I’m not cool enough for Apple…  

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I found myself in an Apple store waiting for my boss to have his phone looked at. This was after he’d cheerily announced we could walk down to the parking garage (the sun was approximately 8546816841 miles closer to the earth today and was singling out Nashville). I didn’t wear shoes meant for walking. These shoes are dress shoes. You’re meant to look like a dressy individual without very far to walk because you have extremely important meetings to attend. I attended zero meetings, important or otherwise. I also tromped down to the parking garage, maybe ¾ mile? I don’t do distances. It’s enough for me to break into a solid sweat. However far in kilameterwatts that is.

We then had to find someplace to park and the walk across a shorter distance to the Apple store. I have never been in one, but it was easy to pick it out. It was brightly lit with a wall of glass that had sectioned into multiple parts instead of just having a door. There was also a large screen opposite from the wall of glass partitions that had a trendy hipster-looking young lady doing some sort of seminar. She was extremely upbeat and happy. The closer we got, the more nervous I became.

We entered the non-door entranceway and immediately I was uncomfortable. The music was loud, there were a billion people all yelling at each other to be heard over the loud music. The seminar tutorial chick in the back was amplified from invisible speakers. A cute little boy was playing a game on one of the display phones which had the volume all the way up and he was shrieking in excitement. Everything was bright and loud and scary and very peopley.

We stood for an hour or more before a technician could check out the broken phone. In that time we moved around to avoid people at my behest multiple times. However, we are apparently people magnets. So I decided to just stare at everyone. So many types of hipsters. So many cool, hip, older folks. So many bad haircuts and facial piercings and tattoos and pants that I consider high waters but have apparently come back into vogue? We were so bored my boss actually approached a salesperson and invited him to do his song and dance about Apple watches.

Then a small, less handsome but much more tattooed Paul Rudd appeared and started working on the broken phone. I was thrilled. My back was unhappy and my feet were on fire. Just standing still was making me curse softly and steadily under my breath. Another 30 minutes or so, and we were on our way. I was very much over the tattooed cool people. These were not my tribe. My tribe has comfy seating, snacks, and fewer people. It was like a college coffee bar in a movie. Or….New Orleans in a movie. It smelled slightly better than New Orleans, but the same hippy bohemian vibe was present.

I prefer stinky New Orleans.

PS. I will miss the annual Mac & Cheese Festival in New Orleans this year. I am so beyond devastated, it’s delicious and fun and in the best city ever and I’m ready for next year. If you haven’t been, go. Trust me.

PPS. Go see the tree of life while you’re there.

I got home eventually and hobbled my way through a shower and down to water the plants that are doing their best to die in our late September heatwave. My pup went outside with me, as did two cats. She immediately plodded over to try and dig up cat poop (kitty cookies) and eat it. Since she’s mostly deaf, I had to move fast to stop her. My feet screamed. They’re weenies. I redirected her with very stern hand gestures and facial expressions. I started watering plants. Then my pup, old sweet geriatric pup, saw absolutely nothing and decided this was her moment to shine. I saw her go still, bunch her old pitiful muscles up, and launch. There was nothing to launch at, but she started running pretty well for an old pup. I tore after her but I did not run pretty well for any sort of pup. I am, in fact, extremely slow. I was also wearing flip flops that are too big and fall off easily. I knew she’d pay for running, her back end is so weak and I couldn’t let her hurt herself. So I ran faster. If you’ve ever watched penguins run, that’s what I imagine I looked like. I had to do an exaggerated stepping motion in order to not lose the flip flops. I needed the flip flops to have any chance of getting through the rocks in the yard. She was making good time. It took me forever to get close enough to grab her, and I was pretty sure we were both going to end up rolling down the embankment behind my house and just staying where we landed. It wasn’t a graceful stop, but we got stopped. And then we had to get back to the house, and my feet were just all sorts of pissed.

So I grabbed a banana, called it dinner, and came upstairs (so slowly she beat me to the top) so I could get in bed and not move again until I die. I am never going back to an Apple store, and I will need to get something to tie the pupster up with when I need to water. I’m too old for these adventures.

