...and I was all, like, "What the...??!!!" (Hit by a bus)

You know that thing that people do when something embarrassing happens to them in public? I know you know what I'm talking about. That thing people do, for example, when they randomly trip while walking down the street?

I'm not talking about the people who start running and try to play it off. (Those people are their own breed, requiring their own separate post. They're the type who do the thing where they raise their hand and wave to someone down the street, thinking they know them, but then realize they don't and instead use their hand to slick back their hair, all, like "What? I'm cool... just fixing my hair!". This is unacceptable behavior for anyone other than Guidos, and real Guidos only live in Little Italy and are drunk and fat and leacherous most of the time, anyway, so their bad judgment doesn't count. By the way, I'm part Italian, so don't call me racist.)

I'm talking about the other people. The people who get pissed. You know, when they trip on their own feet, but instead of laughing their clumsiness off, they stop, and turn around, and, like, glare and the sidewalk, all "What the...??!!" like it purposefully tripped them. Or they point, which is always funny. Or examine the street closely for the crack that obviously caused them to stumble. Or -- better yet -- they kick the curb. God, I love that. It totally ridiculous, because regardless of what they do afterwards, they almost just tripped, and nothing they do is going to make that go away.

Tara Reid is really good at this. Or maybe she's mostly good at just falling and being coked up and skanky. Either way, a photo, because I think it's funny (and hear it encourages you guys to continue reading... thank you, US Magazine):



Anyway, this "What the...?!" behavior didn't make any sense to me until this morning, when I was (wait for it...) HIT BY A BUS.

Yup. A huge articulated bus -- carrying what seemed like a thousand commuters -- ran a red light and met me in the middle of a crosswalk -- head down in the rain, minding my own business -- half a block from my office building.

I'm okay and everything. In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that it's not like it plowed me down, it just sort of met me. The moment it was less than 10 inches from my right shoulder, I looked up and stiff-armed it while jumping sideways, effectively pushing off its front left corner before it knocked me down.

The first nanosecond after the bus hissed to a quick stop, the first moment I knew I was going to live, I was embarrassed, convinced it was all my fault, because who gets hit by a bus unless they're doing something idiotic? What the fuck? I thought. I am so oblivious to the world that I just almost got hit by a bus? I mean, how embarrassing! Surely, I thought, I must have been jaywalking. But when I looked up at the crosswalk, I was stunned. No red STOP hand. Instead, a bright green WALK man. And this one was animated. His legs were moving. He was, like "WALK! LIKE ME!! SEE? DO IT!"

Just like that, (I snapped right there, in real life, while typing the word "that". So please, when reading this, snap, so you can get the full effect of my enthusiasm for this story.) Just like that (thank you), my embarrassment turned to anger.

How in the fuck does a BUS run a red light and almost hit a GIRL who clearly has every right to WALK in that crosswalk, with her legs moving and carrying her across the street just like the blazing green WALK man? That WALK man was suddenly my shining beacon of right-ness. And, to add to my anger, I noticed that on top of the sign, there was a speaker playing piped-in audio instructions for the blind. The piped-in audio woman was saying this, still, even in the seconds after my near-death-experience:

"Walk signs are on for all crossings. Walk signs are on for all crossings. Walk signs are on for all cross..." etc. etc. etc.

God damn that bus! Now I was really pissed. My bright young life was nearly smeared across the bumper of a public transporter, and it was totally not my fault.

I was going to show that effing bus driver.

Yeah, I was.

I was gonna.

Show him.

That effer.

So you know what I did? I'll be damned if I didn't, almost instinctively, do that thing.

I stopped, mouth open in shock as I realized the audio and visual signals were all telling me to walk and the bus to stop at the moment of near-impact, and gave the driver the "what the...??!!!" look, with my forehead all scrunched up like he was an idiot, then pointed to the green WALK sign, then pointed back at the bus driver, shaking my head and again doing the "What the...?!" face before disgustedly throwing my hands down at my sides and marching the rest of the way across the street, shaking my head.

You could almost hear the spectators crowding the sidewalks giggle and whisper. I actually saw a few point. I was that girl. Doing that retarded "What the...?!!!" thing.

