The gossip queens (and kings) of this world crouch outside closed doors, ears pressed to the wood (or to the bottom of the paper cup they are using as a hearing aid), holding their breath while they attempt, with varying degrees of success, to hear words intended for other ears.

I’d like to believe that most of us are above this behavior.

But none of us can claim that when particularly juicy words happen to hit our ears, we don’t pause and swivel our sound saucers – just so – to find out where the story heads.

Ad-free entertainment.

As a child, a good friend of mine lived on a hill with a driveway that happened to be situated just perfectly to receive phone interference from one specific but unidentified neighbor. Sometimes when we gabbed endlessly on our cordless landline telephones (as 10 year old girls are wont to do), we would suddenly gain a third voice on the line, passionately regaling the highly dramatic unfolding of her life. We would sit rapt for a few minutes – my friend pausing mid-stride in whatever location had caught the signal – to catch up on her latest exploits and continue the maturation of our virgin ears.

When I visited, we would look suspiciously at all the neighbors in her cul de sac, wondering which of them might be this mystery woman. We never did learn.

Rookie mistake: forgetting about the microphones.

I used to work in a law office. I, along with my boss and the associate attorney, went to trial shortly before I left the firm. The opposing attorney we were up against was a very successful lawyer. He was also an old, mean and creepy man. In other words, he was a walking attorney stereotype. We won, but they appealed and, after I left, my coworker had to continue poring over documents from trial to prepare for the next phase of the case.

(I suppose it’s also relevant to note that I have red hair. Though there’s no way of saying that without ruining the punchline.)

One April 3 I received an email from my old coworker. I was sure it was a belated April Fool’s joke, but was afterward assured otherwise. Said email is reproduced below – only names have been changed to protect the (not so) innocent:

I just came across the following whispered conversation from trial:

Old Man: Do you think [opposing counsel] brought that redhead to the courtroom just to distract me?

Old Man’s Second Chair: He doesn’t know—else she would be wearing a nurse’s outfit.

Old Man: Even without the nurse’s outfit, I can manage to superimpose her on [inaudible]. The worst mistake in my entire life was that I confessed to my current wife my fetish over redheads. It goes way past infatuation. Total fetish.

I still revel in the thought of the judge reviewing transcripts from trial and coming across this gem… Priceless.

Everyone enjoys the occasional audible tablescrap – meant for someone else but accidentally slipped to us thanks to carelessness, indiscretion or uncooperative technology. Nonetheless, under normal circumstances, it is the hallmark of a well-adjusted adult to not worry too terribly much what others think of their overheard conversation.

Still…

Tables turn: the parent is embarrassed by the child.

One day I went shopping with my mother. I was fairly new to reading at the time, and I viewed it as a magical power that allowed me to know things about the world to which I had previously been blind. It was my mission to soak up as much knowledge as possible which, at my height, was limited to knowledge placed around four feet high and lower.

Mom!

What?

::Pointing to a box of garbage bags with a “cinch” feature::

I thought that said CHINK!!!!

::Mom is silent::

Hahahahahah! I thought it said CHINK! Isn’t that funny!

Shhhhh.

But it says cinch. I thought it said CHINK though! That’s so weird. CHINK. Funny sounding word, right?

Be quiet.

What’s wrong? I though it said CHINK! Isn’t that silly?

I’m sure this went on for some time before she was forced to yank me to the side and explain very quietly in my ear that “chink” was a derogatory term – a fact of which I had been blissfully unaware until this time – and that perhaps it would be best if I did not yell it, at the top of my lungs, repeatedly. Gotta learn sometime.

Don’t land yourself on The List.

One far too early, still-dark, blizzarding morning last winter I found myself waiting in an airport for a flight with my boss. We chit-chatted quietly – everyone around us still wiping sleep from unfocused eyes and clutching coffee cups like lifelines. The bland conversation turned to phones ringing, and I ended a sentence a little too loudly with

Ya, but she was totally BLOWING UP.

I took a moment to let this particular mixture of locale and word choice sink fully into my brain – to adequately congratulate myself on the amazing yogi flexibility that allowed me to place both of my feet into my mouth simultaneously.

