I arrived at my bus stop at 8:12 and the bus arrived at 8:24. I boarded to a completely empty bus and a driver I've never seen before. I can't remember the last time I boarded an empty bus, especially at this hour of the day and with this being about the 6th stop on the inbound route. I checked the time on the bus's LED time/date/route display to make sure I hadn't fallen into some kind of time warp.
At the Conifer/Gorman stop, a piggy-banker boarded. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink. Clink.
At the Marcom/Gorman stop, a plus-sized man boarded who uses a fare card that requires a show of ID, which he didn't have out and ready. Don't get me started on why the f*ck people can't spend the time they are waiting for the bus to get their sh*t together; not unlike the people in a fast food line not knowing their order by the time they get to the register. But I have already digressed...
The guy took a seat saying, "I'll pay at the next stop." By the time we stopped at the next traffic light, he'd rifled through his wallet and found his ID, and he stood up and leaned forward to swipe his fare card and show his ID to the driver. Oh my God, Becky, look at that butt.
You could've gotten lost in the valley of the shadow of crack between the big black mounds that were exposed as he bent over. It was enough to put a plumber to shame.
I had an uneventful work day, with no meetings. Here's to that.
There were two people on the bus home with work uniforms on—one from Krispy Kreme and the other from Hardee's. They made me think of 313's SIN advertisement, which is for their "Service Industry Night"—"[C]ome out and relax from your trying day with the public," their ad says.
I got to the gym at about 5:40, where the parking lot was totally jammed, with just a few open spots left.
I skipped the ab crunches today and went directly to the elliptical machine, since 1) I was short on time today, and 2) In the midst of the very crowded place, the machine I like to use the most was actually available. That would be the one that is closest to the free-weight area, with the best view—if you know what I mean. And I think you do.
I think if I were deaf I'd go absolutely ape-sh*t reading closed captions. The TV in front of my elliptical machine was tuned to ABC 11 and their 5:00 News—or 5:30 News, whatever would have been on at 5:45—and it had so many mistakes in their closed captions that it was exasperating.
The most egregious of the erroneous captions occurred during a blurb about Regis Philbin's new memoir, which it noted, "...will reflect on his rear, spanning decades and including stories about..." Oh my God, Becky, look at that butt redux.
On my way to Helios to meet Anna at 7:00, I dropped by the Cameron Village library, where I returned Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything, and picked up my reserved copy of Alice Walker's The Color Purple.
I didn't finish Bill Bryson's book, but I haven't ruled out going back to it. It's just that it was coming due, and my Mostly Social Book Club has decided to read The Color Purple, so it's taking precedence.
I have, of course, seen the movie of The Color Purple, from which my favorite song is Miss Celie's Blues, but I have never read the book.
Anna and I sat outside at Helios, where the weather was awesome, the company comfortable, and the conversation exceptional, and where I learned about the concepts of twee and emo. Let's ignore the fact that I, at first, thought she was talking about Tweedle Dee and Elmo. Bless my pop-culture-challenged mess.
While Anna was buying me a cup of coffee, a guy hit on her, which spurred an interesting discussion (between us, not with the guy) about saying hello to someone of the opposite sex (or in my case, of the same sex) in public places such as coffee shops and (gay and straight) bars.
I was home by 10:30 and in the bed shortly after that, where I opened The Color Purple with great anticipation, which was immediately squelched by 1) it being written in dialect, and 2) it being written mostly as a series of letters that start off, "Dear God." Ugh.