Knitting, Football, and Rescue

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Random Stuff from the past week and a pinch (pronounced peench by Papa Poopster):

  1. Football season is here! I love football. I have a billion teams at this point and have someone to cheer for or against almost every game. It’s my fave time of the year. Also, it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to eat chicken wings 24/7. I’m into wings. You may remember that. Sidenote: long term relationships are great and all, but you get to realize all the things your significant other did that were odd or noticeable but not particularly troubling when the relationship started but now fill you a soul-searing and unbearable rage. Yay, love! So, Mancandy has this thing where he tears his fingers apart fidgeting. Not his fingernails, his actual flesh. Fun fact, Papa Poopster does this too. I’m quickly working up from “huh, that’s familiar” to “DEAR LORD STOP OR YOU DIE”. But I digress. Whilst watching football it’s hard to block out the sound of Mancandy tearing his fingers apart. I can HEAR it. So. To keep ourselves from killing eachother we’ve started knitting. Yup. We’re officially old. So now I’m super excited about knitting and have the tiny beginnings of a very knobby, unfortunate-looking scarf I’m extremely excited about. This is completely normal. I’m sure of it. Also, Dak looked so good this week and the Cowboys are on fire! Also also, the refs are killing my Saints. Seriously. Uncool.
  2. Hobby stores are mildly scary. I suckered Mancandy and Minicandy to go to a craft store with me. I wanted the softest scarf stuff I could find. They probably wanted to smother me with fabric. The individuals who inhabited the store, ourselves not excluded, were an odd bunch. The store was extremely hot and humid, so everyone was slightly sweaty. There was an odd smell. There was a man arguing about a sewing machine and an older lady glaring at everyone around her. We got the heck out of there, but I’m not going back there. It was the beginning of a Stephen King book.
  3. I am able to access the security cameras of my most beloved rescue. Watching dogs sleep isn’t creepy, right? Even creepier, you can talk to them. I don’t, I feel like it’s asking for them to have serious anxiety disorders, but the best thing is you can hear. So I’m constantly popping in at odd hours to see if I can catch ghost activity. Don’t judge, I live a boring life. Today, my arm was sore from holding the knitting needle up (I’m that out of shape). So. I popped into the shelter cams to see what was up. One room, sleeping dog. Next room, sleeping dogs. Next room, washer and dryer and… DEAR GOD SOMETHING MOVED. I almost threw my phone. As it happens, it was someone walking in to do laundry. But, for a minute there, my blood pressure and stress responses were tested unexpectedly.
  4. I’m going to be traveling for work quite a bit in the next couple months and there is a place in Knoxville that’s been recommended as “The” place to go for chicken wings. I am beyond excited. Big Kahunas in Knoxville has a chicken wing festival of some sort every year and everything. I’m pumped. If anyone has been please let me know if I should temper my enthusiasm or go ahead and get stupid excited. I’m sure there will be work and stuff I’m supposed to do, but right now all I see is chicken wings.
  5. I ate a massive cookie from Cumbl Cookie in Murfreesboro (highly highly highly recommend) and now I want to puke. So I’m going to lay here in misery and wonder why I can’t lose weight. Have a lovely week people!

Fancy Pants That Fight Back

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Today is Thursday. It’s a workday. And Monday through Thursday I’m forced to dress like a girl. A professional business gal if you will. I decided I didn’t want to wear any of the clothes I had available, so I started digging into the back of the closet for the things I forget I own. I found a pair of grey pants. I don’t even remember getting them. They’re wide-legged with a wide waistband. That’s supposed to compliment a tall, not-skinny woman such as myself. They looked nice when I put them on and I got a bit excited. I checked them out combined with a blouse and vest. I looked like a professional! Hair in a bun and we’re ready to go rule the world of government.

I was proud of myself for finding a “new” pair of pants to wear. I was stupidly excited my pants match the rest of my outfit. I felt like an adult. And as I sat down in the car to leave, I suddenly felt like I’d made a mistake.

