Value wIT

As I exist in an American city, trapped – and too comfortable- by my possessions, the large and looming hand of my robust Irish friend dangles over the open edge of my self-built box.   Like a “Kitten for Free” living in a cardboard box in front of Wal-Mart, I claw and shred the sides of the box in an attempt to escape, all the while urging the rest of my kitten family to join in the escape escapade. Whether or not we actually break the bonds of the box becomes irrelevant as the entertainment of scratching satisfies our need for movement and mission.

The potential for freedom and adventure lingers outside the box and is represented by the Irishman - the Irishman without a permanent address or the ties that bind.  At first it was the car that I ditched, then, thanks to Wanderlust: A History of Walking, a book sent to me by the Irishman, I dropped the bus.  Using my very own energy to transport myself from place to place results in big personal rewards – and big hassles for people who wait on my slow arriving presence.

Last month I kicked society in the chin and spit upon its sacred Christmas traditions as I fled the cardboard box for the solitude of the American Southwest.  On Christmas morning as I sanely sipped my tea and felt no pressure to produce, my mind wandered to the life of the Irishman. Surely he was riding a reindeer, or at least bidding a new friend goodbye as he skied away from a snowbound week in the hollow of a tree. However, to my shock, and maybe horror, I received an email from the Irishman saying:

"The rich irony was that whilst you were successfully escaping Christmas, something I have managed to do for the better part of twenty years, I found myself suckered into the whole thing complete with teenage children, an ex-husband, Christmas tree and decorations, various foods I dislike including vegetarian options for one of the teenagers, not enough drink and a range of family 'traditions' which I found more bemusing than anything I have ever discovered in months spent with Berber tribes, Argentine gauchos or Kyrgyz horsemen. It was, to sum up, unmitigated hell, dubbed into Swedish. And ran to New Year with little break. Luckily, very luckily (THE GIRL) is cute and sweet and not unlike the picture you chose to illustrate her possible self, but even my general good feelings towards her were strained…. I had hoped to avoid it (Christmas excess) all up here in the north (Sweden), but who was I fooling -one step closer to Reindeer, Santa Claus and the rest of the myth, and in the nation that runs the States a close second on sheer naked consumerism."

What to say?  Has the Irishman fallen in love and mortgaged his freedom for a spin on the wooden train traipsing underneath the Christmas tree?  Love and warm skin often direct our path, but what I believe is that the Irishman will persevere and instead of falling victim to the trappings, he will pluck the Swedish girl from her cardboard box and serve as tour guide to the world at large.

Capitol Metro is irresponsible, inflexible and uncommitted.

This past August I made a serious lifestyle change to reduce my car driving. With small children, an activate career and social life, giving up my car was not easy, nor convenient. However, with a combination of walking, biking and the services of Capitol Metro, I have successfully managed to reduce my driving by about 80%. 

On occasion, Capitol Metro breezes past me without stopping as I wait at the bus stop. Also, the bus has been late, broken down, and not showed at all. Yet, all those “kinks” in the system have been forgiven.  However, when the bus stranded my six-year old and me, Capitol Metro showed how irresponsible, inflexible and uncommitted it is to providing an alternative to personal driving.

My child and I rode our bicycles down the Shoal Creek trail to 38th Street where we had an early dinner.  Our plan was to ride the bus back home with our bikes on the bus bike rack. As the Number 3 bus approached its stop on 38th Street, I saw there was already a bike on the bus rack – the bus can only transport two bikes. The bus driver got out of the bus to smoke a cigarette, presumably his break, and I asked him if my adult bike could ride in the remaining bike rack slot while I carried my daughter’s child-sized bike on the bus. Nope.  Never mind that there were only five people on the bus and plenty of space.

It was getting dark and cold. I implored the bus driver to reconsider and asked when the next bus would arrive. His nonchalant answer was “at least 30 minutes.”  As I waited in a precarious nighttime situation with my child, I seethed at the driver’s irresponsibility for stranding us and at his inflexibility for not allowing a child’s bicycle on the empty bus.

Clearly, Capitol Metro’s philosophy is not to make public transportation easy or manageable in Austin, Texas.  Capitol Metro exists to transport students and poor people who have no voice.  Maggie, an elderly woman we met while waiting at the bus stop, laughed at our story and recounted several tales where Capitol Metro had failed her.