But I didn't care. It felt good. Not as good as swearing at the driver, but good enough to satisfy me as I stomped across the street and into my building, brushing my hair back all cool and calm. All, like, "What? Nothing! I'm cool, and stuff. Just fixing my hair..."

____________________________________________

A tale of two come-ons is coming... but forgive me, the bus incident took precedence today, as it was practically a near-death experience. Have a good day, and please--look both ways.

Mini-van me and the popped tire adventure.

Last night, I watched Survivor and Grey's Anatomy and ate dinner over at my mother's house -- which has become a nice little ritual for us. After the shows wrapped up, and the obligatory gossip and plotline dissection died down, I hopped into my car and headed home, exhausted.

But in standard form, my night didn't end - smoothly and without a fuss - there. On my way home, because I'm clearly a novice trick-driver, I somehow grazed a curb at 40 miles per hour, blew my front right tire completely out, and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, half in the grass, and half on the street.

No injuries, not phone poles in the way, no biggie, thank goodness. (Well, no biggie except my car couldn't go, it was 11 p.m. and all I wanted was to be home in bed, and it was dark and scary out...)

Long story short, my mom had to come pick me up and take me back to her place, where the plan was for me to use my brother's car to get home and to work today (she would use her van to get to her work at 7 a.m.). We determined we could get my tire fixed while I was at work -- thank you, Les Schwab remote service. It was a foolproof recovery plan for my tire disaster. We were so smart and resourceful. We complimented ourselves and talked about how we'd look back on me sucking at driving and this whole incident and laugh.

Until, mid-chuckle, her "check engine" light came on.

Not good. (also, cue my mom emitting a blue-streak worth of curse words).

Two cars down. Our plan had been foiled.

When we finally arrived back at her house, we got me situated in my brother's car, with my mom planning to drive the van to her work, essentially being "pretty sure" the engine light was no big deal. She handed me the keys to my brother's car, I turned the right one in the ignition, and...

silence.

Nothing. Not even a starter "click".

Three cars down. Goddamn my luck. Goddamn it to hell.

So this morning, my mom got up at 6 a.m. and drove my old truck (the one I drove in high school, which was a beater even then -- a dented white '76 Chevy pickup) to work in her cute little sweatervest and pearls, while I climbed in her enormous "mini" van and tooled off to work, "Check engine" light blazing.

I was just the cat's meow pulling into the parking garage this morning, let me tell you. First, I was nervous the thing was going to break down the whole way to work, and second, this van is the size of a small, number 1 safety-rated, side-airbags-having, automatic slider door and foot runner-boasting metal planet. Getting it into the garage without scraping along the ceiling and both walls simultaneously was nervewracking, to say the least.

But my buddy "Les" is working on my car tire as we speak (I'm trying not to consider what it will inevitably cost me) and garage parking without my little permit tags isn't likely to cost me any more than $100 bucks today for the planet-van, so that's nice. (sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm). The only good news I can think of is that it's lunchtime and the mexican restaraunt across the street serves very cold beer, very fast... now I just have to calculate how many I can drink in 30 minutes so as to determine how long I need to sell my body on the street to pay for it (in addition to covering my tow bill, new tire, parking, and rent next month).

I'd better get to it.

How you know it's going to be a bad day by 11:00 a.m.

First, an actual news story from a few weeks ago:

Church Fires Teacher for Being Woman
From Associated Press
August 21, 2006 7:40 AM EDT

WATERTOWN, N.Y. - The minister of a church that dismissed a female Sunday School teacher after adopting what it called a literal interpretation of the Bible says a woman can perform any job - outside of the church.

The First Baptist Church dismissed Mary Lambert on Aug. 9 with a letter explaining that the church had adopted an interpretation that prohibits women from teaching men. She had taught there for 54 years.

The letter quoted the first epistle to Timothy: "I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent."

The Rev. Timothy LaBouf, who also serves on the Watertown City Council, issued a statement saying his stance against women teaching men in Sunday school would not affect his decisions as a city leader in Watertown, where all five members of the council are men but the city manager who runs the city's day-to-day operations is a woman.

"I believe that a woman can perform any job and fulfill any responsibility that she desires to" outside of the church, LaBouf wrote Saturday.