I’d forgotten why I’d shoved those pants in the back of the closet but it all came rushing back when I was in the car with no time left to go change and not much in the way of clean pants to change into. If you have any stomach that isn’t super flat or better yet, concave in toward your spine, when you sit you get a roll. I do not possess a super flat nor concave stomach. My roll exists and we grudgingly coexist. However, in these pants, my roll was restrained from becoming a roll by the wide and not at all flexible waistband.

I made a wheezy sound when the ability to breathe was taken from me. I squirmed and wiggled and adjusted until I finally ended up yanking the pants up to support my bra’s function and scrooching down in the seat so my roll ended up in the crotch of the pants (which, unlike the waistband, was generously oversized and proves clothes are made to fit something other than human bodies). I drove into work concerned about how the day would go.

I work in an office building. I sit in a cubicle. I get up and down a lot to print, scan, go to meetings, etc. Every single time I sat down I had to try to casually pull my pants up to my bra and relax my roll into my pants oversized crotch. It was an odd slumpy position to be forced into for a long period of time. And when I stood up the waistband of my pants was still doubling as a bra so I ended up with the crotch up at my belly button and the mother of all wedgies. I’d have to try and not in any obvious way pull them down from my ears and back into a normal pants position.

This occurred no less than 2039802937230948.0332 times. My stomach is angry. The pants are angry. I have no idea how to make those pants work. I also feel like my roll has PTSD.

I ended up laying back in my chair groaning and rubbing my stomach by the end of the day. I’m a classy, delicate flower.

As an aside, there is a mystery in the women’s restroom at work. There’s a little credenza type thing at work. I’m super angry that I didn’t take a picture when the oddity began. Someone placed several books on the bottom shelf of the credenza. I wasn’t sure why a library randomly appeared in the women’s restroom for an office building, but I didn’t pay really close attention for a bit. Then one caught my eye because the picture on the front was a stylized drawing of two individuals looking rather intimate for a drawing. It was not written in English, so I can’t know for sure, but I believe it was a rather bawdy romance novel. So, was someone leaving a library for their future bathroom breaks of longer duration? Was it meant as a “free to a good home” situation? It was perplexing. And now they’ve disappeared as suddenly as they appeared. So we’ll never know.

I’m so glad tomorrow is Friday. I’m going to allow my stomach free reign and not care a bit that it’s not flat. At least I won’t suffocate.

Swamp Monster Weekend

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Weekends are a fantastic thing now that I don’t work retail. This weekend has been exactly what I desperately needed.  I’m one of those people that needs alone time. I need to be able to retreat into my space like a hermit crab. One of the major adjustments when moving into Mancandy’s domain was adjusting to not having my own space and therefore, not being able to retreat anywhere. I wish I was someone who felt refreshed being around my family or my friends. While I do enjoy both of those situations, I need time to myself. I didn’t realize exactly how much I needed that until everyone left. A boy scout camp out weekend meant all the male Minicandies and Mancandy would go hang out in the woods and live as nature intended. This left me completely alone for two full days and Friday evening. I have soaked in the quiet. I took a nap (If you’re a light sleeper who lives with other humans you know how hard this can be to manage). I listened to a book on tape while working. I cleaned, and no one messed it up. I took a shower, I cleaned the shower, and I wandered around in my underwear (so I didn’t start immediately starts sweating as soon as I was out of the shower). I cooked nothing and ordered food from Doordash two nights in a row. What? Yes. Complete luxury. The Doordash dude is the only person I’ve seen or spoken to in two days. Just throw me my food, wave, and go on your way, sir. He got it. He may be my new best friend.

Random Things That Occurred This Weekend:

