The entire Bus Fam is walking home from the 27 after a lovely downtown shopping adventure*. On the way, we run into a young gentleman who, though possibly somewhat intoxicated, is perfectly friendly and polite.
After saying hello to all of us, he puts his fist out, at Chicklet level, and asks for a pound. Chicklet looks down at his hand, gives him her (in)famous side eye, and says, “My knuckles are hurting.”
The man shrugs off the slight and tries again, this time with an open hand. “How about a high five?” he asks.
Chicklet looks at his hand, then her own, repeats the side eye, and replies, “I think my hand is hurting, too.”
*The purpose of said adventure was to purchase “big-boy dress-up clothes” for Busling, for a wedding we’re attending next weekend. My boy in dress-up clothes = cu-ute!
Chicklet, Busling, and I are waiting for a slightly late 27/17 to visit my brother in Ballard.
Chicklet: “I wish the bus would do certain things.”
Bus Chick: “What things?”
Chicklet: “Take us to Uncle Jeremy’s house right now.”
Northbound 17, 11:30 AM (en route)
Somewhere on Dexter, we get a great view of Busling’s favorite building out our window.
Busling, hollering: “Hello, Space Needle! Helloooo Space Needle!”
Eventually, another building blocks his view.
Busling: “I don’t want to say goodbye.”
A woman boards at Harborview and immediately announces, “This bus smells like curry and armpits!”
I didn’t smell any curry.
Two high-school age girls are chatting in the seat facing the back door. The conversation is lighthearted, until one of the girls casually checks the ingredients of the “juice” concoction she is drinking.
Girl 1, staring at the bottle: “Skim milk? What’s skim milk?”
Girl 2: I don’t know. “Maybe it’s like soy milk. I can drink soy milk.”
They discuss for a few minutes but neither seems to know for sure. Girl 1 starts to become agitated. Both start looking around for someone to ask and finally tap a boy about their age, who is listening to his headphones.
Girl 2: “Excuse me, do you know what ‘skim milk’ is?”
The boy looks at them blankly. Since I’ve been eavesdropping (per usual), I butt in.
“It’s milk without fat in it.”
Girl 1: “Does it come from a cow?”
Girl 2, giggling: “You’re going to Hell.”
Chicklet, at the top of her lungs: “Mommy, I have a wedgie!”
Woman across the aisle: “Those can be really uncomfortable.”
The bus driver is talking relationships with the BDP (apparently, a regular passenger) in the seat nearest to him.
Driver: “You know what they say: If you can’t be with the one you love…”
BDP: “Love the one you’re with.”
Driver: “Yeah. Don’t tell her that, though. She’s the type that will kill the messenger.”
Back when I was a young BCiT, I made my grandma mad by (unintentionally) announcing her age to a full 55. At six, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want people to know how old she was. Even now, I find all the shame and secrecy surrounding the number of years a person has been on the planet to be somewhat difficult to understand.
Folks, I’m no spring chicken. Unlike my father, I can’t claim to predate I-5*, but I am old enough to have a (somewhat fuzzy) memory of the Sonics only national championship. (Sorry, didn’t mean to start down that path again.) I’ve tended to view my advancing age as a good thing, since—for one thing—it’s advancing. (I’ll take being alive plus one over the alternative any day.) It also means I’ve lived enough years to have learned a thing or two—and that I’m inching ever closer to that Metro senior discount. I digress.
Last Friday, on an afternoon 3 ride home from visiting some friends on Queen Anne, little Chicklet passed the time (and entertained her neighbors) by making up a song about us.
The lyrics went something like this: “Mommy’s 38, 38, 38; Mommy’s 38—and Rosa’s 3!”
*I do, however, hope to outlive it.
Your almost-three-year old daughter, while playing with some pig figurines that her grandma gave her, picks up the “mommy” pig and says, “She has to leave; she’s going to a meeting.”
And when you ask her what kind of meeting the mommy pig is going to, she says, “A transit task force.”
You know you’re a bus chick if…
You know you’re a bus chick if… (part II)
Somewhere near Blanchet, two black, high-school age girls board. They use the back door, because it’s closer to them when the bus stops.
The driver immediately starts hollering at them to come to the front and pay. His tone is harsh, definitely out of bounds for the level of infraction. The girls do as he asks but do not comment until they find their seats, at which point they begin whispering to each other in earnest.
At UW Medical Center, a blonde, twentysomething woman boards through the back door, presumably for the same reason as the girls. Again, the driver starts yelling.
“You need to come up here and pay. Do NOT get on at the back!”
The woman looks surprised but shrugs and complies.
One of the high school girls mutters to the other, “At least we know he’s not racist.”
On a Wednesday morning walk to Chicklet’s preschool, she requests to be carried. Per usual, I decline.
“You don’t need to be carried, you’re a…”
Chicklet, who has apparently changed her tune since our recent discussion of the topic, anticipates my response and cuts me off.
“I’m not a bus chick!” hollers my little Link-obsessed darling. “I’m a train chick.”
And for the record, I was going to say, “big girl.”