Goat Lady

In the mornings I am usually awake enough to observe my fellow transit riders and note which ones will be the more interesting characters for the day. This morning it was Exhibit A. I will call her Goat Lady.

I know that I will probably get flack from some or the minor tongue click for calling her this. But her beard was long. On her chin only. She was carrying a heavy backpack and wearing a jacket in a red, bright enough to flag down the space shuttle.

She used a clever technique to procure herself a seat. When the bus driver hit his breaks, she fell on to another passenger. He promptly stood up and offered her a seat. Slightly embarrassed, yet grateful, she took his spot.

I was so entranced by the simplicity of her getting his seat that I looked away to ponder it. When I looked back I saw her taking a bite of what looked like her backpack. Satisfied that I had nicknamed her appropriately, I then pondered if she was chewing on the bag or a slightly rusted can. Stifling laughter, I looked away then back again. She was chomping down on a bagel. Phew! I thought to myself. That could have been totally awkward.

Two stops later she decided to get off the bus. Before it stopped moving. Unsteadily she made her way toward the door. I sat rigid hoping that she wouldn't land on me. She neared 2 men standing next to the rear door, she stood really close to one and waited for the bus to stop. When it did, she headbutted him to get him out of the way.

Clearly she WAS the Goat Lady and I was astute enough to recognize it.

Chrissy Snow

This morning started out as many do. With Wade and I picking different spots to sit. He pointed to a seat (that in hindsight would have been the better choice) near the back door of the bus. I was already seated in the highly coveted (by me) back corner. He grudgingly joined me, getting comfortable and settling in with his Blackberry and iPod. A couple more men sat on the back bench (which is less of a bench and more of a 5 ass cup set up). We were comfortable. All was well.

And then it happened.

A lady with a Chrissy Snow hair do insisted on sitting to Wade's right. Our ass cups were overflowing with her wide addition. Sure, I don't have the smallest ass on the bus, but come on. My first thought was that she was in no way shape or form good at parking a car due to her lack of spacial relations. Wade drew in a big exasperated breath (that she probably didn't notice since she had her back turned, ass pointed at her target) and moved over. Which forced me to move over more than I was comfortable with, which in this case was off of the carpeted plastic seat onto hard plastic. My ass was now suspended between the window and the seat. It was a jean clad pressed ham. My spine was also now in perfect line with the outer frame of the seat, which meant that every time Speedy Gonzales (our bus driver) gave a fast start and a hard break, my spine was knocked around.

Resigning myself to the worst ride into work this week, I started to notice a smell. A strange toast-like smell. But I wasn't having a seizure. Confused, I looked at Wade who was now looking at Chrissy Snow with the most disgusted look on his face. There clasped in her hand was half of a piece of toast, partially eaten. This toast had materialized from her giant pink purse. I am sure that had he not been wearing his ear buds, something would have been said about the chewing that was occurring in his ear. But, he just let out a long sigh and went back to his reading.

In an effort to ignore the pain that was beginning to creep into my back regions, I took a look at the other passengers who had just boarded. There, attempting to stand was a balance train wreck of a woman. She was attempting to do something on some sort of digital device requiring a stylus (it closely resembled a Nintendo DS). As she was starting to poke at her screen, the bus took off. She was clearly not ready and started to lose her balance backwards. But she was refusing to give up on the poking. She overcompensated and fell forwards, narrowly missing the pole with her face she was trying so desperately to cling on to while holding her device, at the same time. Ass forgotten, I began to laugh. Not really loud, but enough that Wade noticed and gave me a perplexed look. I shook my head, quieted down and listened to my music.

And the ride carried on with me and my pressed ham until the stop just before ours. The back of the bus completely emptied and we were able to move to the middle of the bench. My ass has still not fully recovered and I fear that no bike seat will be comfortable for me again.

Snow? Really? Again?

I am so happy to see that the city has no interest in keeping their Park and Ride parking lots cleared of ice and snow. Nothing like shoe touching ice and hoping that you don't wipe out while wearing business clothes. I am not daft. I do wear a running shoe with a grippy sole. But when the wind picks up and acts as a fancy blowy Zamboni, there is really nothing to do but slip and slide to the stop.

