I Did Not Vomit On The Bus! (Or: Another Day Bites The Dust)

I've lived in Manchester without a car for three years now.  You may be surprised to know that it's never occurred to me to utilize the city's buses, or if you know me well you're likely unsurprised by this because if there's one thing I excel at it's overlooking the obvious.  I like to pretend it's because I'm super smart; my brain space is taken up by so many hugely important thoughts that other smaller things just have no space in there.

Pretending is fun, guys!

My boyfriend helps whenever he can but he has a job (bastard) that he has to drive all over the place for, and he's not exactly at my service when I'm like "I need some new lip gloss, y'all."  There's plenty of things within walking distance of where I live-- a laundromat a half mile away, a grocery store a mile and a half away-- but the problem becomes how to transport laundry and groceries home with my two weak girly hands.  I noticed recently that lots of people roaming the streets around here have these nifty basket things on wheels with a handle (NOT a stolen shopping cart.  Quit being an asshole.) and I was like "LIGHTBULB! DING!  I need one of those!"

So today I decided to walk downtown and catch a bus to the mecca of cheap shit: Walmart.  I was going to get myself one of those rolly basket cart things, goddammit!  I looked up the twelve bus routes in Manch Angeles and figured that the Eight was what I wanted.  It left from the Radisson downtown at 1pm today, so at 12:30 I set out to stroll downtown and find my destiny.

Only when I got to the end of my street I realized the sky looked like it was about to rain fire and brimstone upon me, so I hustled back home to grab my adorable clear bubble umbrella.  I'm always dying to use it because seriously, it's adorable, but as a general rule it only rains when I don't have it with me.  SOOO....by going home to get it I ensured that there was a 100% chance there was zero chance I'd end up needing it.

                                                       Ri-Ri:  Always prepared!

Guess who was right about going home for the umbrella precluding the need for an umbrella?  Yeah.  Me.  Always me, guys.  Here's what the sky looked like when I got close to the bus stop:

Hardly the apocalyptic storm I'd sensed on leaving my house TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE.  But it's a good thing I turned around for that umbrella, because it made me juuuust late enough that I saw the Eight pulling out as I approached the stop at 1:02 pm.

But fear not-- ain't nobody gonna break my striiiiide, ain't nobody gonna hold me down, whoa-no, I've got to keep on mooovin'! I sat on a bench and worked on my tan (by "tan" I mean sunburn and freckles) and enjoyed the scenenery:  two super old dudes making each other laugh hysterically, which was adorable although I'm fairly certain they were telling filthy jokes because they kept looking around guiltily.  "Sweet Caroline" blaring from the PA in the park across the street for no reason at all (I had to restrain myself from jumping up and yelling "SO GOOD! SO GOOD!").  Two kids making out.  Like, staring into each others' eyes longingly and murmuring sweet nothings to each other ("Is your mom home? Let's go back there and MAKE LOVE.").

Another bus heading where I wanted to go was coming at 1:30, so I didn't stress about it, and at 1:25 the bus pulled in and a beam of light shone from the heavens and angels sang. I was on my way to GLORY!  I picked the only seat open that faced front, because I was feng shui-ing my bus seating.  I was facing THE FUTURE!

The bus driver was adorable.  When we pulled away he used the PA to say "Next stop: the moon" and then cackled hysterically.  I briefly considered riding the bus all day just to see if he says that every single time the route starts, but I had THINGS TO DO.  My future beckoned me, from a nationwide chain store that abuses and underpays it's employees.  Keep it in perspective, people:  I needed a rolly cart.  I listened in horror and amusement as my fellow passengers passionately discussed "building a giant wall around the border and only letting in the Mexicans who speak English."  GAH!  I'd happened upon the political debate bus!  *I pulled the "let me off" cord but the bus driver pretended to ignore me because he hates me and was punishing me.  (*This didn't happen.)

We got there at 2pm and I strolled into Walmart like I had just been promoted to Lady Resovoir Dog (Resovoir Bitch?), but without a sexy cigarettes because I stopped that crap. 

I was all "Let's DO this shit!" which should have been my first sign of trouble, because every time I think/say "Let's do this shit!" no shit ever gets done.  Ever.

