Tag Archives: living the life

They don’t turn into pumpkins–they just stop running

T. Byrd to Bus Chick:

“I’m sure this is a no-brainer question…but what’s the secret to not feeling like you’re always chasing down the bus? I swear I get up with enough time. Then next thing I know I’ve squandered away the time and I’m running down the street to make the bus. Mind you, I was lollygagging and missed the 9:25 bus. I didn’t have time to get my breakfast. So, I chose to take the 9:55 bus so I could get something to eat and not have to rush.) I made my shake but then got on the computer. Sure enough, I ended up playing frogger across 70th because I could see the bus was coming. Help me out. How do you keep yourself from getting on the bus frazzled and sweaty?”

This recent e-mail from my friend Tosha (who lives in Kirkland and works in Redmond and has recently started taking the bus to work) reminded me of one of the down sides of being a bus chick: living one’s life according to a bus schedule (also known as Buschickrella Syndrome). If a person who drives leaves her house five minutes late, it is likely that she will arrive at her destination five minutes late–unless, of course, traffic conditions change drastically in those five minutes. If a bus chick leaves her house five minutes late, it is likely that she will miss the bus she intended to catch, and depending on that bus’s schedule and the schedules of any buses she must transfer to, will arrive at her destination anywhere from 15 minutes to well over an hour late. I have countless examples of this, the most recent being yesterday, when I ran out of the house in a state of disarray (run in panty hose, half-done hair) to make sure I got to my brother‘s graduation on time. You see, on Sunday, the 48 runs every 30 minutes, and taking an extra three minutes with the flat iron would have meant terrible seats and, possibly, missing his walk across the stage.

As a bus chick, I am constantly aware of the clock. I time restaurant visits (“You get the check and I’ll run to the restroom, and we’ll meet in the front in five minutes.”), errands, family visits, and of course, work schedules. As I said to Tosha in my (less-than-helpful) response:

“I find it especially hard to be a bus rider when I’m at a party or event and the last bus leaves before I’m ready to go, or the buses run infrequently (like an hour apart). It means I have to rush my exit, which I hate, and it means I can’t let the evening flow spontaneously, which I also hate.”

Truth be told, it can be exhausting. This is not to say that it’s more exhausting than the false freedom of car ownership. (Seattle traffic and parking? Gas prices? Accidents? Pollution? No thanks.) It just means that we have a long way to go before living a public-transit-dependent life is as easy as it should be.

What do you guys think?

For those of you who live without cars: Do you feel the frustration of schedule dependence? On the other side, what do you see as the freedoms of living without a car?

For those of you who drive and bus: What adjustments do you make when you ride? Do you find it difficult to time your life to fit the schedules?

And speaking of church…

Forgive me Busfather, for I have sinned. Over the long weekend, I coveted two classic cars: a 60s-style Oldsmobile Rocket and 50-something Chevy Bel Air. I didn’t want to ride in them Busfather, but I couldn’t help staring. They looked so beautiful, with their rag tops and candy paint and whitewall tires, the bass from their sick stereos shaking the shelters under which I stood.

OK, maybe I did want to ride, but just a little bit.

And while I’m on the subject, I might as well confess: Over the weekend, I rode in cars to destinations I could have reached on the bus. I’m usually very strong in my refusals, Busfather, but what’s a girl to do when well meaning people all but insist on transporting her? You see, they haven’t yet found the faith and do not know the spiritual benefits a bus-based life can provide.

As penance, for my sins, Busfather, I promise to sit in the back of the every route I ride (subjecting myself to bus luh and extra-loud headphones) for a full week. I can only hope that this will earn your forgiveness.

Buschickrella

Birthday boyToday is my little (actually younger–he’s not so little) brother Jeremy’s birthday. To celebrate the 26th anniversary of two equally cataclysmic events (his arrival on the planet and Mount St. Helens’ eruption), he’s having a house party, and he was kind enough to invite his old, almost-married-lady sister. What screams old lady louder than even the most sensible pair of bus chick shoes? Leaving a party before midnight. Unfortunately, the last bus leaves his street at 11:57, so that’s just what I’ll be doing.

Perhaps if I found a cute pair of glass slippers…

Still more on mommies

This time, mine.

In honor of Mother’s Day, my March 29th Real Change column:

Back on the 8

Every time I hear Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely,” I am transported to the house where I grew up and to the joy of dancing in the living room with my father on a Saturday afternoon. “The Men All Pause” by Klymaxx reminds me of my older sister, Carey, gorgeous and powerful and singing along with the record player in our childhood bedroom. Anything by Black Sheep takes me back to my college days, when my girlfriend, Monique, and I would beg our dorm-mates for a ride to the current “it” club and dance ourselves dizzy to “This or That.”

Buses, too, have associations for me. The 2 was the route I took to my elementary school. On one ride, a schoolmate got “beat up” (read: slapped and pushed a few times until the bus driver intervened) by some older girls. To this day, I cannot ride a 2 without remembering that incident. I was on the 545 the first time I saw my fiancé, and I will always associate it with the thrill of our first few months together, when the endless, inch-by-inch crawl across the lake seemed far too short. The 194, the “airport bus,” reminds me of all of my best adventures, including (and especially) my trip to Paris last May.

