[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’m riding the bus home from work today, and sitting in front is a middle-aged and portly woman, sporting a large, brightly-colored, unmissable, reusable PVC shopping bag.

On the front is a drawing of a cat walking away. You know that joke? What does a cat look like walking away? And then you pucker your lips and hold an arm above your head like you’re about to do the snorkeling dance move from the 60’s (70’s? I don’t know. Give me a break. I wasn’t alive yet.) but instead you wave it back and forth like a cat tail. Get it? Ya. THAT joke.

Anyway, this bag has a picture of a cat walking away. And book-ending the picture of the cat’s asshole are the words, in chubby, playful typeface, “Cat [insert asshole] Butt”.

It’s the height of sophistication really. The newest thing. Get one or be left behind with last month’s fashion.

So there’s this unnecessarily large picture of a cat walking away, the words Cat Butt, and then the side of the bag has a bunch of other, smaller drawings of other cats walking away. Quite diverse actually.

And all I can think, is that I am so relieved to know that I will not be around when some anthropologist or alien invader comes across these impossibly un-decomposable bags a bazillion years from now and writes a dissertation beginning, “Though finding Object Carriers from the era of the 21st century Human is nary newsworthy (these artifacts being plentiful and theories abounding on why these creatures found the collection of objects to be such a strong indicator of social standing), I would oblige you to please review the slides of this most recent find. As you can see, the multitude of artist’s careful renderings indicates that this culture had a clear affinity for, and perhaps worship of, feline anuses. Hopefully further research and subsequent finds will clarify of what benefit these anuses were to the species.”

Why is it (my totally unfounded and un-researched belief) that people who are born missing limbs do not generally receive/obtain prostheses, yet those who are mangled during the course of their life often do (resources permitting)?

And is this living proof of the adage, “ignorance is bliss”?

And, more importantly, do those who grow up with limbs develop neural pathways that then feel neglected when a limb is lost, whereas those born with imperfections develop different pathways altogether and never have need to feel disabled or inconvenienced by their situation?

Hmm.

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.

In this predominantly rainy city, legend has it that once the Fourth of July has come and gone, we’re in the clear until the seasons morph to cold again.

I don’t have a problem with rain interspersed amongst warm, sunny days. In fact, I enjoy them. They are a welcome respite to the GO GO GO attitude of nice weather. Like a day off. An excuse to cozy up.

But nonetheless. Pfffft.