I started scouting for the rolly cart that would change my life.  This was going to be a gamechanger.  Things were going to be different; I was going to roll my laundry down the street to the laundromat in style!  And then the people who work at Walmart and ruin lives were like "That doesn't exist.  I don't know what you're talking about."  I refused to give in to their lies and betrayal, so I searched the store.

Luggage department?  No rolly carts.  Laundry department?  No rolly carts.  Outdoor gear department? No rolly carts.  HOWEVER- a large volume of camo gear which I briefly felt a need for.  Then I opted out because I decided I don't want to get shot the next time I'm in the woods.  Camo = bad.  

Without the rolly cart I couldn't buy cheap bulk snacks for Noa's summer camp.  Without the rolly cart my trip was in vain, because I'd have to walk a mile home from the bus stop once I got back downtown.  Without the rolly cart everything was sad and bleak and empty.  *I kicked over a display case of Gatorade because it would be too heavy to carry home, and I really need it to legally enhance my jogging performance.  (*This didn't happen, but I wish it had.)

I dragged myself sadly around the store and got some toothpaste and new toothbrushes.  At 2:55 I got back on another bus to take me downtown.  There were no forward facing seats this time so I sat in a sideways-facing seat toward the back, hanging my head in shame because all my dreams had been shattered.

                                                WOMP WOMP WOOOOOOMP.

But!  Surprise Twist:  It turns out I get bus sick when I'm not facing forward, guys!  I focused on not barfing.  I took the toothpaste out of the bag so I had something to barf in.  I focused more on not barfing.  The bus stopped at the mall and the mad hydraulics on that thing that lower it to the ground when people are getting on almost pushed me to the egde.  I gagged.  But I did not vomit.

The bus dropped me off where my journey had begun at 3:30 pm.  I slugged along the road, angry about my lack of a rolly cart.  I got home a little before 4 and sadly opened the bag of Cheesy Garlic Bread chips that I'd purchased.  Oh, did I forget to mention those?  Don't worry, they're shitty.  I want my $2.29 back, Lays.

Downside:  I spent 3.5 hours walking and taking busses all over the goddamn place only to fail at my mission.
Upside:  I got toothpaste.
Downside: I almost vomited on the bus.
Upside: I did not vomit on the bus.

So there you have it.  The better part of my day in a (fairly wordy) nutshell.

I am rolly cartless.

Apologies, I have to go now.  There's a shopping cart somewhere with my name allllllll over it!  (I'm going to return it, quit being an asshole.)

                 

Run, Mashbot, Run! (Or: When A Perfectly Good Day Kicks You In The Ladyballs)

Today was a good fucking day.  A GREAT day, even.  I was in a fantastic mood, went to breakfast with my mom, got a lot of shit done, squeezed in some downtime (dancing and using a bunch of jackets on the back of the door as punching bag; no, I'm not kidding), and fixed some crap on my computer that I've been meaning to take a crack at and actually succeeded at accomplishing.  YES!  I WIN AT COMPUTERING!

I've been sick for the last week or so and have done nothing but sleep and watch TV and then sleep more and get up to pee.  I'm finally feeling not only better, but like I said-- fantastic.  Noa's day camp in Goffstown has a bus that takes her back to Manch and stops about a mile and half north of where we live at 5:15 every day and today instead of begging someone to pick her up, or taking a cab, I was all "Dude. I mean BUSINESS right now."  I put on some shorts and a sports bra (I told you I wasn't fucking around! The sports bra is the briefcase of jogging!), made myself an awesome playlist featuring THIS--



-- and THIS--



-- strapped my sporty iphone armbandy thingajanger onto my arm, and was off.  I tucked a $20 behind my phone in the armbandy thingajanger just in case I needed to stop for water (ahahahahahahahaha), and was like "DON'T FUCK WITH ME, WORLD."

At 4:30 I stormed up Bridge Street like I was on my way to bust a meth lab and even turned on one of those phone apps to "map my walk" so I could look back at it later and feel bad about my 16 minute mile.  I made the crosswalks my bitches and stormed across them glaring at oncoming traffic like I was....Boss Of All The Crosswalks, I guess?  I started to feel REALLY good and was all "Fuck walking, I'ma do me some jogging!"

