Its 7:30 a.m. and I'm riding a metrobus of fictional proportions into the city to my job serving at the tea room. It feels like I'm a Hot Wheels in the hands of a toddler the way it rattles and shakes when the drowsy bus driver (Who I imagine has a name like Latashia of Dareen judging from her flash-frozen dyed red hair) hit a curb a second ago. I half except to find a peeling "Made In China" sticker on the bottom of my surprisingly plush seat but I'm sure all I'd really find is vagabond pocket change and business cards.
The whiskery forensics prof. from a city university has finished the toddler-sized tome he has been working on all week and is snoring gently, his waffling white sneakers tucked together under the seat. How he can sleep next to lively Richard, the guy in head-to-toe scrubs working the night shift to support his university studies in funeral directing, is beyond me.
An older woman, new to the commuter crowd, is reading a horribly produced newspaper and, I believe, a blond wig.I can forgive wearing a wig weather for fasion or illness but why, oh why would you choose the flaxen mullet look when there are so many other options out there? Oh, look! Cute Asian College Student is back and being a dependable and good student unlike Sir Jewfro that only bothers to come a few days a week and won't stop playing Angry Birds and loudly sipping a Slurpee.Shame on you, Sir Jewfro. You are a disgrace to your hair.
When you spend enough time commuting you begin to learn how to spot little indicators of just how trustworthy a person might be. 50 year old women with a blouse from Khols and ladybugs embroidered on her shoes who is staring at me like I might steal her grandmother's angel cake recipe? The worst thing shes going to do is not tell you about a hot sale at Sears.
Now the geriatric man who has turned grey and wrinkly like an elephant hide and is making a-ok signs at his lips, staring his pink eyes at a kid down the train until they meet and there is much rustling of a Foot Locker bag however? Yeah, Grandpa might not make the most stable travelling buddy.
However there is a formula to avoid these shady jades that you can employ any time you have to commute or walk through a creepy neighborhood. I even arranged it into a unnecessary and totally unrelated anagram GET 'EM:
Its pretty simple: Wear sun glasses, avoid eye contact, text someone/or call them to avoid talking to creeps, wear earphones (sound optional), and have emergency mace on your person. Trying to get your attention through any of your Get 'Em defenses takes too much effort for the petty creeps and the serious ones should back off if you ever had to pull the mace (which I've never had or think I'll have to, but its just a safety precaution. And I'm a bit trigger happy). Above all pray for protection, trust your gut, and don't be stupid. If a twitchy man in a white van offers you free candy be smart and just say no. Unless maybe if its a peanut butter cup of course.
I'm currently in the stage of life where people begin to take your answer to "What do you want to be when you grow up, Little Girl?" seriously. (Which is unfortunate because for most of my childhood years the answer was , "A princess mermaid" or "Peter Pan's Wife". This doesn't fly anymore.) With all the soul searching, college searching, and transcript credit searching you come to a point where it isn't about finding your destined major anymore, its about finding any acceptable major. Through all this inner thought and snacking while doing said inner thought I can conclude that I do have a driving passion in life: Ice cream. Or rather, the fillings in ice creams.
How many times have you gotten a cone of delicious cookie-dough, peanut-butter cup, moose tracks, or any other ice cream with a filling only to bite in and find that you have been unjustly jipped and have only a mundane vanilla scoop? "This is no cookies and cream!", you scream to the cold skies, "if anything its cream with a chance of cookies!" I may be the next Martin King Jr. of frozen dairy treats, bringing equality and truth to bombast the lies and deceitful packaging of Frozen Treat Giants. ENOUGH, I say. GIVE ME COOKIE DOUGH, OR GIVE ME DEATH. OR AT LEAST A REASONABLE DISCOUNT.