_____________________________________

Wow. Rough day, huh? Which, by the way, doesn't even come close to mine today, which went something like this (list compiled at 11:30 a.m., keep in mind. I've got a whole day to go):

6 a.m. -- drop off of friend at the airport, which necessitated an alarm clock blaring at approximateloy 5:20 a.m. and me dragging my ass out of a warm, snuggly bed and into business clothes less than 5 hours after I went to bed. Ouch. Deliver friend at appropriate terminal, then steer car to the "cell phone waiting lot", where people can park for free while waiting for loved ones to arrive.
6-7 a.m. -- make sleep nest in fold-down backseat of car in airport cell phone waiting lot (in effort to avoid traffic and stay close, geographically, to the location of a 9 a.m. business meeting downtown). Drift off, thinking how lucky I am to have a practical car.
7 a.m. -- wake, shivering, as the heat has seeped out of my car and left it approximately 45 degrees. Crawl to front seat to turn on car, and heat.
7:03 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:04 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:05 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:06 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine.
7:07 a.m. -- turn key in ignition. Hear "click, click, click" sound, but no engine. Begin to sweat, then swear.
7:17-7:35 a.m. -- pop hood of car to heighten awareness of my distress, then tour parking lot, asking 5 men in pickup trucks if they have jumper cables. None of them do, prompting me to wonder why in the FUCK they have a pickup truck, if they're clearly commuting to a desk job and don't intend to ever haul anything, carry tools or have jumpercables for damsels in distress! Also ask a couple old ladies, one girl my age, and one middle-aged man in a suit with two cell phones attached to his head who spoke something like French. No luck.
7:40 -- call everyone in the area I know (three people) and discover they're all already on their way to work.
7:50 -- get a call from one friend, who gives me the name of a tow-truck company, who I google on my Blackberry and call. They'll be out in 10 minutes.
7:55 -- hear "tap tap" on window, and find two men in navy blue jumpsuits standing outside my window, peering at my battery and asking if I need a jump.
7:56 -- "Well, yeah." (Duh.)
7:57 -- tow truck arrives, prompting two jumpsuited men to say "you called a tow truck?"
7:58 -- "Well, yeah." (Assholes.)
8:00 a.m. -- cables hooked up, key turned, ignition catches. Car is running!
8:01 a.m. -- go over to say thank you to tow truck guy, who cuts me short when he hands me a bill for $62.50. $62.50 for approximately four minutes of light work! Resigned, hand over the money, sign life away in ink, and make mental note to get into the tow truck business as a second career. They make bank.

I won't go into details of my other escapades this morning (spilling of hot latte on inner thigh, 20 dollar parking tab when I go to the meeting for which I paid 62.50 to wait and kill my car, and using a Porta-Potty due to real restrooms being "down for maintenance"), but it's been a long morning.

Reeeeaally looking forward to the weekend. Hope yours is good. And if you happen to have any happy karma vibes to spare, you know where to send 'em.

How not to get a ticket, though you totally deserve one

I, Liz, author of Legwarmers and generally cool girl, otherwise, drive a Pontiac Vibe.

(Can't you just hear the browsers of men across the globe clicking closed right now?)

I chose this vehicle a few years ago when I was doing guerrilla marketing work and traveling by car along the west coast for weeks on end, lugging materials, samples and the like around. I needed a car that was easy to get stuff in and out of, had backseats that would lay down (giving me the cargo room of a pickup truck), and wasn't a gas-guzzler (I'd like to say this was because I'm environmentally conscious, but in this case I was just broke as a joke. Sorry to dissapoint).

A Vibe it was. And while I get lots of "wagon" jokes from my friends (also the "when are you due?" jokes, as it appears to be a car for a girl in a family way), I love the little sucker. It just reminds me of a good-gas-mileage-getting baby SUV. Practical, practical, practical. Decent sound system. Sunroof. And easy to park. So that's the car.

Now, while I'm reasonably good about knowing my way around cars (I used to drive a 1976 Chevy 3/4 ton pickup truck that was constantly needing belts changed, headlights out, flat tires and -- admittedly operator error -- running out of gas) I'm no mechanic. And, while I'm great at getting things done and staying organized at work, I really suck at taking care of myself.