I jogged about two blocks and then started to have a heart attack so I set the next telephone pole as my Don't Die Until Then goal.  And you know what?  Success!  I didn't die!  I slogged along for a couple more blocks and then was all "YEAH, jogging!" again so did a two block jog, two block walk thing until I got close to the church where Noa's bus stops.

 At this point I was barely walking a straight line.  Oops.  Overdid it.  So I stumbled into a gas station, ripped open a cooler door, pulled a Gatorade from the shelf and proceeded to chug like it was being funneled into my mouth from a second story window.  Why Gatorade, you ask?  Well, to enhance my performance, DUH.  I remembered to pay the attendant before I stumbled back out, and dragged my ass the last stretch to the Brookside Congregational Church.  I had assloads of time to spare-- because I don't want to brag or nothin', but I did 1.58 miles in 23 minutes, which is a 14:37 minute mile and I KNOW you must be jealous of my jogging {slogging?} prowess.

Face throbbing and heart beating like a death knell, I threw myself down under a tree...and you know what?  I STILL FELT FUCKING FANTASTIC.  Endorphins: not a myth!  I sat under that tree with a goofy smile and caught my breath and said to myself  "Next time it's going to be a 13 minute mile.  Baby steps."  (Sidequote: "I'm sailing!" -What About Bob)

This--



--came on my phone and I laid back and sang along with my earbuds in while I took shitty lomo photos of the church and waited for the bus.  AHHHHHHH.   I'm just gonna dance all night!  All was well in the world for our fearless hero Mashbot!

                                                     (Plane And Steeple! Lomo GENIUS!)


And then the fucking bus pulled in.  And I looked at my armbandy thingajanger and shit my pants, because I had failed to put the most basic of necessities in the goddamn thing-- MY DRIVER'S LICENSE, the one and only thing required for the bus peeps to release my child to me.  I desperately started looking through my phone for something with my picture and name on it, and yeah-- NOT A FUCKING THING IN MY PHONE IS GOOD FOR ANYTHING EVER.  I tried to casually be like "Here's my Facebook page" and the YMCA counselor looked at me like I had just tried to use a piece of toilet paper with "Noa's Mom" written on it as my ID.

So at this point the MOST INTENSE PANIC EVER set in.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I started crying.  At this point they were going to take her back to Goffstown, and for round trip cab fare that would have cost me $40-$50.  Which I CANNOT AFFORD EVER, because unemployment is an unfriendly bitch.  I asked if I could get on the bus and if we could stop on the way to the next bus stop when it got close to our neighborhood so I could Usain Bolt it to my house, grab my ID, and beam myself to pick up my kid.
They promptly shut me down.  Not because they didn't trust that I'm a fast fucker like Usain Bolt (I was wearing a sports bra, I think they knew I meant Speed Business) but because they can't allow anyone else on the bus but the campers and counselors.

At this point I was so desperate I was babbling incoherently about all the tree-named streets near downtown.  "Chestnut?  Do you go by there?  Walnut? Beech?  Ash Maple Myrtle fucking Orange?"  The bus driver finally took pity on me (*I owe you one in life, bus driver.  When the zombie apocalypse comes I'll find you and take you to my super fast jogging camp*) and offered "You live on Ash?  After we stop on South Maple we come back up Maple Street and head north to the Amoskeag Bridge."  So of couse I continued to babble incoherently: "Okay ahhhhh I'm going to run as fast as I can but it's like a mile and a half and I think I might die trying but goddammit I'm going to Usain it to my house, grab my ID, and I'll be out on the corner of Maple next to the Dominos Pizza waving my ID around like a fucking weirdo when you go by and if I don't make it....well, fuck my life, I'll take a cab to the backwoods of Goffstown."  (Truth: there was really no swearing {unless you count "shit"} because there were children staring awkwardly at me, including me own. But in my head I said the f-word so many times I should get an honorary sailor's medal.)

And in a panic I looked my six year old in the eyes and gritted my teeth and said "Everything's okay, I'll meet you in a little while."  And in the way that a six year old will, she made no bones about it.  She sat next to her friend (Sara? Madison? Arianna? Fuck.  Forgive me, parenting gods) and waved and said "Okay, mommy!"