I have a theory that when faced with snow, city transit drivers drive slower than the norm in order to get their snow pay. Even when there are flakes falling and the street is wet, but not slippery, they continue as though they were pushing through snow up to the windshield. Couple this with the fact that drivers also happen to be completely stupid and panic at the site of the flakes. Thus my ride into work lasts on average 15 minutes longer than if it was summer.

The time it takes to get to work bothers me slightly less than the humidity in the bus. I get that people throw off a lot of heat in small gatherings. But to not be able to see out of the window due to a mouth breather sitting in front of me is a little troubling. This means that I am breathing in her second hand air. And the moisture is clinging to my face and hair like a deranged shower curtain. Worse is when someone with the worst BO in the history of man is also a passenger. Thankfully, BO guy/girl was not present on this blustery day. But I still felt the great need to shower upon exiting the bus.

April 26

I knew it was going to be a weird day when I walked outside my front door. There on my neighbours front lawn was a dead rabbit. Luckily my day continued with normal weirdness on the bus.

Sometimes, I will notice things on the bus. Mostly the number of designer bags. It's interesting to note most bags are Coach on my bus. But yesterday I saw what I can only imagine is a knockoff. A woman was standing (or at least trying to stand, she had worse balance than me) in the aisle in front of me. Slung over her shoulder, albeit rediculously tightly slung due to the small handles, was a tomatoe red purse. I noticed a little metal tag. My brain is one that notices the first letter of a word and makes up the rest. I saw a P. Surly this was a Prada. Then I read the rest of the word only because I noticed an umlaut. Prada doesn't have one of those. Prune. Umlaut over the U. Odd I thought to myself. Perhaps this is fashion with regularity?

After stifling laughter that, had I let it out I would have seemed the crazy lady on the bus that day, I started to notice another lady who was standing with her feet practically together. Just as I did the driver slammed on the breaks. She flew forward, catching herself with the poles. I expected to hear what dislocating shoulders sound like, but heard nothing. I find it strange that those who stand don't take the snowboarding stance.

My Life as a Monty Python Skit or Monday March 8: The Whole Story

It all started with the grim realization that I had locked myself out of the house. This realization occurred while I was standing in the main entrance to my office. Hopeful and overly confident that the electronic keypad on my front door wouldn't fail me now, I went about the business of going home.

After the 40 minute bus nap to my car (which has a key that you must have with you and must show the door that you have it in your possession before you are allowed to lock the doors) I drove, overly confident to the front of my house. Ever so lightly I glided smoothly from the toasty warm front seat out into the blizzard raging on the street. I rounded the rear of the vehicle with an ever increasing reckless abandon. My electronic keypad in my sights.

My right foot came in contact with what can only be described as "the same stuff they use to make Olympic speed skaters faster" punctuated with the jagged concrete curb. Before I knew what was happening, down I went. Landing, ever so mortified, on the frozen and thawed and refrozen pile if sharp snow and the curb. A tangled mess of limbs, I attempted to get up quickly lest I be seen by my 30 or so neighbors (who were probably avoiding their windows due to the blizzard like conditions). With all the dignity of a Royal, I straightened myself up and strode up the sidewalk, dodging more ice, to my front door, as though nothing had just happened.

I pulled on the door to ensure that the bolt could slide smoothly to the side and entered in the code. The buttons beeped as I pressed them, which made my heart sing a little. With the last number pressed what should of happened was a grinding and a popping of the door coming open. This did not happen. I pressed the numbers again, knowing full well that it was to no avail. I was locked out.

It was at this time that everything went red. There was a lot of self doubt and self loathing for forgetting such a simple item. And then, what was that? Huh seem to be in a lot of pain here. I limped back to the car with a slightly smaller reckless abandon. I needed help and surely someone would be around to help me. Perhaps even having a key safely stowed at their house. I started calling. First to my husband who can usually talk me off the ledge when I am as pissed off as I was currently feeling. No answer. So I sent him some messages on Messenger. Still no answer. Then to those who were within a 5 minute drive of my house. No answer. Then to my brother, no answer. I checked my phone for my in-laws phone numbers, certain that either Wade's sister Jennifer or his mom Joyce would have a key. None of their phone numbers were in my phone.