Bills, for example. I have the hardest time just sitting down and paying them. Also, much to my mother's endless frustration, checkbook balancing. I mean, what? (I know, I know, Mom. Very irresponsible.) Even more heartstopping for my parents was when they realized I basically made up my taxes last year and sent in a random check -- the day after they were due -- in the hopes that I got close enough to the right amount that they wouldn't notice that I completely made stuff up. Well, they did. (Who knew those particular government employees were so dilligent? Huh.) My family almost had me convinced I'd be doing prison time for that one. And, of course, mailboxes. But the point I'm trying to get to, really, is my car.

The Vibe regularly gets her oil changed. And sometimes on a slow sunday, I'll get her washed. But since I drove her off the lot two years ago, she's had the same tags (yes, they've been expired for two years) and no front license plate (very illegal in Washington state). Also, while I always pay for insurance (THANK YOU, GEICO, for letting me do that online, and with a credit card!), I only put the proof in my car maybe every other year or so.

So that pretty much sets up this story. Exhausted yet?
_____________________________________

The Vibe doesn't have what you'd call a huge engine or anything, so when it accomplishes huge feats of speed or power, I always give her a little pat on the dash. This weekend, on our way to the cabin (again), my friend L and I did just this after the Vibe crested a steep mountain pass at a respectable 65 miles per hour, seemingly without trying.

"Good girl," we both said, patting the dash like a small child, and turning up the music so we could sing again without hurting each other's ears.

Our windows were down, the sunroof was open, I was halfway through an iced Americano, and things were going just dandy. Heck, we hadn't even had a near-death experience yet. Which may not seem like a big deal to you, but please remember: I'm a pretty bad driver.

As we cruised down the other side of the mountain pass, I looked down at my speedometer.

"95 miles per hour, Linds! The Vibe is totally kicking ass!" I screeched, as if the Vibe were driving all by herself. I braked a little, reining in the wild wagon, to a much more reasonable 75.

"Wow,"I said. "Good thing there weren't any cops around!"
"I didn't know she had it in her," laughed L. <"Has she ever gotten a speeding ticket?"

And that's when I saw it. White car, coming towards us going the opposite way. Three lights in red, white and blue on top.

"Shit!" I breathed, braking hard. "COP."
"Be nonchalant, be breezy," said Lindsey.
Good thinking, I thought. I tossed my head and smiled, hands at 10 and 2, still braking hard. Be breezy. Breezy. Nonchalant. Noncha--

Siren. Before the cop had even completed his U-turn, the lights and siren were on.

"Fuckfuckfuck," I hissed bewteen clenched teeth, in my most ladylike voice, as I was still trying hard to be nonchalant, unsuspecting, breezy. "Motherfucker, I'm going to get a ticket." (Again, think very sweet voice, innocent expression.)

The cop pulled to a stop behind us on the shoulder of the mountain road.

"Linds, quick -- look in the glovebox for my registration. Or whatever," I said.

"Well, what does that look like?" she asked, as she opened the glovebox (which burst open, as if spring-loaded, spewing forth a stack of papers rivaling a standard phone book.) She began to dig, frantically, through the pile.

"I don't know! I don't even know if they're in there! But just look, for God's sakes!"

The officer approached the car. I rolled down the window, removed my sunglasses, and looked up at him.

"Were you watching your speed this afternoon, ladies?"

"Well, I thought we were -- it's actually funny, we were just talking about speeding. And how you shouldn't, and stuff. Plus, we were going downhill, which, you know... inertia... and gravity... makes it hard..." I trailed off, lamely, and gave a sheepish smile.

"Okay, license, please?" The officer didn't seem amused... yet.

"Uh, yeah," I pawed through my predictably unorganized wallet. "See, I just renewed it, so I have this lame paper one for now, but here are my last three expired ones -- which one do you want?"

"That's fine," the officer said. "How about registration? Insurance?"

At this point, I look over to the passenger's seat, where L has been working on finding these super-critical docs for the last 3 or 4 minutes. It more or less looks like a blizzard in the passenger's seat. Where her hands should be there is just a mass of crumpled, multi-colored paper. She's essentially up to her neck in documents, none of which are my registration.