Then a deep breath, and some more too-loud words, this time intentionally -

…you know, SHE RECEIVED A LOT OF PHONE CALLS ON HER PHONE SO SHE WAS BLOWING UP WITH POPULARITY ON HER PHONE WITH THE RINGING AND THINGS.

Whew. Narrowly dodged that bullet. I mean…NARROWLY AVOIDED A SITUATION THAT COULD HAVE BEEN BAD because I might have ended up on a do-not-fly list by accident for saying the wrong thing. NOT A REAL BULLET. A WORD BULLET. WAIT. NO BULLETS. JUST… UM…YA. nevermind.

There was a party in my backyard this weekend. A going away party for my roommate, A. She was one of the first people I met when I moved here three years ago, and I met her through the first roommate I had here, C (though I moved into this house because of The Boy, not A…it’s a small world). C came to the party with his fiance. The two of them have just moved back from Madison, Wisconsin, where she was pursuing her masters. We got to talking and reminiscing and then suddenly remembered and recounted another mini-adventure.

This one time when I still lived with C, my friend Y was visiting me. It was fall. There is this awesome small island, barely outside of town (a 20 minute drive away) that has farms and nude beaches (of which I have yet to partake) and all manner of islandy things. In the fall there is a pumpkin patch. You can frolic in a corn maze and pick your carving pumpkin straight out of the muddy patch and drink apple cider and use porta-potties (well hey, it can’t all be lollipops and gumdrops, can it?).

On Y’s last day in town, we decided to go pick out some pumpkins. We went in the afternoon. C drove us in his pickup. We frolicked in the maze. We picked our pumpkins. We drank our cider. We…used the facilities? Who knows. Probably.

As day transitioned to eve, we prepared to depart. We started up the truck and made our way out of the bumpy makeshift parking lot. We rolled down the windows and enjoyed the breeze.

And then we hit a long line of cars.

I guess everyone was trying to leave. The island has one long road circling the perimeter, and one skinny bridge crossing to the main land. So there are no alternate routes. So we waited in traffic.

And waited.

And waited.

It was that kind of traffic where everyone turns off their engines and kids get out of all the cars and run around in the grass, making temporary fast friends with the neighboring car’s kids.

Normally, this wouldn’t really be a problem on a Sunday afternoon. But C had a gig. And Y had to catch her plane home.

Oh. And we had almost no gas.

But what can you do? So we kicked off our shoes and relaxed in the pickup’s bed, admiring the fall leaves and soaking up the nice weather. We watched kids catch butterflies. We shot the shit. All in all, it was quite enjoyable.

But then it was an hour later.

To be fair, the truck had moved. A few feet.

I had to pee. So badly.

The road runs along the front yards of homes. There was no bush to duck behind. Before we had hit the traffic, we had made it too far from the patch to walk back without losing the car. So I waited.

And waited. C called to tell people he might miss his gig. Y called to see if she could switch to another flight, which she couldn’t. Every time we got to inch forward, we threw the truck in neutral and pushed it to conserve gas in the hopes that we could make it off the island and to a gas station before puttering out.

My cousin calls. He’s in town from out-of-state, want to hang out? I tell him where we live and that we’re on our way – but going nowhere fast.

And then I couldn’t wait any longer. And so, though it is totally not my style, I hopped out of the bed of the truck and knocked on someone’s door.

Um. Ya. See…I’m so very sorry, but um…well. There’s really bad traffic and I have to pee REALLY badly and I’m so sorry to bother you but –”

The woman waves me in

First door on your right. You’re the third person today. This happens every year.

I thank her profusely and run to the bathroom. And when I get back out, the line of cars is moving. Slowly, but not inching slowly.

Hooray!

Wait. Crap. Where is the truck?

I’m still barefoot, but I’m worried that if this starts really moving they’ll have to get out of line to wait for me and then it’d take even LONGER to get off and it’d be my fault when everyone missed their shows/flights or the truck ran out of gas.

So I bolt barefoot down the road. It’s pebbly and ouchy.

Turns out it hadn’t gone that far. And it stopped right up again. So I ran for nothing. They’re right there. Six houses ahead.