  1. The one thing I looked forward to and ordered with extreme enthusiasm was wings. I don’t know why as an adult rapidly approaching middle age I’ve become a dude in his 20’s, but wings are my fave. No one else in my house is as enthusiastic as I am, so we don’t do that often. I did my thing with the Doordash dude (his name is Richard and I adore him), sat down with my paper towel roll and drink, prepped what I wanted to watch on YouTube, and dug in. As I’m eating my very first wing (but because I’m a swamp monster I’m already completely covered in sauce) I hear that huuuuurk huuuuuurk HUUUUUURK sound of a cat preparing to puke. I scramble to grab my paper towel and set my wings aside. I’m wiping up my fingers and begging the cat not to when I watch her hurl right in front of me on the carpet. She then glares at me, flips me the bird, and saunters off. I grab paper towels to grab the evidence before the dog can eat it. Dogs are awesome but gross. As I’m grabbing up puke and watching the dog to make sure she doesn’t sneak a snack, she realizes there’s a better target on the couch. My beloved wings. She takes off in that direction faster than an old kid should be able to move. I find myself running across the room carrying my newly acquired gobs of puke carefully. Then I have a dilemma. Both hands are full of puke bombs. I try to squish the puke bombs into one hand and puke oozes out and plops on the carpet. Again. The dog eyes the puke, eyes the wings, and looks at me to see how I prioritize this situation. I’m cursing, but she’s mostly deaf and pretending to be fully deaf. Wings won out and as I grab them in my one free hand she dove for the puke. I tried to pivot and block her with my hip but I’m clumsy, overbalanced, and landed directly in the puke. It was still warm. Not exactly what I was going for. I slammed the takeout box of wings shut with my one clean hand, swoop up the paper towel roll, and grabbed the bag under the takeout box to stick the puke bombs (slightly deflated) into the bag. From there I was able to get my foot mostly clean, get the rest of the puke cleaned up, and wash my hands and foot in the kitchen sink like the true classy lady I am. I eventually got back to my cool but unmolested wings, and thoroughly enjoyed them, but I felt like that was all planned out by the animals and I’d somehow passed a test I wasn’t prepared for.
  2. I got a text from Papa Poopster that Little Poopster got his poop snake this weekend! She has a traditional name, but her name will remain Poop Snake to me. I’m still highly amused by this situation and look forward to seeing if Poopster will revert to pooping in his pants now that he’s gotten his prize. Her pic is the Featured Image at the top of this post. Stay tuned for updates.
  3. I got a video from Mancandy last week that didn’t come through until after my last post. It’s fantastic. If I knew how to upload it I would, but I haven’t a clue how and so I shall just describe its awesomeness. Just know, watching it is probably better. Mancandy had text me about Minicandy schedules. I responded, but in my typical classy fashion, I included the word poop. He responded letting me know that he was having his vehicle read my texts and it was funny to hear the car read that word. I was amused at the concept and sent texts such as “Giant flaming piles of poop” “Aggressively poop all the poops you can poop” “Will it say shit?” “What about damn” “Are the kids with you, I want to try more aggressive words but don’t want to scar them”. In response, he sent the video of the car reading the texts. It was probably the most fun I’ve had other than being left alone to do whatever I wanted. If anyone you know has a car that reads their texts, go wild. It’s fun.
  4. I hear the sounds of Mancandy and Minicandies returning OR a hoard invading the house. I should probably investigate. If I stop posting, the hoard got me. Make my eulogy funny.

Reasons I Should Probably Not be Left Alone…

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Sidenote: I wrote this a long while ago, but it amused me at the time and amuses me still. This is a prequel if you will, a time long before I met ManCandy. It’s bittersweet to remember so vividly a time before Dad was gone, but the event was funny nonetheless.  Ironically enough, I’m wearing the same yoga pants and glasses tonight. Enjoy!

I attempt to do stuff.  It’s a disaster.  I am surprised.  The cycle continues.

Allow me to explain.  I moved into a new place a couple months ago.  There was no slinky looking vent thingy for the back of the dryer.  Apparently, the moving monsters take mine every time I move.

So.  The padre and I get one from Lowe’s and have a long discussion about the particulars of attaching it.  We got a super long one.  Heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky vent thingy.  We were proud of it.

Got back.  Now, just in case you are one of the fortunate who hasn’t had to actually visually see me….I’m not a small person.  Nothing pixie about me. Clumsy + fluffy = small space disasters.  BUT.  The dryer is in a corner IN a closet with a shelf right above it (say shoulder level on me) with the water heater tank on that.  And so I crawl back in there (not gracefully….more like a planned fall into a crevice) and Dad walks me through how to get the heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky thingy on.  This involves a lot of him standing around saying “Put the thing on the other thing with the thing and turn the thing so it stays on dammit!!  This isn’t difficult!  What are you DOING!?”