"Is this it?" She asks, holding something out.
"No," said the officer, "That's a service reciept."
"Oh. This?"
"Nope. That's a CD booklet."
"This must be it, then..."
"Those would be a gum wrapper and a condom, miss."

At this point, Lindsey looks over at me, exhasperated and completely convinced we're going to get a ticket that will put me on welfare. I'm hysterically giggling, and apologizing profusely.

"Oh, god. This is so embarrassing. I know it's here somewhere..." L and I both furrow our brows and continue to dig, knowing full well the chances of us coming up with anything are verrrry slim. "Seriously. I think I need to clean out the glovebox, wouldn't you say? I am so sorry. We must be getting close..."

The officer chuckled (I know, I was surprised, too) and walked back to his car, shaking his head.

Finally, "FOUND IT!!!" L had landed her paws on the critical registration document. I held it out the window and waved it enthusiastically at the officer, who was on his walkie talkie and clearly indisposed.

"Officer!! Found it!! Found it!!"

There were cars whizzing by us at easily 70 MPH. I must have been crazy to think the thing wasn't going to blow out of my hands and over the edge of the mountain, lost forever. Somehow, I managed to hang on.

The cop waved, ackgnowledging our find, and came back to the car, after he got off his little walkie talkie thingie.

"Found it, huh?"
"Yep! And my old proof of insurance, too. See, it just expired, but I also just realized something really cool!" I said, like a moron.

Somehow, I thought this man was my friend, and had forgotten entirelly that he had clocked me going 15 miles per hour over the speed limit, in a car with no front license plate, 2-year old tabs, no proof of insurance, and a driver with a paper license in it.

"See, I just realized that I could totally call Geico and they could email me the proof of insurance, and then I could show it to you on my Blackberry!!" When I said "Blackberry", I whipped it out of it's little holder in my car and waved it around like it was buried treasure. "Isn't that cool? Want me to? Because I totally have insurance..."

"You could do that, huh?" the cop smiled (actually smiled!), like you would smile at an 8 year old with fingerpaints on his face or a kindergartener who you just caught eating paste or picking her nose. Or a puppy.

"That is pretty neat," he said. "But that's okay. You guys just get going. And watch for the speed trap up ahead -- it goes down to 50 miles per hour there and you don't want to get caught in that construction zone."

"O...kay," I said, in disbelief. From under a pile of paper, next to me, I heard L's muffled voice: "Th-thanks, officer!"

"Drive safe!" He said, before giving the Vibe a little, affectionate, pat and walking back to his car.

So let's recap, shall we?

1. I have a dorky, underpowered car that I love
2. I am the world's worst driver
3. I completely lack the skills necessary to take responsible care of myself
4. I was going 95 miles per hour in a 60 (in the dorky, underpowered car that I love)
5. An officer caught us, in the dorky underpowered car that I love, with no license plate, expired tags, recklessly driving, with no license or proof of insurance) and with us giggling like unorganized maniacs, throwing papers all over the car and out into the road and flailing technology around like it would save us, and still didn't give us a ticket.

6. I am awesome. Or awesomely lucky. Or both.

Hope your week is going as well as mine!

Three songs and a whole-persona transplant

Two great songs:

George Harrison's "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" played on the ukelele by Jake Shimabukuro
I am thinking about falling in love with Mr. Shimabukuro, even thought I cannot for the life of me pronounce his last name. It's just that he kicks this song's ass, and makes the ukelele look, well, a little rock star and not at all feminine, 1930's-esque or out of proportion. See for yourself.

"Baby Sleep With Me" by Bijou Phillips
Warning: it's totally sad. It makes me totally sad. She says "I'll do what you tell me/and cry if you stop me...tonight, I'm someone else", and it's just self-destructive enough that when I first listened to it I thought about crying and wished a tiny bit that I was disillusioned and desperate because she makes it seem entirely beautiful.

A weird one:

"Company in My Back" by Wilco has been playing over and over on my ITunes and I just now realized that I have no idea what the hell it means. I mean, really -- can someone help me out, here? Here's a bit:

I attack with love, pure bug beauty
I curl my lips and crawl up to you (x2)
And your afternoon
And I've been puking

I move so slow, a steady crushing hand
Holy shit there's a company in my back (x2)

Hide your soft skin, your sorrow is sunshine
Listen to my eyes (x2)
They are hissing radiator tunes...