I hop into the truck, and my heel is throbbing, so I pull it up to look at it. I must have stepped on some tiny shard of glass that worked its way into my heel because it’s bleeding underneath the heel callous and creating an interesting Rorschach.

So thereafter they push and I steer when we move, because now I’m lame.

We eventually make it off the island, some two hours later (usually probably a 10 minute drive around the island).

We get gas.

We mad dash back to the house, where my cousin and his friend have had an interesting stand-off with our other roommate wherein he was thinking “who are these punks loitering by our house?” and they were thinking “who is this dude drinking on her porch?” which has since resolved, and they are sitting on the couch on the porch, having a beer with the other roommate.

We throw C’s gear into the bed of the truck and he zooms off.

We throw Y in cousin’s car, and drive like crazy people to the airport.

C makes it to the his show at the last possible second.

Y catches her plane at the last possible second.

I hobble around and hung around with my cousin.

It was a happy ending.

Six months later, I still had an inadvertent tattoo on my heel to remind me of our random adventure. Honestly, I didn’t half mind. And, fortunately, it was on the sole of my foot so no one had occasion to say, “interesting ink…what’s the story?” to which I would have had to reply, “see, this one time I had to pee…”

A friend of mine recently met me at my office after work so we could go for a walk in the park up by my old apartment. On her way to my office she got stopped by a canvaser, and when I emerged from the building, I saw her but was held up by another canvaser.

When we had extricated ourselves, we went up to my office for her to change, and upon emerging were hassled by a third, and exceedingly pushy, canvaser.

I had long been of the opinion that, hell, we’re in public. They’re as welcome to be out as I am. So while everyone else griped about them, I shrugged my shoulders. I would just smile, say no thank you, and keep walking.

But as of late I’ve been less and less pleased with them (I know it’s just a crappy job – I don’t mean “them” as much as the situation).

See, I like to interact with people in public. I like to make eye contact, and smile. I like to be friendly, and to the best of my ability, I try to help out strangers. When they drop something, I’ll pick it up and hand it to them. If someone asks for directions, I’m happy to provide them. And the thing is, as hippie-y as it sounds, it’s really exhausting to avoid eye-contact like the plague or interact with someone and have to refuse them what they’re asking for over and over again.

So, being that my office is right smack dab downtown near all the shopping, the corner outside the building usually has at least three canvasers at a time. At least. This means that if I go a few blocks away to grab lunch at a food cart, I probably am faced with five canvasers on the roundtrip (since they’re not just on the corner in front of my office, but all the other high profile corners too). It’s completely exhausting. They grab your hand or stand in your way. The girls are self-righteous. The guys use their job as an excuse to flirt like drunk frat boys. It’s exhausting.

So as my friend and I hiked up to the park, we were discussing this, and she explained that canvasing was the only job she could get when she got into town, and she worked off commission, and it sucked. So she tries to humor them a little (though she also said that she had made an effort to pinpoint those who worked on her turf and avoid talking to them since she knew they’d probably had enough of it daily).

So this week as I’m coming out of the library, some guy says, “Hey you, pretty girl with the green shirt.” He’s the third canvaser I will have passed since leaving my office at noon. I use my normal line, “I have time, not money. Do you need volunteers?” He brushes that off, so I say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not giving away any money.” And he assures me that he won’t ask for my money. So. I humor him. I listen to his ridiculously long spiel. He’s from Greenpeace. There’s this horrible paper company cutting down old growth trees to use for toilet paper. They’ve tried appealing to the company, but it won’t budge. So consumers need to take action. Great, I say. Tell me again the name of the company, and I’ll happily boycott them. He says that’s great but rushes on to say that the only way to make change is through organizations like Greenpeace. I stop him to ask if Greenpeace wants my money. He said, “Yes, but I’m not asking you to give money to ME. See. I didn’t lie.” Which outright pisses me off.

Does this really work? Do people stop and get cajoled into listening and then say, “Ok, I’ll give you money even though you just tricked me.”? I highly doubt it.

I repeat that I’m not giving money. He asks why. Again, I humor him and explain that when I give money to charity, I do so after having sought and researched the cause myself – not just because some stranger asks me on the street. He says, dripping with self-righteousness, “That’s great. Those are nice shoes you have. Did you research them before you bought them?”