Maggie does not have a computer to generate a letter to the editor, the skills to write an account of her grievances, or the time away from her cleaning job  at a local nursing home to detail how Capitol Metro left her on 38th Street one night and she had to walk her decrepit body to East Austin arriving home after 1 am.  Maggie does not have the leisure of declaring the Capitol Metro experiment a failure and choosing to resume driving her luxury car. 

For Austin to boast a successful public transportation system, citizens of all walks of life need to participate and demand that Capitol Metro perform at acceptable standards.  Status quo is that Capitol Metro holds hostage a small number of dependent riders whose voices do not carry weight at City Hall.

After the previous day’s thoughts of O (as in the Story of) and the bicycle, I didn’t have the gumption to bike to work a second day.  Using Capitol Metro’s crackerjack computer system I planned my bus route to work departing from a stop near the children’s school. It’s about three city miles from the school to my office, but for some reason it took one hour and twenty minutes to get there.

The trip was incredibly pleasant, as I read a book that I commited to review and have been putting off for weeks.  Stretched out on the back seats of the bus covered in bright fall sunlight, I felt like I was at home in my breakfast room on the sofa without a care in the world. It was like Saturday and my mind was tricked into forgetting the pressures of professional life. Just ridin’ and readin’.

“End of route. Please exit bus,” says an automated voice.

Looking around I find myself in a part of town that is new to me. A conversation with the bus driver who is exiting the bus informs me that I rode the wrong way and that if I wait until 9:34 am he will start the bus and eventually take me to my destination.  In a former life such time wasting and delays would have caused my head to explode and black bile to shoot from my mouth. Instead I said “Thanks, man.  I’ll wait here in the elder care residential center.” 

Did I eat Valium with breakfast?  What’s happening to me? I am an aging dog who has lost my bark and bite?

Sitting amongst Austin's older citizens who were chewing their curd did prove too much for me, so I decided to wait outside on the sidewalk. Of course, crazy old man on an electric scooter with a cigarillo sticking out of his mouth effecting a bird-beak look decided to race down the sidewalk toward me. It was crystal clear he was coming to strike up a conversation with me.  The Valium started to wear off and my sense of reality came back. I ran.

After a decent day at work, I gear up for the bus trip back to my children’s school. Tight schedule:  work, school, home, basketball practice, party -- all within two and half hours.  Even with a car, that schedule would be tight.  My bus arrives only four minutes late and I get on and start reading that book (which just might get a good review.)  The bus does not move. The bus driver is pushing buttons, putting on his reading glasses, calling someone on the phone and then announces over the intercom in a quasi-panicked voice

“Exit the bus immediately!”

Traffic stacks up. Horns blow. Fingers fly. My Valium kicks in as I calmly call my husband to fetch me and continue reading my book at the bus STOP. Nice reprieve.

Clearly, The Professor has been main-lining speed and arrives in a great panic that we must haul-ass across town, back home, across town, back home and across town again.  Pedal to the metal he peels out and begins aggressively combating traffic.  Riding in the car is just too much for me. In fact, behind my fashionable sunglasses, I secretly close my eyes as my body leans into the squealing turn of the car.

In fact, I think in the future I might start riding in the backseat of the car.  Actually, I think I want to completely get rid of the car and get a driver. That sounds haughty, but really it might suit our family better.  As you might imagine The Professor isn’t very good with cars. He doesn’t say “Oh, let’s rotate the tires. Or, that ping sounds like the radiator is going to explode. Better take the car in for a check-up.”  You know me, I don’t ever think of the car and how it should have the oil changed and be filled with gas. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve run out of gas?  If we had a driver, we could tell people we are a “driven family”.

Without a car there would be:

• No insurance to pay and no annoying cards to constantly find to put in the glove box.
• No driver’s license to lose and renew.
• No illusive mail to throw in the trash that gives the information to buy that sticker that goes on the windshield.
• No inspection to get.
• No oil to change.
• No appointment to leave your car for a day for the 50,000 mile check-up.
• No washing.
• No gassing.
• No smell from a fermenting sippy cup of old milk.
• No carseats!!
• No parking. (No parking "situations")
• No backing into other cars and saying, “OMG. I’m so sorry. Here’s my insurance.”
• No getting rejected from insurance companies.