I mean, it seems like a bug's love song to a woman, who then proceeds to squish it. Which I think is completely rad, but am having a hard time believing. So if you have any other ideas, please enlighten me.

_______________________________

I have a total Heterosexual Hollywood Crush on Zooey Deschanel. I have a long list of women I'd gladly trade heads with, as you may know, (Angie Harmon, Keri Russell, etc.) and Zooey doesn't make the list. That is because I want to trade, um, EVERYTHINGS with her - a kind of like I have for Katharine Hepburn, among very few others.

The girl totally became my surprise favorite when she sang "Baby, It's Cold Outside" in Elf like she was straight out of 1940, but I figured that excited me more than it should have because I'm super festive around the holidays and a jazz geek. But it's April and a few years later and I still think she's fabulous and classy and fascinating. And I just found out she's playing in a film based on my favorite children's book of all time, A Bridge to Terebithia. Should be out some time in 2007, apparently. So there you go.

If I were a boy I'd totally be in love with her. As is, I'd just like to become her. Not sure which is creepier.

Let's take the scenic route, eh?

On Seattle

I.
It's as if I am visiting after being away far too long.
I had almost forgotten the feeling
of damp air on skin,
the sickly sweet smell of garbage and bum piss
in the alleys of downtown,
and the way spring doesn't come until June --
buds bursting into colorful crowns
yesterday nonexistant in the green,
now grinning and bobbing outside my window.

I had almost forgotten the contradiction of this place:
How it buzzes, steel and glass planted in wetland;
The reflections in tall, mirrored buildings
of slender trees tacking down squares of earth along gritty streets;
The reflections in wide, windowed buildings
of two people in one trenchcoat beneath a yellow bus sign, kissing;
The reflections in geometric wonders of buildings:
reverse images of brick buildings and black buildings
and of building itself.

I'd let the pierced blonde woman slip my mind:
glittering tragically in anger and rebellion
with her carefully dirty hair,
lounging always outside the coffee shop
with newsprint-blackened fingers
framed by the fog of a hot-tipped cigarette.

I had almost forgotten the noise:
The pregnant silence just before
a strong-armed man in rainboots throws his head back,
hands outstretched in an embrace with thick air
and belts "Fish! FII-IISH!"
in a gravely bass that makes me want to join him
in my own triumphant release;
And the cacaphony of buses, taxis and horse-drawn carts
jockying for position along First Avenue,
all hissing, honking and clopping.

And I am lucky to have been moved to remember
how in a day amongst
the raincoats
and streetlights
and brick buildings
and buses
it's possible to exist solely on this energy
and be satiated, somehow.

II.
Bumper to bumper,
we creep through the arteries of this city together.
Bonding in bored glances from lane to lane,
we flirt -- one metal pod to another --
at seven, eight, fourteen miles per hour.

III.
I finally peel away from the rush hour rest
and fly.

Brakes shriek as I careen around a corner,
reckless in my new freedom.
I pass the standing firemen,
all navy jumpsuits and square jaws,
at the station
with my windows cranked down and
The Doobie Brothers blaring from the one good speaker.

I sing through the sucker tucked in my cheek
just loud enough for them to notice,
though I don't know the words to this one.

The air screams in one window --
whipping my hair about my neck
pouring in my sleeves, around my ankles
then biting cheeks and dampening eyes --
before it bursts out another.

I watch it in the rearview
as it teases the litter in the street behind me;
I watch it grow smaller.

And I watch the dappled light,
filtered through the trees,
flying over my hood, windshield and me,
faster and faster:
an Appaloosa racing through the veins of this metropolis.

I am actually confessing that I am the stereotypical female driver. This will only happen once, so you'd better read it now.

I am a not good driver. By which I mean, of course, I am extremely bad.

I am so not good that when my most laid-back of friends rides in the car with me, her fingers get all white and claw-like from gripping the "oh, shit!" handle the entire time we're driving.