I eventually differentiated between the “things” he was speaking of and got the damn thing on while contorted so that my fat ass didn’t knock the plug out of the wall and simultaneously tightening the “thingy” around the other “thingy” and attempting to live without air.  So, long story short, I get done, flop out like a fish on the bank of a pond, and listen to a lecture about needing to lose weight while I gasp for air and try not to kill people.

Fast forward to this week.  I notice my dryer isn’t really drying anything.  It’s more of a tumbler.  Which doesn’t really help anything.  So I have a flashback to Padre’s comments about the slinky thingy not needing to be too doubled back on itself or the air couldn’t get through right or…something.  And I have this flashback while I’m looking at the slinky thing that is doubled back on itself 987981623 times because we got the long one.

Sigh.

So.  I get the bright idea to cut the slinky thingy to a shorter length so that it wouldn’t bend.  It would just be a gentle curve.  Plus I’d be able to check for blockages better that way.  Right?  Genius.  So I get my girlie toolbox out (the padre apparently felt color coordination might improve my odds of not making a mess of things….silly darling little man) and keep my cell phone in case of an emergency.  I flop around till I land in the crevice again, and I hack the shit out of the shiny slinky thing.

I enjoy this part.  I also don’t remember slicing fingers up hurts.  So.  I did that some.  But, whatever, I got the hose cut to exactly the length I wanted.

And then it hit me.

The dryer had to come back farther to reach the new and improved short slinky thing.

I had nowhere to go.  I had a moment of total shock.  Then I tried out multiple combinations of curse words.  I started to haul the dryer back and tried out some more curse combinations.

I am now pressed between the dryer, the wall, and am basically standing on my head to reach the vent.  Might I also point out I’m not particularly flexible?  I fall over trying to do yoga…so it’s not my friend.  But I digress.

The “thingy” that sticks out of the dryer is supposed to fit inside the slinky thing.  Well.  When I hacked at the slinky thing it stopped being a perfect circle.  I had to hammer and wedge and beg and pray and scream in frustration for a good 10 minutes before I got the slinky thing on the dryer thing.

SUCCESS!!!  Oh I was excited.  It worked!!  Who cares if I can’t breathe!  I don’t need any help!

But then the next conundrum hit me.

How was I going to get out?

Remember.  I’m in a closet in the corner and the dryer is less than a foot from the wall and all of my Amazonian self is stuck back behind it.  And there’s a shelf RIGHT above me.  And a washer beside me.  And no Dad to help haul me out.  I was starting to take back the not needing help thought.

Now I’m going to paint you a picture.  I’m wearing loose yoga pants and still have my glasses on that don’t fit (I sat on them…several times….don’t judge me).

I decide to just go head first and kinda….dive out.  But when I “landed” I’m kind of beached across both machines.  My feet are tangled in the electric chord.  The back of the washer and dryer has the tall part for the knobs.  The dryers tall part is jabbing my crotch and rendering me unable to have children.  The corner of the washer is doing its best to remove my right boob.  But my feet are tangled, so I can’t get away.  No matter how I moved I was being molested/assaulted by machinery.

I manage to kick out of the cord and start to slide off the front of the machines.  ALMOST FREE!!  Until I caught one foot on the damn cord again trying to kick my way forward.  I’m now stuck from my shoulders and up hanging off the front of the machines, one foot flailing wildly, and one caught.

My glasses fell off.

I try out curses in other languages.

I notice the cell phone was flung across the room in my flailing about.

I just hang there for a bit contemplating my life.

I manage to get one arm back far enough to let me lift up a bit (muscles!!  I have muscles!! Whoda thunk!) and move over enough to get the trapped leg out.  I’m dizzy, and my pants are trying to fall down (while I’m upside down no less…quite an accomplishment in epic failuredom).  I can’t see anything, including my glasses.

I eventually just fall over.  Onto my face.  And lay there trying to avoid dog kisses.

I landed on my glasses.

Eff it.