Instead it would be:

“Hello, Danny. It’s Mrs. Parker. I need to leave for the movies at 2:15.” 

Danny would swing by the house in a shiny black car and drop me off in front of the theater and pick me up when the show was over. No parking; no waiting until the last minute and then racing up the highway.

or

“Thanks for the ride, Danny. We’ll call you when we’re ready to leave. Probably around 2 a.m.” We could drink buckets of booze and not worry about the designated driver. 

Danny would always be sober.

I want Danny for Christmas. Wonder how much Danny costs?

When I decided to bike to work, I had an image of myself on a bike with a beautiful, shiny, brunette wicker basket holding my over-designed notebooks and a strategically tossed Oxford #2 pencil.  Peddling down the trail dappled in sunlight I entertained the idea of being overcome by the beauty of nature. Never did it occur to me that I would have to use my big, fat thigh muscles to make the freakin' bike move.

The children and I picturesquely closed the gate to the courtyard in front of our house this morning and strolled down the sidewalk chattering and pushing the bicycle. It was obvious the kids held me in high esteem because I was pushing the cool-ass bike. My son held on to one of the handlebars as we walked in an attempt to glean some of the coolness.

Demonstrating my strength, I hoisted the bike onto the front of the bus and feigned humbleness as I casually dangled my helmet on two fingers and took my seat amongst the regulars. Like my children, I could tell that my bus friends were in awe of the bike as well.

When the children were deposited to their classroom I actually got on the bike and sailed down the hill from the school.  Cars zipped past. Holes appeared in the road. Traffic lights changed colors. A continuous mental movie looped in my mind where I watched myself crash into the cement and felt a bone jam into the pavement.  The movie's next scene showed the bike wheel getting caught in a hole and my body flipping over the handle bars with my face skidding against the road.

The movie subsided somewhat when the hills came because my body was overtaken by disbelief.  It seemed impossible that my heart could keep up with the demand of the rushing blood in my body.  Also, my back was aching from my thoroughly packed backpack. It occurred to me to toss my MacBook to the ground in an attempt to lighten the load.

Then the math started. Whenever I find myself in physical straits, my mind starts calculating. "If it took  X minutes to get from 29th Street to 15th Street, then it should take X minutes to get to my destination. However, I increase my speed, which would involve using 3% more energy thus causing my heart to burst from my skin, then I could arrive in X minutes."  When the math overtakes my mind, there is no stopping it, even if I beg myself to turn off the dividing and projecting.

Of course, toward the end of the trip my extra comfortable fashionable, yet functioning shoes are digging into my skin, and I can't even begin to explain how the bones that once widened enough to birth a baby have begun to feel.  Suffice it say, I know how that girl in the Story of O must have felt when she underwent genital mutilation, which if I recall The Story of O was sexual pleasure for O (sidenote: if you have not read The Story of O, DON'T!! The images from that book have ruined me. It's like seeing Nightmare on Elm Street - there is no need to invite Freddy Kruger into your mind.) Of course, the soreness doubled, no tripled, when I got back on the bike in the afternoon.

Tomorrow, I am going to take bus.

I know you cruise this site every day looking for juicy outpourings from my soul, and when your RSS feed reader shows Value wIT dim, you are a bit sad. It’s not that I don’t think of you (Ali on your treadmill) and take seriously my job of entertaining you. However,  I’ve been as busy as a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. 

There’s the new client with an extremely interesting campaign that keeps me busy billing my time in 15-minute increments.  Try logging into a computer system and charging someone for your services every few minutes:

10:13 a.m. read Mimi Smartypants, If You Belonged Here and Mom 101

No dice. Nobody likes to pay for someone to read blogs. However, if you code said activities as “social or experiential marketing” then it’s more likely to be accepted.

My new gig requires me to go to the client’s office for several hours a day, which is a big switch for me. This means a shower every day. Also, for the normal person it would mean driving the car. However, I will not give in and get back in the car.  Life on my feet in the street is better…(wonder what you think I look like?  I bet the real image would shock you.)