Then there’s the 8, which takes me from my house in the Central District to 15th Ave. on Capitol Hill. I love 15th — August Wilson vibes at Victrola, Frida Kahlo coasters at Casita, scrambles and coffee cake at Coastal Kitchen — and have long associated the 8 with this marvelous street.

In January of 2004, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time in as many years, and my reasons for traveling to 15th Ave. changed. I rode the 8 to Group Health for surgeries, chemo appointments, CT scans, and emergency-room visits. My once-favored route came to symbolize sickness, sadness, and fear. After the cancer went into remission last October, I avoided that bus, along with everything else that reminded me of my mother’s illness.

Last week, I received devastating news: my mother’s cancer has returned. This time, it is not curable. Friday morning, I rode the 8 to meet her for the first of what will undoubtedly be many terrifying and unpleasant hospital visits. But the memories that came to me during that ride were not of toxic drugs, or blood clots, or chances of survival. They were of the Vogue magazines and heated blankets in the infusion center, the chalky “banana” barium shakes in radiology, and the beautiful view from the fifth floor of the main building. They were of endless waits in urgent care — one of which was rewarded by a visit from the cutest emergency-room doctor ever to walk the halls of a hospital — and of diva outfits temporarily replaced by hospital gowns.

The 8 reminds me of laughter. It reminds me of my mother.

Today we took the Water Taxi over to my parents’ side of Elliott Bay, and the whole darn family (me, Adam, both brothers, one brother’s girlfriend, Mom, and Dad)–minus my sister, who lives in California–had brunch at Salty’s.

It’s been a weekend of boats, mothers, and celebrations.

The Fam, minus Carey, plus Adam and LaurenBus Chick on the Water Taxi

Speaking of mommies and sidewalks…

Today Adam and I went to a party (OK, it was a baby shower) on Bainbridge Island. Of course it was a piece of cake (pun intended) getting to Colman Dock (took the 27 to 3rd & Columbia, then walked west on Marion all the way to the passenger terminal), but the rest of the trip was a bit more of a challenge.

The party was held at the home of the mother-to-be’s sister, which was about three miles from the ferry dock. The shower started at 1:00, and the Kitsap Transit route we needed to take didn’t start running until 3:40. (It was one of those commuter routes that runs outbound only in the morning and inbound only in the afternoon.) We could have taken a taxi, but since it was Saturday and we weren’t pressed for time, we decided to walk.

The first mile was lovely. It was a beautiful day, and Winslow’s downtown area has lots of shops, restaurants, and people. We passed an outdoor farmer’s market and several tree-lined neighborhoods. Then, the sidewalks ran out. The roads turned into the curvy, stoplight-free, suburban/country highway variety. We walked another mile on the shoulder of a fairly busy road, alternating between a narrow bike path and the tall grass that was growing alongside the ditch, hoping that everyone who drove past us was both sober and competent. I’m not sure that this was true, but no one hit us (though one car did run into the bike lane and come very close).

Near the end of mile two, the father-to-be passed us and turned around to pick us up–thankfully, right before the bike lane ran out.

The good news: There was red wine at the shower, and I won one of the games. I guess all these years riding buses with pregnant women has made me pretty good at estimating their girth.

One spare tire begets another

Looking to regain (or hang on to) the trim figure you had in your teens? Forget about Atkins and South Beach. Don’t sign up for costly gym memberships or trendy exercise classes you don’t have time to attend. Instead, try Bus Chick’s Diet Plan.

My plan is simple (no counting of carbs, fats, calories, or “points”), effective (judging from all the sexy bus riders I know), and best of all, free. You can still eat ice cream, and you never even have to look at a treadmill–unless, of course, you happen to like them. All you have to do, folks, is drop that other dead weight: your car.

Here’s why the plan works (it’s not rocket science, but indulge me):

1. You will exercise more.
You will walk to and from bus stops and run to catch buses when you are late. You will walk with grocery bags and shopping bags. (On Saturday, my car-free fiancé walked from his house to mine–about half a mile–with a coffee table.) You will walk up hills. You will walk up stairs. When you get a late-evening craving, you will be forced to walk to the corner store to find that food you are ahankerin’ for.

2. You will eat less.
More often than not, you will decide that your late-night craving is not worth the effort of walking to that corner store. Your desire for fast food will also be significantly reduced, since you will no longer have the option of drive throughs. (Does anyone actually sit in those places to eat?) You are less likely to have a lot of junk food in your house, as grocery shopping trips require effort and planning (making them rare), and each item purchased must be carried–and therefore carefully considered.

People of Seattle, stop spending so much money, time, and effort on diets that don’t work and try my plan. While I can’t promise that you’ll end up with the body of Beyonce or The Rock, I can guarantee that you’ll lose at least a ton.

Fidelity not getting you the results you want?

Try Metro!

We bus chicks aren’t just sexy; we also have big bank accounts.

“Terry Bassett, head of the Yolo County bus system, sent us some calculations he had done that show a person could save $500,000 over the next 25 years if that person took the bus rather than a car and invested all monthly savings conservatively in a pre-tax 401(k) plan.” – Sacramento Bee

Considering a career change?

If only driving the bus were this easy!
Yesterday was, apparently, take your daughter/son (or nephew) to work day. This young man (cheeks? check!) was learning how to be a bus driver. Unfortunately, according to his aunt, the lovely (and fortunate–see today’s earlier post) woman at the wheel of the 39, there’s a bit more to it than taking a nap in the sunniest seat on the bus.