 

 

Sled Dog Stories…

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Bella is an elderly pup with a bad back end. Her hips are completely arthritic and stiff. Her knees blew out a few years ago putting an end to her zoomie days. She’s sore and crotchety and we are on a fairly constant regimen of NSAIDs. I really didn’t think she would surprise me. This is exactly how she did just that.

I found a pair of floofy thin pants with wide legs. They don’t flatter but they are ridiculously comfortable. I don’t usually wear that type of pant leg though. I decided to try them out before bed one night.

Bell indicated she needed to go out so I figured we’d do one last run outside and then turn in. I was proud of myself for remembering her sling (a strap that runs under her stomach and allows me to take the weight off of her hind end when climbing the stairs. She hates it. Lots.

We got our business taken care of. We got our customary bathroom business dog biscuit. We went to the bottom of the stairs. She tried to get past me but eventually succumbed to the inevitable. We started up the stairs. Things went normally. As we turned at the landing and started up the second part of the stairs, I stepped on the hem of the other leg of my stupid wide-leg pants. My top half kept going forward, but my feet and legs were brought to a lurching stop. I went down like a tree.

Bella, sensing an attack, hurtled up the stairs.  Adrenaline erased all sign of age and infirmary, she was in fine form. I was still wrapped up in the sling so I was drug up the stairs with the enthusiasm of an Iditarod team. I was scrambling to keep my pants from being taken clean off, and get my feet under me, and stop stepping on the damn pants and making things worse.

It was the least graceful moment of my life. Which is saying something.

I mostly kept my pants on. Bella was completely convinced we were still under attack. Thankfully, Weebs hadn’t been hanging out in the stairs as he often does or I would have to be writing about his funeral.

I decided to just lay there contemplating how embarrassing that was. And how much my stupid knee hurt. Then I realized other people live in my house and might come out to see what the ruckus was. So I got myself gathered up and limped into go to bed. An inglorious end to an inglorious adventure.

The only saving grace to all of this was telling a coworker who then topped my story by telling me about the time her dog drug her across a patio toward other dogs while she was laying in the chair her dog had drug over (picture it…a lady in an Adirondack chair slowly scooting across a gravel yard while a husky mix is mushing with all his strength and she curses and tries to right herself….it’s comedic gold).

Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to witness it nor are there pictures. But, the mental image will always soothe the pain to my pride that the short but energetic trip up the stairs caused.

Also, here’s some clumsy baby animals. The end.

 

Bus People Chronicles Continued…

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I’m trying to make myself ride the bus more. My regular route with my regular bus people. I was familiar with my regular people. I knew who smelled bad on a hot day, who had the best snacks, who fell asleep and didn’t interrupt my audiobook, and who sat squished up against you given a chance. I had my seat, I had my routine, I knew exactly what would happen and when it would happen.

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Except for the guy peeing on my truck. That I didn’t anticipate.

But, for the most part, my bus route was fairly routine. And now they’re doing away with it. So, new route, new bus, new people, new experiences. Part of my fear with writing is the fact I have no stories to tell that don’t actually happen to me. Or to someone I know. But still, I have no fictional story or characters to develop. I just write what happens. Because it’s generally healthier to laugh at life than to complain. So today, despite the fact it was above 90, we were in the sun the entire ride, crammed in like sardines, and I’m pretty sure the heat was running instead of the AC…I shall tell you the funny. Because there was plenty of funny.

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Side note: this isn’t enough to actually tell much about but is worth noting. A lady in front of me was scrolling through facebook and if I see a meme I have to look. It’s how I’m wired. She had post after post after post talking crap about Jamaican men. I didn’t know that was a thing? But, apparently, it is! It was hysterical. Mostly because I didn’t get it, but still.