The solution is that in the morning I shower and cute-up my hair and face and put on exercise clothes. I walk my bike (not really my bike, but my stepdaughter’s bike) to the bus stop with the children and put the bike on the bus. We go to school, and after the kids get settled, I hop on the bike and take the trail to my new office.

In my crazy-cool, hip-urban Tumi Ballistic BusinessTotal Solutions backpack I carry my MacBook Pro and foldable office clothes.  You’re right!  It’s amazingly difficult to pack fancy work clothes in a backpack.  However, my new style is Diane von Furstenbergish dresses (or similar jersey type materials) with tights. I bought some great black flats that honest-to-God look good with black running pants and handsomely accent my work wardrobe. Also, I took my screaming hot black patent leather boots to my office, as they are too big and fragile for backpack transporation. Should my outfit need shiny boots, I whip them out of the file cabinet. Also, at my new office I keep a fabu long, black wrap that adds an element of style and professionalism.

Around 2:30, I slip out of the shiny boots and DVF dress and redress in bike wear.   Walking by the children who work in the office – did I mention everyone is 24 – I take my bike off the in-office bike rack and head toward the elevator.  “Is that my mother on a bicycle,” I imagine them wondering.

The first time I met my cat he was about one week old and was in the mouth of a vicious dog.  After beating the dog about the head and hysterically screaming, I persuaded the dog to drop the tiny kitten. Racing the slobber covered animal to the veterinarian I begged the kitten not to die.  Many hundreds of dollars later the vet telephones me to say that my kitten has survived the internal damages and is ready for me to pick up.

I didn’t want a cat – what was I to do?

Thomas-the-cat settled into high-rise, single-girl living very nicely, and I quickly transformed from a normal conversant adult into a person who found a way to mention Thomas in every conversation. Mentioning to co-workers that Thomas had a new wooden sleigh bed with a velvet kitty mattress drew many a yawn. Telling family members about Thomas’ utter delight at chasing fake mice filed with catnip got me taken off a few Christmas lists. Bringing photographs of Thomas’ new-jeweled collar to happy hour assured my spot in Siberia. It mattered not that my incessant conversation about my beloved pet risked my social standing because after all, I had my real and true friend, Thomas.

Thomas lived on the 13th floor of a plush apartment building and had not set foot in the outside world since his brief encounter with death.  At night he slept curled around my neck and in the daytime he slept in the sunlight on his plush sleigh bed. 

My future husband popped into the picture when Thomas was about one and made overtures to win the cat’s affection.  He petted the cat and seemed to take pride in his future cat ownership. The husband happily cleaned cat vomit off the floor and furniture and participated in constant chatter about the cat.

In retrospect, maybe there was premeditation, but maybe it was just a personality clash. The husband slipped the big ring on my finger and moved me to a house with a yard. Thomas moved too. However, in the new house the husband began throwing Thomas off the bed, presumably to ravish me so I complied. I responded by buying Thomas a cozy and more masculine sheepskin bed that lived at the foot of the bed. As a married woman it seemed a little silly to have a teeny cat sleigh bed in my adult furnished home.

When Thomas was certain the husband was asleep, he would slowly creep (I mean very slowly – one step – wait – another step –assess –next step) toward my neck and wedge himself between the husband’s head and my head.  Bam!  Husband would toss cat across the room.

Poor kitty. Well, no. Poor husband.  Thomas desperately and fiercely loved his mother. For Christ’s sake I rescued him from the jaws of death!  He sucked my earlobe like a bottle for the first year of life. He was not taking replacement lying down.  In an all out war Thomas began shitting on my husband’s personal items and expensive new furnishings we had bought for our new house.  For Christmas I gave my husband a book titled When Pets Come Between Partners.  The book was no help.

Endlessly my husband and I fought over the cat, and the cat and the husband engaged in an all out war. First the cat was banned from the bed. Then the cat was banned from the bedroom (it was heart-wrenching to hear him howl at the closed door.) After Thomas sprayed the new silk drapes he was thrown outside and only invited in for meals. I cried and begged for him to be let in. Poor kitty had no claws.