I am so not good that I have honest-to-God almost killed myself more times than I have fingers doing something stupid like turning out in front of a semi or floundering around for a CD for 3 minutes straight, the whole time forgetting that I have to actually watch the road to know where to point the car.

I am so not good that I have knocked over entire mailbox "ports" -- those huge towers of mailboxes with, like, an entire street's mail in them -- SOBER.

But, you see, in typical me form, I will now demonstrate to you why it is not my fault that I am the stereotypical (OK, worse than stereotypical) bad female driver.

I grew up on a petting zoo. It wasn't a real petting zoo, I just called it that. It was really a house sitting on 3.5 acres in a Seattle suburb. Which meant that we had a lot of space to play with. This meant different things to each member of my family. To my mother, it meant that we could have a small farm's worth of animals: goats, sheep, ducks, chickens, geese, guinea hens (yes, guinea hens), rabbits, dogs, cats, fish, etc. To my brother, it meant he had 3.5 acres and a reasonable amount of yard equipment (hedge clippers, saws, hammers, even a wood-splitter) with which he could accidentally nearly kill or maim himself a number of ways. To my father, it meant that he needed "man-toys" with which to act out a very serious internal make-believe settlers-and-indians game he'd been playing since somewhere between 1949 and 1954. Which meant that, along with a good pipe and regular bonfires, he also needed settler-ish stuff, including a tractor.

Which is why I ended up, one day when i was 7, seated on a tractor going 5 miles per hour towards my garage. I had been told by my father to park said tractor in front of the garage, and initially I was doing great: the vehicle was slowly making its way to the garage thanks to my diligent steering. The problem was that I hadn't been entirely de-briefed by the "chief" on how to park the tractor once I got sufficiently close to the building. So i just kept going, having faith that the Chief would give instructions when it came time to take action. Only he didn't -- well, not until the bucket of the tractor was penetrating the door of the garage. Then he must have heard the ruckus and been stirred from his wigwam work or something, because he came running at me screaming "CLUTCH! CLUUUUTTTTCCHHH!!!!!" as I dutifully steered the tractor straight through the garage door.

I mean, I was SEVEN. Years old. I didn't know what a clutch was. I was busy thinking about what my Barbie was going to wear on her hot date that night, not studying the DMV's illustrated driver's manual.

So anyway, we turned the gaping hole into a very large doggie door, which I crawled through when locked out (or stealing frozen food from the garage freezer) until I grew hips my sophomore year in college.

I think that pretty much set me up to have driving anxiety for the rest of my life. Also, my dad is absolutely worse than me, which is really scary, because while I usually drive badly sober, he usually couples his inability to drive with a few martinis and is really lax on the whole seatbelt thing. Which is not to say he's a drunk, just a... well, nevermind.

There's more on my bad driving, but it will have to wait until next time, as my geekiness may reach dangerous levels if I remain in my office much after 5:10 on a Friday night. So, adieu, my friends. Have a good weekend. And don't worry about me: I now take the bus.

Never ever ride the bus late at night.

Whoa... Were my self-esteem directly tied to the emails I recieve after each post, the last post would have sent me into a complete me-loving frenzy. I would, in fact, be under the impression that I'm only a lyric away from signing a record deal and riding off into the sunset in a tinted-windowed tour bus surviving only on my ability to write mediocre verses. Which would mean I definitely need to go shopping for a leather jumpsuit and an entire wardrobe of sequins.

In short, thank you for your kind words. And message recieved. More to come, as soon as I'm struck by incredible boredom/self pity/love at first sight.

::steps off soapbox::

You remember that magical bus story from when you were little? What's it called?

::googles::

Aaah. "The Magic Schoolbus". Remember it? And Ms. Frizzle taking the kids on these crazy magical bus rides through the galaxy or their intestines or the deep deep scary-glowing-fish-who-look-like-aliens sea? I sort of felt like I was on the grown up, cracked-out version on the bus home last night.

I stayed out late after work with a couple co-workers. Saw a foreign film. Ok, it was an action flick.

::shifty eye action, lip biting, finger twiddling::

FINE. It was "In Her Shoes". Whatever.

The point is, after the movie I had to hop on a bus to get home. The stop I needed to use was the one on 3rd street, just up from the market, in a sketchy retail part of town. Stores close, freaks and gangsters come out, and the transients go to bed in every doorway.