Not ever knowing when to shut up, I answer honestly and say, “No” (I bought these $7 flip flops at a 7/11 in a tiny town this past Memorial Day when we were on the beach and all I had were sneakers.) But quickly follow with, “I’m not arguing with you,” and turn to walk away.

He says to my back, “I’m not arguing with you. I’m just trying to show you the error of your ways…” Not even feigning a sincere desire to be helpful – just dripping with disdain.

And first of all, Greenpeace, that is some bullshit tactic you have of getting money. And not only is it abhorrent, but I highly doubt people go, “Oh! There are errors in my ways! Oh my god. I hadn’t realized. Here – have a twenty.”

Second, I just kept walking, but it was fifteen minutes later, back at my desk, when I stopped wanting to march right back to him and say, “Hey, Punk. Did you research those industrials you have in your ear? Do you know where the metal is mined from? Or are they bone? Do you know where the bone for those earrings comes from (most come from irresponsible farming)? Oh, and you have a really nice faux-hawk. Did you thoroughly research the mousse you used? Do you pay to be a member of Greenpeace? Do you have any idea if the TP in your apartment is made by a subsidiary of Kimberly Clark?”

That’s what I thought, punk.

[I know - I just fell of the face of the earth, didn't I? Oh well. I'm back.]

When The Boy is not ever-so-kindly carting my lazy self around, my main mode of transportation is bus. It is how I get to and from work most days.

There is a whole culture around riding a bus that you would never think to dream up if you don’t ride one yourself. There are expected things, like the regulars you see every day, and there are things less easy to predict.

For example, I had no idea that a disproportionately large percentage of my Seasonal Changes mental landscape would be tied to riding the bus.

I distinctly remember one morning during my first winter in Portland when it had snowed and half the buses got beached, crisscrossing lanes of traffic, hazards flashing. And so I walked to work. I walked about thirty blocks. As I scaled my way up from random residential streets to larger, commercial streets, more and more similarly stranded commuters joined the stream until I crossed the bridge with a brigade of other walking workers. It looked like a trudging exodus.

A few mornings later, when the buses were back on their routes, but the snow had yet to melt, I waited at my normal stop. Things were slippery, and when the bus started braking a block away and finally halted out in the middle of the street, I started to step off the curb to meet it and climb aboard. The door opened and the driver yelled, “STOP! STOP RIGHT THERE! WAIT! STEP BACK!” frantically waving her hand in the palm-out “stop” position. Startled, I stepped back onto the curb before I realized she was trying to keep me safe: the bus was slowly sliding towards the curb. It groaned and creaked and slowly slid right up to the curb, where it came to rest.

The driver nonchalantly relaxed her hand and cheerfully welcomed me, “Mornin’! Come on up!”

This past winter, so many buses were getting temporarily (or less so) stranded that the bus schedule was useless and, not having any desire to wait 45 minutes in the snow (in my ill-equipped wardrobe) for my morning ride to show up, I would check the transit website. They knew that guessing arrival times was useless, so they’d handily hijacked the bus GPS system to track arrivals at stops. You could look up your bus stop and watch:

1.3 miles away.

…

Now 1.1 miles away.

Now 1 mile. Time to go trek to the stop.

But, I’m guessing due to the slipping and sliding, there were times that you’d watch and it would be more like

1.3 miles away.

…

1.3 miles away.

…
…
1.3 miles away.

…

1. wait. 1.FOUR miles away? It’s getting farther away?

But now it’s summer.

We were having a heat spell last week, and it was HOTT. Aych. Oh. Double tee. HOTT. It’s the kind of hot where I’m guiltily ecstatic that we have central air in the house. I know I should leave it off and tough it out and be a good little environmentalist, but when it’s bedtime and your indoor thermometer reads 87 and it’s still so much hotter outside that you don’t want to open the window…well… Well nothing. The air conditioner is on, set to a very reasonable temperature, and it is AWESOME.

Anyway.

The transit website now has reports that the light rail train is running off schedule because they’re running at slower speeds to prevent issues from the heat.

Two days ago, the bus I was riding on overheated and the always-surly-but-especially-surly-that-day driver informed us we’d have to just wait it out, or grab the next bus, whichever came fist. It wasn’t long before we were back in the fight, but by then a bunch of people had harumphed and left. Presumably to walk in 100+ weather. Ha. Have fun with that.