And then the bus driver pulled that gear thing that makes that hideous squeal that busses make, and off he went.

And I  FREAKED.  I sprinted up Chestnut street carrying my stupid sporty armbandy thingajanger with the headphones dragging behind me and then....I realized that I would probably literally die trying to make it there on foot before them.  So, classy broad that I am, I called Queen City Taxi as I was running in between construction cones and roadblocks with tears streaming down my face and shrieked at them that I needed a cab to find me while I was running south on Chestnut Street.  And the guy was casually like "Yeah, sure, five minutes" because apparently this happens frequently in Manchester (although I'm assuming under different circumstances, possibly involving meth labs).

And five minutes later a cab passed me and I waved my phone in the air while sobbing (because that's the universal sign for "Cab, please!") and then was on the phone shrieking to the people from the Y before I even had the door closed.  They were all "Yeah yeah, we'll let the counselor on the bus know" and without using a single obscenity I said "NO, TRUST ME, SHE KNOWS.  Please give her my phone number and if she passes the spot where I'm supposed to meet her and I'm not there PLEASE HAVE HER CALL ME so I can sob hysterically.  Sounds good!  Thaaaanks!"

And the cab driver caught on to my "issue" and was like "Hey honey, I'm going to get you there as fast I can."  HERO!  He avoided the traffic on Bridge, ran a few people over, knocked down a couple stop signs, brushed off a high speed chase with the police, etc etc, and when we pulled up to my building he cheered "You can do it!  Go, honey!" while I threw money at him.

Up three flights of stairs.  Gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor.  Kicked open the front door without using the key (JK. But no, I seriously did. I WISH.)  Dove onto my bed, grabbed my purse, somehow flew back down the stairs without any serious injuries, gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor AGAIN, and took off down the street and around the corner to the wasteland of the Dominos parking lot.

And I waited.

And I swore.

And I waited.

And I saw that bus pull up, and I put my hand up to the oncoming traffic (*what is the deal with that stretch of Maple Street near Corey Square?  It's a packed neighborhood and people take that stretch at like 50mph.  UNNECESSARY, says Bad Day Lady), and I ran.  I flashed my ID and the counselor nodded like I was trying to get into a 21+ show at frigging House Of Blues (I didn't even get a pink wristband! No fair!) and Noa got off the bus-- and I grabbed her, and I squeezed the shit out of her, and I said "I'm so sorry if that was scary for you!"

And she said....."Nah. I knew you would find me."  And then she nodded toward la conveniencia across the street and said "Hey, can I get an ice cream for after dinner?!"

She got her ice cream.  DUH, you guys.  I'm a sucker for a kid with a good attitude.  And you know what?  She could care less that the entire shitstorm even went down.  Clueless. 

Amen.








IMPORTANT NOTE:  Despite Noa's bus stop being at a church, there were unfortunately no nuns cheering me on as the title pic may suggest.  Major bummer.

FACEOFF! Fleetwood Mac vs Mates Of State: Secondhand News

So in honor of the 35th anniversary of "Rumours" I thought about doing a song challenge where each day I'd pit an original Fleetwood Mac song against one of the zillions of covers out there.

And then I thought about it and realized that would be totally boring.

So instead, I've decided to do a daily song challenge where I'll pit an original song by a random artist against a cover.  I'm starting with Fleetwood Mac though, because this is my blog and I said so.  

I'm not necessarily saying that one version of this song must absolutely be better than the other, I'm just curious about which one makes you want to bop your head side to side and sing "bowm bowm bowm bowm bowm..." more than the other.  I'm not telling you which one I prefer, because that would skew the results and I'm a professional Song Faceoff scientist who knows better than to do that.  

MoS stayed pretty close to the original with their cover, but you tell me....which one has the edge for you?  

The Mac

MoS

GO!

When I Say "BLIZZID" You Say "DANCE!"

Tomorrow (Or: Adventures In Antidepressants)

“The zaps,” they call them.

