finally sit near him one day and lean in while the bus is turning a corner (because I am an invasive ass). The answer is Beyonce. I guess he shoulda put a raaang on it, and that is why he is so hard.

The next stop Fingers of Fury gets on, sits down, and true to his name, starts jabbing and prodding his iphone in a crazed frenzy. He is obviously important and has a lot of shit to do that should have been done yesterday. I have yet to get close enough to see what he is doing though. I fear he might prod my eyes out before I know what happened.

There is also Chatty Lady and her friend, Other Chatty Lady. They are just the greatest of friends. They always sit together, despite getting on at different stops, then discuss work, family, clothes, and exchange unidentifiable Asian fruits that I should probably get acquainted with. (My boyfriend is Vietnamese and his mother hates me because I am white)

Always Flawless Brunette gets on and never fails to bring her Starbucks Double Shot in a can.

Then there is my favorite commuter: The Paralegal/Lawyer.Secretary or possibly Administrative Assistant. Tweed suits, perfect bun, and at least ten punds of gold and gems. Brooches, earrings and rings; the works. I want to know what she does SO BADLY! Is it rude of me to ask? It's killing me She gets off at the same spot as me, and I have this horribly overwhelming urge to follow her and her fantastic heels.What the hell else am I going to do at sunrise, and remember, invasive ass!?

So who am I on the bus? The creepy people watcher? Nope. If I didn't know me (thank [diety] I do!) I might call myself Weepy Willow, Bipolar, or Bio-clock. Let me explain:

You know how women who hang out a lot sync their menstrual cycles up? Well, I spend most of my time with a breastfeeding mother of twins. Yeah, emotional and hungry. (I literally have like 8 different chocolate covered goodies within arms reach right now, and a bag of grapes, and...) Also, I am doing a lot of reading on pregnancy, breastfeeding, midwifes, and birth. I read "Baby Catcher" by Peggy Vincent and cried every time she caught a baby. I am a fast reader, so that means that about every other stop I cry. The stops that I am not crying at, I'm laughing my fool head off because Peggy Vincent is one funny lady! (READ HER BOOK!!!)

Right, so just that, from an outsiders view, I would say bipolar. They can't see what I'm reading because I bought myself a Nook. Tee Hee! I love it!! But it gets worse. I am reading a crap ton about breastfeeding, because diving into this whole midwifery thing, I have come to realize that I know nothing about boobs, in fact, I don't even own a proper set!

So, sometimes I have a hard copy of a book and people can actually read the cover. I'm reading something along the lines of "The Breastfeeding Mother's Companion," which must look hilarious because I'm so small chested that I am lucky when I find a bra that fits and doesn't have Hannah Montana or Disney Princesses on it. Most of the time though, people try to discreetly find my non-existent baby bump, look at me skeptical (probably wondering what the hell I plan on feeding with my mosquito bites and if they should call CPS), or just stare. I would stare too. I'm a flat-chested stick figure reading about pregnancy. Thus, I must either be a teen (pre-teen maybe?) pregnancy case, or my biological clock can be heard in New York and I'm just prepping. No one asks, so I can't plead my "unborn midwife" case.Oh well, at least I have my ORCA Card, otherwise I would have to fish through my GIGANTIC bag, exposing more baby books, to find my wallet for bus fare. I even started leaving my card in my coat pocket just so my biological clock doesn't spill onto the sidewalk and the bus driver decides he doesn't want to be my baby daddy.