We moved to a new house after about four years and Thomas was never invited inside the new house. In the meantime I birthed two children and stopped worrying about Thomas. I began to replace my boring cat-talk with boring children talk.  Thomas loves his new life.  He follows the children around the yard like a dog; sleeps on the neighbors patio furniture; and sits by door to bid use hello and goodbye. Once in a while if it is really cold or hot I open the door to invite Thomas inside.  He lowers his body to the ground and skulks inside. Despite the climate controlled environment and plush furniture, I get the idea that Thomas is really not comfortable inside anymore.

Since I have been walking and riding the bus, when I get into a car I feel like Thomas must feel when he comes inside the house. Today the husband called and indicated he was about a half a mile from where my son and I were having lunch.  Quickly I paid the check, slipped on my backpack, walked down to the corner and jumped into the car for a ride home. Granted the car was cooler than the sweltering heat outside, but I think I’ve turned into an outside wife.

P.S. Thomas celebrated his 11th birthday this past May and over the years has had some elaborate and fun birthday parties. Here is a picture from his 6th birthday party that was appropriately themed Hello Kitty-- see him lurking in the background.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon during a party, my friend and I slip outside to sip margaritas on the terrace and watch her daughter skip rope. Quite casually I blurt “Woo-hoo!  You’re a great jump-roper!”  As I turn to place the glass on the table I see the look on my own daughter’s face that reads jealousy.  If compliments are being bandied about my daughter will do the catching, thankyouverymuch.

Watching my friend’s six-year old skip rope was like watching a flower attached to a metronome. The wispy little girl was light and rhythmic. Watching my six-year old, on the other hand, was like watching a new driver learn to operate a standard transmission. Of course after seeing my child’s desperate need for a compliment I tell her she’s a good jump-roper as well.  Clearly, we were four perceptive females, and it was obvious my friend’s little girl was the better jumper of the two.  So what! Big deal.

Well, apparently, for my competitive child it was a big deal. My husband and I return home after being out of town for four days to find my daughter sweating and jumping at what first appeared to be a jump rope, but upon closer inspection was speaker wire.  The child didn’t have a jump rope, but she found a spool of speaker wire and the babysitter said she had spent the entire weekend honing her jump rope skills with the occasional water break.  She taught herself to jump backwards; on one foot; turning around; and, turning around backward on one foot.

After watching the intense speaker wire weekend of training, the babysitter took pity upon the child and bought her a real jump rope. With the real jump rope she was like Rocky Balboa. Why does my daughter have to do things the hard way – turning around backward on one foot WITH SPEAKER WIRE?

Going about my business today, I realized why my daughter takes the hard, ridiculous path. It’s because of the example she sees everyday. Me.  Maybe it’s a genetic malfunction.

As I plotted my day it occurred to me that I’m crazy.  Instead of working, raising children, giving up my car and volunteering for five million nonprofits, I could sit at home and eat bon-bons.  Why take the hard road? Accomplishment? Sorry to disappoint you, but not really. Altruism? Really. You know me.

Why don’t I just concentrate on working and hire someone to pick-up my children and take care of them in the afternoon? Well, because I like the children and like to be with them. Today I picked up one child at noon dismissal and took him to a business lunch.  I could have scheduled the meeting later in the week when my child was school, but for some reason I like to pile it one.

Instead of solely focusing on the business at hand, I tried to make parenting look like a piece of cake to my single, childless colleague.  While she was talking about legal statutes governing health practices I was trying to decipher the issue and ignore my 4-year old who was surreptitiously pulling the waist of my skirt back and slowly pulling my underwear higher and higher until I had an organ damaging wedgie. Normally, I would have asked him to stop, but this secret mission was keeping him quiet while I conversed about Section 21.06 of the Penal Code (if you are bored, look that statue up and be appropriately shocked at the subject matter.)

Of course, instead of putting the little guy in the car and driving away after lunch, we bid our lunch date goodbye and headed to the bus stop. Why do I have to jump backward, on one foot, turning around?  Why can’t I slip into the leather seats of my air-conditioned car and drive home. Why do I have to stand in the heat and ride the bus next to a man who smelled so bad he could have knocked a buzzard off a gut wagon?

