~Monday~ The people sitting in the first few rows of the bus today could have posed in a picture for a diversity poster like this one:
We had a couple of African-Americans (one male, one female), a couple of Caucasians (one gay male, one presumably straight female), an Asian-American lady, an Hispanic man, and a Native American man—all within the first few rows.
A white guy got on at a stop and tried three times to make the fare machine accept his dollar bill. After its third refusal, he handed it to the bus driver to try, and just walked back to a seat. She tried three or four times, the last two times while she was driving I might add, and then the Native American guy, who was sitting in the seat closest to her and had been talking with her all the way, took it from her so that she could watch where she was going (Capital idea!), and he tried it a few times to no avail.
This is the same guy that I described in a past buscapade as looking like the guy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest. I don’t remember if I gave him a name back then, but it wouldn’t surprise me if I’d chosen, “Cochise” or something stereotypical like that. If livejournal.com had a search engine that was at all worth a damn, I’d find that previous entry and see. But I digress…
At any rate, watching him try that dollar about four times before switching it with one from his wallet that took on the first try, I started thinking about how Native Americans got their names. WikiAnswers.com tells it like this:
| Native Americans got their names from their first vision. They would then go to a special person who would make a name from the vision. Each vision was personal to the person and they would not share their vision unless they wanted to. They often wore a bag round their neck with things inside relating to the vision, this was a lucky charm. |
I’m going to play special vision person and name this guy “Swapping Dollar.” I hope to refer to him by this moniker in future buscapades in which he might play a starring role. I’m going to add a special tag, Native American Names, to this entry to make it easy to search for in the future should I forget this arrogant commission that I just undertook.
I had a very, very busy and interrupt-driven work day. It’s the time of the month in which my officemate/teammate pulls together our OIT News publication, and this involves getting news blurbs from the various groups who are on my “beat.” It pretty much always progresses like this: We nag our resources for a news blurb about their topic or project, we edit the hell out of what they give us, and then we get their concurrence that our final composition still contains “their idea” no matter how little of what they originally gave us remains in it.
Late in the day, between 5:00 and 7:00, I made several “content type creation” (workspeak) requests of my friend and colleague, Nick, who I’m sure is going to cuss at when he sees them first thing in his morning. 🙂
I also created a bunch of template-based web pages for a project of one of the teams on my “beat.”
When I got to the bus stop for the 7:15 bus, there was a lady there who turned out to be a Chatty Cathy, and a mumbler, at that. Not a good combo. “Again, love? Again, love? Again love?”
At one point, I made a comment about her being a new rider, as I’d never seen her before on the #12.
“No, I’m a pretty regular rider. Well, I usually pick the bus up over there,” she said pointing to Hillsborough Street where the stop used to be, “But all of a sudden it started coming down this street,” she added indicating Brooks Avenue.
I thought, “Girl you aren’t a regular rider. That happened months ago.”
“There it is,” she said as the bus came up over the hill, and I let her get on first, her lips still flapping, albeit with minimal space between them. Right after the next stop, the bus turned right, where it usually goes straight.
“What? What?” I stammered.
“What?” the lady said, now sitting in the seat across from me.
To which I replied, “The bus turned; it’s supposed to go straight here,” and thought, “This is what the #4 bus does.” And then I said, “Isn’t this the #12?”
“No, it’s the #4,” she replied, and I pulled the hell out of the stop cord to get off ASAP.
I was so caught up in her yammering when we got on the bus that I didn’t even notice that it was the #4 and not the #12. And that’s because the #4 hasn’t been coming down this road, but started to yesterday, which of course I didn’t know. A comedy of errors, all of which I was the brunt.
I had to walk about a half-block back to the intersection where fortunately there is a joint stop for both the #4 and the #12. I was quite sure I’d missed the #12 though, as when the #4 had come, it was already a little on the late side for the #12. That’s the main reason it didn’t occur to me that it would be anything but the #12, being distracted by Cathy aside.
Anyhow, I ran part of the way, and just as I arrived at the stop, I saw the #12 turning onto Hillsborough Street from Brooks Avenue, up where I usually catch it and where I had been duped by Cathy. But I’m not bitter…
I had a late dinner, since I got home so late, and I just threw a bunch of veggies (onions, celery, sugar snap peas, green peppers, and a little minced garlic) in a hot, hot pan to stir-fry, then poured them over some leftover Rigatoni noodles sprinkled with shredded cheddar cheese. I mixed that all up with some sesame-ginger dressing and it was surprisinlgy good.
I contemplated running down to Flex for a little Monday night Karaoke, but easily talked myself out of it after writing up this blog entry, finishing up close to 10:00.
“A night.”
There, I did it. I called it a night.