You’ve learned by now that switching from one medication to another is not nearly as simple as just stopping the old one and starting the new. Not only is there the exhaustion, shakiness, maybe sleeplessness, that comes while you acclimate to a new pill; your body also withdraws from the lower doses of the old pill at the same time, and finds new and more alarming ways each day to tell you that it’s craving what you aren’t giving it enough of.

You’ve had it before, the peculiar sensation of being electrocuted that comes and goes before you can even open your mouth to exclaim “Oh!” A ghost darts up and jabs you with his live wire, stabs it lightning quick into your temple and pulls it back as the sensation of being in an electric chair zips down into your neck and crackles through your shoulder.

There’s almost a sound as it happens—almost. Not quite. The sound of power lines pulsing and then failing, transformers exploding, the world falling into blackness like in the old horror movies you saw as a kid. A spark or two up into the sky as dusk falls. Maybe the sound of a dusty old robot, dead for years and buried in cobwebs, suddenly brought back to life—possessed by a tiny electric impulse that buzzes through some invisible wiring and shoots a tiny orange light into the air. Maybe catches something nearby on fire.

This time it goes much further. It shoots into the backs of your legs, right down into the thickened clay of your Achilles tendon, and you focus—“I’m okay, just turn and smile”—on remaining normal. Nobody can ever know you are being electrocuted by your own brain; nobody can ever know that the reason your eyes fog for a moment and you say “I’m sorry?” when they speak is that you've fallen victim to a drug you’ve been given for months and then suddenly told you must stop taking.

You know it will pass within a few days but in the meantime you try a volume’s worth of tricks to try and ease the horrible awkwardness. Benzodiazepines, drinking extra water, taking the small crums of shunned medication earlier each day, none of it makes a dent in the iron will of your body’s fitful tanrums while it demands what you starve it of. Each day you take the old medication a bit earlier to stave off the electric demon and each day the demon brings his live wire earlier to your bare throat.

They’ve promised you it will pass and experience tells you that they do not lie. Walking home from a friend’s home one night you pass by a houseful of weekend revelers laughing and yelling at each other in Spanish while urgently bleating music explodes from the third floor windows. You forget yourself as you turn to the window with a smile, and in an instant your body freezes while your nervous system seizes in a fit of defiance. You stay paused on the sidewalk after it passes, stretch your tired neck and shoulders, careful to keep your gaze fixed straight ahead. You can’t see into the window, anyway; out of the corner of your eye you realize that the only thing visible from the partiers’ haven is gauze-curtained windows and a drop ceiling.

The whooping and music continue, undisturbed by your momentary paralysis, and then you put one foot in front of the other. You imagine for a moment that you see something moving to your left but you don’t fall for that trick; your gaze is steadied forward at the crooked sidewalk at your feet.

Home is one uneven block away, and if you can manage to keep your head high you’ll make it without having to pause again for the electricity. You’ll climb into bed and take the little white pill you’ve been told you’ll “do better” with, and a small dose of the old pill, the relic that has been deemed A Failure.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow you’ll focus more on looking at the world straight ahead of you; tomorrow nothing will grab you from the side hold on to you while it runs past. Tomorrow.

My Best Most Annoying Conversation Ever

CO-WORKER: I watched a movie the other night, what's it called?--
ME: 'Better Off Dead?'
CO-WORKER: NO.
ME: It wasnt 'Better Off Dead?' Did it have John Cusack in it? Was it 'Grosse Pointe Blank?' 'Hot Tub Time Machine?'
CO-WORKER: No! It didn't have John Cusack in it!
ME: I bet it was 'Midnight In The Garden of Good And Evil.' I haven't even seen that. It looked good, though.
CO-WORKER: Stop it! It didn't have John Cusack in it! It was a Katherine Heigl movie.
ME: Oh. '37 Dresses' or whatever it was? You know, where she was a bridesmaid like a hundred times?
CO-WORKER: No! That was '27 Dresses.'--
ME: So was it 'Knocked Up'? That must be what it was.
CO-WORKER: It wasn't Knocked Up! Stop it!
ME: You must be thinking of Grey's Anatomy then. I bet you're just confused. Or '37 Dresses.' It was probably that.
CO-WORKER: Ohmygod, stop it. It's not fucking Grey's Anatomy! It was a movie! One that came out recently!
{walks away}
{later, via email}
ME: Check out this IMDB link. I bet you're thinking of Face Blind. It comes out next year, and she has face blindness in it, like when you can't even tell peoples' faces apart because they're all just like a blur. Also, check it out-- I never knew she was on Roswell!