My fave people to watch today:

Chapstick Man: A young (20ish) man got on the bus on our ride home. He was dressed in pants and a long sleeve shirt and wasn’t sweating. Which made me envious and suspicious. He was also one of those folks that make too much eye contact and moves in slow motion. A mix of sloth and reptile. You may not know what I’m talking about now but when you see someone it will click. He sat down upfront, so I had a great view, and applied ointment from a little tub. I’m assuming lip balm. Or grease. Either way, he had a routine of drinking water from his water bottle, recapping it slowly while staring at someone and not blinking. Then he’d carefully set his water bottle down, take out his little tub of slime, and while continuing to stare and not blink, he’d smear greasy stuff over the bottom half of his face. The little tub would be capped and carefully placed back in his pocket. He would pick up his water bottle, uncap it, drink water, and the process would repeat until he ran out of water. He became more interesting because of the next individual. I found the perfect representation of his blink:

tenor

Spandex Hides no Sins: An older lady (I’d guess 60s to 70s) got on the bus and sat across from Chapstick boy. He nodded at her while smearing his face for the umpteenth time. That was all the introduction she needed. She started ranting and raving about how people would rather steal than earn an honest living. Thieves were taking over the world. Conmen were buying plots of land in 500-acre increments. Etc. I was beginning to tune her out and get back into my audiobook when she yanked her shirt up over her round belly. I do not have a problem with round belly’s, mine is hardly flat. But I try to cover it. As I was getting over the shock from seeing a lot of very white belly and old lady underboob I glanced over at Chapstick to see the only reaction he had to the new events was one long, slow blink. I glanced back over to Spandex and she was now hauling the top of her strained spandex workout pants (which had seen workouts the way my yoga pants have seen yoga) down over the bottom portion of her gut. And out popped two sequined clutch-type bags.  I had not seen that coming. I did my own long slow blink. She caught them both, quick as a whip, and started rifling through them while still ranting about the sins of the lazy man. She didn’t find what she wanted so she clasped the sparkly bags back against her lower gut, hauled on the spandex until it gave up and covered her girth, and then hauled her shirt back down. Chapstick gave another blink. She continued to rant. He would nod occasionally but never spoke. Just kept drinking water and slathering more grease on. After a while, still ranting, the shirt flipped back up, pants happily rolled down, and out the sparkly bags came again. She dug through for a while, Chapstick nodding and greasing, announced she wasn’t a fool to just hand money away, and packed her bags up. She stood up, yelled at the driver to stop, and barreled over someone trying who had the audacity to try to get on the bus when it stopped. Chapstick waited until she got off the bus to yell “BYE!”. She turned around, glared at him, muttered to herself, and stomped off. He shrugged, got very still, and didn’t move until the next stop where he got off the bus. I assumed that was the end of the oddity. I was so wrong. All examples of her outfit made my head hurt so I’ll spare you those meme’s and gifs. You’re welcome.

Irish: A very sweaty older gentleman (50s to 60s would be my best guess) with a wirey build ran onto the bus after Chapstick left. He had a ton of duffel and grocery bags and it took him a while to get sorted out. I noticed he was talking and assumed he was talking to the driver or had a Bluetooth type device in the ear I couldn’t see. The next time I glanced up he was sitting facing the other direction, there was no device in either ear, and he was still talking. Now, a LOT of people on the bus talk to themselves. But something about the way he was so quiet I couldn’t hear him but gesturing and making adamant facial gestures caught my attention. He began a slow but steady increase in voice. I still couldn’t figure out what he was saying but I could hear the tone of his voice now. He seemed to be arguing with himself. He grabbed a deflated potato chip bag (one of the small sizes like you’d get in a meal from Subway) and unfolded it. He seemed to be gesturing inside it and having an intense, but quiet, debate about the bag and/or it’s contents. He angrily folded up the bag, stuffed it in his pocket, adjusted the sunglasses that he was wearing in front of his eyeglasses (they kept falling off to his increased agitation). Then he raised his fists in a classic put up your dukes pose and started the circling that you see in cartoons. Like this:

old-timey-boxing-stance

I was scared and fascinated with the idea this guy was going to fight himself. How can you even do that? But his fist circles slowed and he seemed to be calming himself down. He’d start to rile himself up, making animated faces and gestures, then he would start to calm himself down again. He kept up his continuous conversation with himself for the next 40 minutes. When I got off the bus he was still angering himself and then calming himself. It was incredibly bizarre.

I’m going to ride again tomorrow and we shall see what adventures await!