Now I know why I do it the hard way. It’s for you! Sitting at home eating bon-bons would not give me anything to write about and what would you read?  For your entertainment here’s a scene from the bus today:

It’s around 10:30 am, and I’m leaving the area north of the University of Texas campus heading downtown for an 11:00 meeting.  The bus is really crowded with students and I have to stand over a bedraggled guy who is holding court and delivering this monologue:

“Girl, you going to school?  I used to go to the school and did all that learning and I was good. I could hop the scotch, sister.  Yessirree. I used to teach the school. Um-hum. Taught me some math and English.

My name is Glen Campbell (breaks into Rhinestone Cowboy).  I’m from Nawlin’s and when they told me to get out the 3rd ward because Katrina was coming, I said, “I ain’t going nowhere.”  Yep. I had me a landscape business and asked the Lord to do it for me like that. One man got bit-up by an alligator. One man got bit-up by a spider and I got bit-up by a black bird.

The Lord is on time. If he ain’t calling you to work, you better get your beauty sleep.”

Glen Campbell takes a comb out of his white tube socks that also hold two packs of Salem cigarettes. Glen begins to give a cosmetology lesson on how he keeps his hair and mustache in order as he simultaneously bids hello and goodbye to riders, “Lawd, bless you.”

Two hours later I catch the same bus back uptown and Glen is still on the bus and is still talking:

“I be embarrassed ‘bout using a fork. You ain’t got no food on that fork. I’m jus’ country and I need to eat my food, not loose it in my beard. If I be eatin’ pigs hip or hog chitlins and I can’t find that food, I jus’ look in the mirror and find in my hair.”

Glen gives a Wolfman Jack impersonation and bursts into the song whose liricks are “Keep knocking but you can’t come in.”

No analysis of Glen. Just a transcription to give you a flavor of Glen – in case you’ve been inside eating bon-bons all day!

How I miss you, Value wIT readers! I've been sold into slavery and while I toil in the mines, my thoughts are always about you and the careless summers and late nights we've shared. Shoveling the coal, I fondly recall our midnight bulimic binges and those tipsy summer afternoons.  Daily, I plot my escape and by Friday I think the secret hole I’ve been digging under the fence will be big enough for me to crawl under and come home to you.

Wait for me and chill one of our favorites!  Until then, I’ll leave you with a bus tidbit from yesterday:

On the city bus riding home from school, my daughter and I sit across from two guys having a chatty talk. One guy is a little grimy and has the “partially employed” look, which projects the image that while he is physically able to work, he prefers a cold Bud in a brown paper bag.  The other guy is a young, perky, pudgy Hispanic guy wearing a button-up baseball jersey and jean shorts, and he is actually drinking a Budweiser …on the bus.  The two guys are happily talking, and I think to myself that it is nice to see someone relaxing with a cocktail after work. This guy and I are the same, but a little different, as I am a stickler for aesthetics and am picky about the glassware from which I consume my cocktails – no bags for me, for sure. 

My six-year old daughter, wearing her navy school uniform jumper with red-piped blouse and Mary Jane’s holds her jump rope and stares at the two men. I smooth her hair and feel like a superior mother because my daughter enjoys a breadth of experiences. At that moment, the perky guy boldly announces,

“Yea, I’m gonna go home and smoke a big fatty and chill.”

Young inquisitive eyes look at me for an explanation, but quickly I rustle Pickles The Fire Cat and change the subject.

It’s the last day of the self-inflicted 30-day car deprivation experiment. If today were the first day, I would quit.  It was a million degrees today with humidity that felt like an August afternoon in New Orleans after a heavy night of hurricanes (the cocktail that is).

Swimming through the hot haze to the bus stop stole all my energy, and when I got to the bus stop I sat on the concrete bench and stared…at nothing.  Maybe today I was officially assimilated into the bus culture and assumed the vacant look many bus riders boast.  When the #3 arrived, I peeled my chocolate colored tulle-lined skirt from my moist legs and rubbed my fingers over the interesting imprint it left on my legs.  Note to self: cotton skirts, not synthetic crinoline - no matter how cute and seemingly seasonally suited.

Living in the allergy capitol of the world, the #3 chauffeured me to the allergist for a weekly injection to ward off ragweed, elm and all things green and growing.  Keeping on schedule I had four minutes to spare as I approached the bus stop near the hospital. This is not my usual territory, and immediately my senses were attacked – each one of them.  Fight? Flee?