{no response/end conversation}

Those Long Days (Or: When The Pinata Sucks)

Some days really are undeniably longer than others; these are the days that each second that passes is thick with baggage (aka, those pesky damn emotions!), the days that each hour left before it ends weighs heavy and threatens never to come.  The days when even a good cry doesn't solve it, and even whacking the fuck out of a pinata doesn't quite release the frustration.

I should be clear that this last bit actually happened today; I actually whacked the fuck out of a pinata. I whaled on that goddamn thing with an old school wooden bat like it was the head of a soulless zombie coming to dessert on my family after dining on my friends.  And you know what?  The fucking thing WOULDN'T BREAK.  For a moment I was certain that I was on one of those hidden camera shows, convinced that somewhere there must be a concealed crew of people stifling snickers and waiting to jump out and yell "You've been Trick'd" or whatever those shows nowadays yell.

Alas, nobody jumped out.  I kept whacking the thing with the bat, five times then ten times then maybe about fifteen times, and then finally-- FINALLY-- one corner of that star-shaped sonofabith cracked open.  Success!  Except....it was 75% filled with Bit O Honey, which nobody likes ever.  (*Please, if you are a fan of that nasty little wax-wrapped beast feel free to let me know so I can send you a certificate of congratulations.  I'll surely suspect you're a liar and thus blacklist you from any events where you'd be in charge of piñatas, but you deserve recognition for theoretically stomaching that madness.)

                                           Noooooooooooooooooooooo!

URGENT NOTE:  Did you click on that link and notice that according to wiki Bit O Honey also once produced something called "Bit O Licorice"?!  That knowledge just made me feel exponentially better about this day.  I would have died on the spot if Bit O Licorice had come out of that pinata today.  Toe up, no joke.  Some other lesser-known variations on popular candies are Mint Kit Kats and Orange Hershey Kisses (barf), although I take issue with the Bit O Honey being categorized as "popular." Who the fuck are they trying to kid here?  

Anyway.

The candy isn't really the issue here, those pesky damn emotions are.  Today was full of 'em:  frustration, loneliness, hope, enthusiasm, disappointment, a dash more frustration, a little anger, some helplessness, and that castrated feeling of not having an outlet to let it all loose.  Life has that scent of impossibility sometimes and today reeked of futility.  I kept my game face on until most of it was over, and even when I caved into the overwhelming helplessness that sometimes comes with parenting, partnering, working, and LIVING-- I like to think I handled it with aplomb if not actual grace.

The seconds of today trickled by with the sluggishness of a daydreaming sloth and the outcome was hardly attractive: I made it through the self-described clusterfuck that was today at my job, and then stormed around at home for a little while after work and ignored Matt and Noa to throw myself into putting some favorite photos of Noa (like this one!) into frames; I cried red hot frustrated tears for a while-- the kind where you hiccup and gasp every now and then to catch your breath-- while trying to process the long day at work combined with the difficulties of life with a new live-in partner who's also newly co-parenting with me; afterward I went downstairs and begged a cigarette from a neighbor while wearing...uh....my nightgown.   Sitting down to write tonight is quiet salvation, even though my content is vague and laden with obtuse reference.

Ultimately the pinata finally fucking broke for me, so today that is my victory.  Life's never going to cut to some adorable scene where I skip through a sunny field holding a bouquet of wildflowers, so when the pinata breaks....I might as well stop for a moment and revel in the small victory, even if the damn thing is filled with Bit O Fucking Honey.

   "It's just a life story, so there's no climax.

   No more new territory, so pull away the imax.

    In the slot that you sliced through the scene there was no shyness.

    In the plot that you passed through your teeth there was no pity.

   No fade in: film begins on a kid in the big city.

  And no cut to a costly parade that's for him only.

  No dissolve to a sliver of grey that's his new ladywhere she glows just like grain on the flickering pane of some great movie."