So I'm waiting at the bus, and this guy who smells like he's never wiped in his life keeps walking by me and referring to a "sweetie" (which I sincerely hope wasn't me) and scratching all over and licking his lips. The 10 minutes I spend waiting at the bus stop were some of the longest minutes ever. THEN, I get on the bus, open my book, and begin to plug those uncomfortable little I-Pod headphones into my head when I (well, everyone on the bus) notice there's the quintessential meth-head on the bus, scratching and talking exactly one million miles an hour to what appears to be herself. Well, at first that's what I thought, until a pair of very loud African American women near the front engaged her in an argument.

Turns out My Friend Meth was saying 3 things over and over: "I'm native american!" "I just can't believe how black you are!" and "look at black curly black ness I can't believe gurgle gurgle..." or something. Anyway, lots about the blackness of the black hair of these women with curly black hair and brown skin. Meanwhile, the two ladies seem to have completely forgotten that this woman is clearly under the influence of the demon of drugs, and decide they'll get upset about crazy's comments and start yelling and threatening her. Well, at this point, all book-reading is futile as I'm devising a survival plan should things get ugly. Namely duck under the significantly large man sitting next to me. While I'm busy having escape fantasies and pretending I'm invisible by averting my eyes and ocasionally squeezing them shut and counting to ten, the bus driver begins to yell at the already yelling ladies, only worsening the problem and causing everyone on the bus to increase the intensity of their practiced eye aversion.

THEN, as if we all weren't WAY uncomfortable enough, some stressed-out passenger just can't wait and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE AND PROCEEDS TO SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SMOKE IT ON THE BUS.

Well, this drives the bus driver (heh heh) nearly off his rocker -- which is a bad, bad thing, as he's driving the bus that is supposed to deliver my ass safely home.

Which is where I eventually wound up, after we pulled over on Hwy 99 and threw a couple passengers out.

So it was an eventful night. Tonight, I think I'll watch "Lost" and maybe even pop some popcorn if I'm feeling crazy. Or illegally download a Metallica song. Oooooh. I've really turned over a new, brave, live-life-on-the-edge leaf, haven't I?

Aaw fuck it. I was always a good girl. No amount of piercing, swearing and drinking will cure me of that. Hope you're not dissapointed.

Today's soundtrack -- funky latin and old jazz, sung new:
"Mariposa (en Havana)" by Si Se
"Waters of March" sung by Jane Monheit
"Reflejo de Luna" by Alacran
"Don't leave me now" by Amparanoia

This week's top played

I've been hip-hop heavy this week, re-discovering old favorites and mixing in a few new ones with just a touch of other genres here or there... just a touch. I don't know what it is, but I've been a serial head-nodding, car-dancing, street humming, post-work partying, ass-shaking girl of late.

And I've been noticing all the little things again -- the tiny details that can just make your day because you're sure you're the only one who thinks the 1) graffitti on the 6th floor of the parking garage or 2) the way the new guy at the cafe across the street nervously touches his right eyebrow or 3) the old couple carefully holding hands at the bus stop is beautiful and inspiring, somehow.

I think it's all the sun that's making me a little crazy. It's had a good effect on the way I've been thinking about music, and I've found myself smiling at strangers (which could actually be dangerous on the streets near my office) and actually accepting compliments without eye-rolling or sarcasm. Whatever it is, it's been making me unusually happy. What can I say? You tell me. Listen to these 11 songs (but not in this order) and tell me if you're not feeling sorta new.

1. "Acid Raindrops" -- People Under the Stairs (if you're not listening to them, start now and remember who told you to)
2. "Flava in Ya Ear" -- Craig Mack remix feat. B.I.G., Busta Rhymes, LL, etc.
3. "The Gift" -- Blackalicious
4. "The Wreckoning" -- Boomkat
5. "Ghetto Pop Life II" & "Medieval" -- Danger Mouse & Jemini
6. "Quando Quando" -- Michael Buble feat. Nelly Furtado
7. "Who's to Say" -- Vanessa Carlton
8. "These Words" -- Natasha Bedingdield
9. "Things I've Seen" & "Karma" -- Spooks