Today on the drive home, the bus’s constant whir-hum suddenly dropped off and, without hesitation the way-less-surly-more-awesome-than-the-other-woman driver said, “Ok folks. Listen up. We just lost the air. You’re going to have to open all the windows.” One of the street characters (the ones who always know the drivers and sit up front to chat) said, “That’s too bad for you, huh?” and the driver shrugged it off, “Fifth time today. Last night my engine died with no warning and I had to coast to the shoulder. This is nothing.”

All the homeward-bound commuters did the obligatory sigh, head shake, tsk, scowl, and/or outraged yelp to bemoan Fate’s gall in inconveniencing them so. Then, in unison, everyone dramatically threw their arms in the air and heaved open all the windows.

This is the general attitude People get when something doesn’t operate as they wish it would. When the buses slide, or never show up because they’re stuck in a snow bank, or overheat, or quit pushing air…people get really grumpy.

And I throw my arms in the air with disgust and share a tsking moment with my bus-bench-neighbor like the rest of them.

But the secret is that I really love it when these things happen. It’s like having a little, mini, harmless adventure that doesn’t really inconvenience your day. Of course I only love it until I don’t, and I only love it when I’m in a pleasant mood, which I am upset to find myself in less and less these days (but that’s a topic for another day). But generally, when I am what I would like to call my normal, good-natured self, these adventures make me positively giddy.

There’s something really fun about being stuck in a (minor) pickle with other people and having to make the best of it. It’s the stuff corny bonding tales are made of, and I eat it right up.

I had occasion to go down to visit my family for the Fourth of July this year, which was most lovely.

I think it’s common in a lot of places to go to some city center or park and watch a fantastical public fireworks display, but I imagine this is especially true in California since fireworks are illegal (not that that stops anyone).

We did just that. It’s one of those rare exceptions to my general distaste for large crowds when I get starry-eyed and clasp my hands together with glee, skipping and batting my eyelids while I expound on the sheer splendor of the display of community.

The streets get blocked off, and people pour in from all directions.

They play cheesy music, which fortunately we could not hear from our vantage.

I tried to take some photos with the fancy shmancy “fireworks” setting, but I never could quite time them right, and consequently, the best I have to offer is:

Which I think is pretty cool. But ya, I know. Not fabulous.

I think the best part was this mom, dad, and young-ish kid behind us. They were chattering away in what sounded like it might be Russian. They would chat and then fall silent, then chat, and then silence. And after one bout of particularly contemplative and wowed silence, the kid suddenly pipes up very urgently with something that I can’t understand but is clearly a question. And mom says, heavily accented, “fye-er wairks.” Another moment of silence as the kid rolls this around in her mind. “Fye. Er. WAIRKS?” she asks. “Fye-er wairks.” And then she broke it down and asked something about “FYE-ER?” and, after some explanation from her mom, “WAIRKS!?” and some more explanation. It was priceless.

And the thing is, since we couldn’t hear the crappy music, you don’t really have a cue for the finale (what with the musical swelling and all). So the big fireworks go off in nicely timed succession, and then every so often a multitude of the itty bitty ones go off down below

And you’re like, is THAT the finale? Is it ending now? Ya…that must be the finale….it seems finale-ish.
…

Oh.

…

I guess not. Still going…

And that happens a small handful of times, and you’re wondering if there will even BE a finale or if they’ll just sort of go until they’re done because, at this point, the sky is pretty smoky and you’re figuring with all the budget cuts and all the cities that have canceled the fireworks displays, how many more can they HAVE? Right? And my mind is wandering…like I wonder if, in countries that are at war (on their land, not in some faraway place), fireworks are a no-no. Because even if it’s a well-known holiday, if you’re used to hearing bombs go off, do you really want to hear explosion after explosion? I wonder…

So I’m wondering.

And BAM BAM BAM KABLOOM BAM BOOM BIM BAME BOME BOOM BOOOOOOOOOOOM.

‘Splosions galore. Nothing artistic about it. Just lots of gunpowder.

Turns out, THAT was the finale.