After a great tirade of words that would make Howard Stern blush, I started my car. Perhaps the cell phone number I had for one of my friends was just away from where he could hear it. I drove over to his house thinking that the entire situation was bullshit, probably screaming aloud in my car for effect. I pulled up in front of his house and gingerly got out of the car. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. I rang it again, just in case. Still no answer. Then I noticed that the dog was not around. Probably out walking him. Hmmmm. I hobbled back to the car. I decided that the next best bet was my Mother in Law. No one wiser than her about how to fix these kinds of things. What with raising 5 kids. Surely she would present me with the shining key I was so desperate to find. I also had a second thought. What if I could just unscrew the keypad. Surely the lock that failed me would be so cheap that I could just take it apart and get back in. This required no less than one Phillips screwdriver.

I pulled into their driveway. A fresh layer of snow on the ground and covering my Father in Law's truck. My leg was getting stiffer with every effort to get out of the car. "I should probably look at that", I thought to myself. I rang the bell. And waited. Then my Father in Law answered. Surprised to see me, unannounced, he invited me in. I made my first simple request of "do you happen to have a key for my house?" His response was to not know and to attempt to call Joyce, who was working. Her phone was off. I then proposed my second idea for a Phillips head screwdriver. He more than obliged by giving me his entire toolbox out of his truck. He wished me luck and a place to stay if I couldn't get back in, after placing the toolbox in my car and then went back into the house.

With a renewed sense of hope, I drove back to my house. I carefully and stiffly got out of my car. I chose the screwdriver that would surely have me back in my house in no more than 10 minutes. I went to the door, and unscrewed the keypad. There was just one tiny problem. That dead bolt was really on there. I replaced the keypad, the world redder than ever and went back to the car. It was at this time I yelled some more obscenities and scrolled to Google on my Blackberry. "Locksmith NW Calgary" resulted in a phone number. Which I dialed. My new hope was on his way in roughly 25 minutes.

I passed the time explaining in great detail how this situation was never going to occur again to my husband who had yet to call or text me back. I sent messages to my friend who lives in Calmar. She offered sympathy and support. But still, I waited.

Then the locksmith arrived. With the end goal safely nearly within my grasp I got out of my car as though I was not injured. Smashing my injured knee on the door frame. Had I not been so happy I would have probably sat right back down and cried. I didn't. I lead the large Russian sounding man to my front door cautioning him about the ice the whole way. He attempted to pick the lock. No dice. He then informed me that he would have to drill out the cylinder. I went back to the car, warning him that there was a security system on the other side of the door. About 30 seconds after he started his drilling, he was in. And I was in the car on the street with a timer before the security system would go off. I leaped out of the car and ran across the ice and into the house. The alarm was safely deactivated. My knee and the rest of my leg were now screaming in pain. But I was in the house. That was all that mattered. And then my friend Sandy called me back from my initial go round of looking for someone, anyone who could help or calm me. I let her go so I could finish up with Sven.

Once the lock was safely fixed, my door now working better than it did before Sven showed up, it was time to take a look at that knee. I had noticed earlier that my pants had a hole in them. I carefully rolled them up to look at my knee. And it was messy. So I cleaned it up. To my horror, there was a gash that would require no less than 2 stitches to close. After a further series of obscenities, mostly due to not being able to have dinner, I calmly called Sandy back. I told her about my knee and she asked how I was planning to get to the clinic. "What are you up to?" I said, hopefully. "Taking you to the clinic, I guess" she replied. Then Wade beeped in.

After explaining my issues in further depth and the merits of hiding a key somewhere so this would not happen again (albeit unsuccessfully), I went with Sandy to the ER.

Four hours, two stitches, one pin to my boss and co-worker regarding probably not making it to work Tuesday, one McHappy-esc meal and a fun car ride home with Sandy, my ordeal ended.

Now I know why Garfield hates Mondays. And now you know the long and drawn out version.

Bus Stories - In Blog Form

OK. So this isn't just going to be about bus stories. It will be a blog about the way I see things. Which is for the most part hilarious to those with even the tiniest sense of humour. Stay tuned for more exciting adventures of my rides to and from work, hockey and life bloopers in general.