I have the good sense not to look a dog in the eye; so, I assume the nonchalant, minding-my-own-business attitude, which is a tried-and-true behavior in BusLand. However, the smell overtakes me and my gag reflex is triggered. Channeling control and mastery over my body I deal with the smell that is some combination of ashtray, dead carcass, and human stink. Peripheral vision tells me a man is sitting behind me. Since I can’t turn my head and risk a violent, “What you staring at, bitch?” accompanied by large arm movements, it seems the man has matted hair.

Still overcoming the olfaction assault, my audition is attacked.  Stinkpot’s traveling partner is angrily speaking to someone on her phone, and after she hangs up begins a tirade:

“Stupid mother fucker gonna call my ass and tell me ‘bout takin’ my kid. Custody, my ass! I'm 'onna give him some custody.  Sum bitch done hired a lawyer. Fucking mother fucker don’t know shit about how I can take care of somebody. (No pause) I’m hungry!  Give me that –---- You mother fucker! Done eat up that food (slapping Stinkpot).”

Stinkpot pitifully retorts, “I ain’t eat up nobody’s food. That bird done came and eat it up. I’m telling you that bird jus' came here and…and, I tried to stop him, but he just ate ever’ bit of it.”

Feeling bold, I sneak a peek at Stinkpot and his partner. They have gotten up from the round bus bench and are leaving. Their backs are to me so it’s safe to indulge in a good long stare before they are out of sight.  The woman holds a long unlit cigarette and uses the same hand to push back her stringy hair. Still yelling at Stinkpot over the food, she adjusts what looks to be an orthopedic sock and waddles down the sidewalk. Perhaps they have no need for the bus after all?

Taking a deep breath I look down at the ground. Several pools of expectorate look back at me. I pick up my straw bag and consider dropping it into the trash bin but decide to wait until I get home.

This afternoon it wasn’t LIKE I was riding a bike, I WAS riding a bike.  Gentle readers, spinning the wheels of a bike is probably no big deal for you, but for this aged girl, it was a little scary and a wee bit thrilling.

Trying to complete just one project, I found myself four minutes past the time I needed to leave to walk to  school to get my daughter. An image of the car keys flashed into my mind. No, Devil, I will not be tempted by your crack offering! Life was not meant to be easy. Do you think the pioneers used cars? No, they opted for covered wagons just for the sake of proving they could do it!

Always thinking, I remembered that there was once a brand new bicycle in my stepdaughter’s room. Since she went to college last month, her room has not been entered.  Reluctantly, I peeked in the room and saw the bike leaning against the fireplace, helmet dangling from the handlebars.  The tires were flat, but a quick blow of air fixed that problem – always does.

My four-year son was beyond ecstatic that I was going to ride the bike, “I didn’t know you could ride a bike, Mommy!” Come to think of it, I was once an adept “no hands” rider. Well, that was sixth grade before my County Seat plastic drawstring shopping bag got caught in the bike spokes and threw me head first over the handlebars.  (Remember County Seat?  Bad store in the mall in the 1970’s that was one of the first stores to offer drawstring bags. Carrying a drawstring bag while wearing Gloria Vanderbuilt jeans and a parrot shirt rendered a kid untouchable.)

My friend didn’t realize I had wrecked and kept riding. Presumably, I passed out because I woke-up confused and lying in the middle of the street with the side of my face scraped off.  Since then, I haven’t been fond of bikes.

But today, Bold Biking Bitsy rapidly peddled toward school and made it on time!  The first-graders were in awe of the cool bike and my daughter proudly rested her hand on the seat as we walked down the sidewalk to a cacophony of “Bye!  See you tomorrow.  Bye, friend!”  Clearly, the bike is going to propel my child into the ranks of the popular. If I only had a skateboard…

Oh, another thing. When the bus came, I hoisted the bike and put it on the front of the bus. Again, people do that action all day, everyday, but it was a first for me. Scary too because I didn’t know how to do it and was anxious I wouldn’t be able to do it or do it fast enough. Maybe the bus driver would honk at me or run over me or drive away with my child on the bus and leave me standing on the sidewalk.  Anyway, it ain’t no thing. Piece 'o cake. 

Pride and self-sufficiency exuded as I held a pole on the bus. So un-needy I didn’t even need a seat!