The Wheels on the Bus

The bus I ride to work is nice. It's part of a "commuter express" line of buses, Greyhound-like in its design, and established to ship in people from the suburbs to downtown. It only runs during morning and evening rush hour.

It's definitely more comfortable than my car, a 2000 Jeep Cherokee. It's more relaxing than driving. The seats recline, there is overhead storage, and there is generally enough room that you don't have to sit next to anyone else if you don't want company. I've snoozed on the way home, but otherwise I read or obsessively play scrabble on my iPhone. The route is set up so that it takes no more time to take the commuter bus than to drive my car downtown. There are HOV lanes on the freeway and a limited number of stops at the beginning of the commute. Frankly, I think it's genius in transportation planning. The only way it could be better is if I still drank and they served martinis. If taking the bus is the most inconvenient situation I experience this next year, I have nothing to complain about.

No one really talks on the phone on the bus, which brings me to some observations on bus etiquette in general. You can imagine that it is the same gang of people at each stop who board. People are generally polite, nodding and smiling. There's a crew of reality t.v. followers who discuss who got voted off what island last night. There's a lot of discussion about the weather, a lot of "well, it's Monday," "hooray, hump day," and "thank God it's Friday" talk. We've got one lady at my stop who's a real personality--her voice reminds me of the nosy neighbor in "Bewitched," and she's forever accusing the bus driver of smoking on the bus. She can smell it--he's not supposed to do that.

After one boards, however, no talking. I don't know how other people feel about this, but I'm grateful. I need a little quiet time between wrestling the kids out the door and hitting my office door. Plus, I suck at small talk. One horrifying morning, though, I politely responded to a morning greeting and found myself subjected to AN ENTIRE CONVERSATION. IT DIDN'T END UNTIL I REACHED MY STOP. Really? This guy doesn't know the rules? No one likes to start their day this way, friends. Don't chat with strangers on the bus.

The commuter bus experience is vastly different from your regular municipal bus experience here in southern California. I've lived in other cities where bus travel is more widely used and accepted. Here, as you've probably gathered, there's a certain class issue involved.

When I first described how I planned to manage the suspension of my license to a female relative, she said, "but the people who ride the commuter bus are more like you, right?" I assumed she meant professionals, but it's an interesting question. My fellow commuters certainly don't ride the bus for the same reason I do. Most likely, they are saving gas and parking money because the bus is so convenient. I suspect that my reasons for taking the bus are more similar to those passengers I've seen on the regular municipal buses I ride sometimes--can't drive for one reason or another--can't afford a car, or the insurance, or like me, the state of California has withdrawn the privilege.

These people are pierced. They sometimes smell bad, and sometimes rave and weave. They drag large plastic bags filled with stuff onto the bus with them. Young mothers and their babies. Or they might be young hipsters, living in the more urban areas of the city. And, during commuter hours, you'll find people going to work.

None of this is different from bus rides I've taken in other cities, but for some reason I feel the class difference more keenly here.

Maybe this will illustrate it best: a security guard greets you at the downtown office where you can buy your monthly transit pass, and there is thick, presumably bullet-proof, glass separating the employees from the public.

Good days, bad days

I was almost annoyed as I trudged home from the bus stop tonight. There was this mom with her kids--they had walked down to the store from somewhere in the neighborhood. Like it was a fun field trip! Like they were slumming! I wanted to yell, "Hey! Some of us do this every day lady! Quit acting like it's a lark!" So I'm having a bad day.

Only not really. As I walked, I perked up. Found a stray tennis ball. Bounced it as I walked. It was kind of like meditation. By the time I got home, I felt better. I thought a little bit about what it must've been like when there was more time. Before people expected you to RESPOND TO MY TEXT RIGHT NOW!! Can you remember? I'm not that old, but I remember a time before answering machines. What in heaven's name did we do? Call back? Madness. What if we didn't get hold of someone on the second call? Call again? Really frickin' crazy.

I have three different e-mail accounts. I can access all of them on my iPhone. I can access the internet from the iPhone, too. You've seen the iPhone commercial, right? You can mow the lawn and cook dinner with it if you have the right app.

This allegedly makes me more efficient, but really it's a nightmare for me. My deepest character flaws are that I'm disorganized and get overwhelmed very easily. I suspect that I have some form of adult ADD, but I'm really too overwhelmed with all of the other crap I'm trying to manage in my life to look into it.

I like to imagine my forced car-less-ness as the universe's way of telling me to slow the hell down.

Earlier this month, the kids and I went to Mother's Day brunch at the nearby golf resort (not as ritzy as it sounds, I assure you). We went to the pool after that, and then strolled home. The boys collected rocks, and flowers. A in particular was fascinated with all of the different colors of pink that existed in the world. We were barefoot, wandering along the main road, not very purposefully. I felt a twinge of shame, like I was mistreating them somehow, or exposing some kind of dirty laundry. As in, call child protective services, that barefoot woman is making those children walk! Barefooted! But then A said,"I like walking. It's more fun than driving."

I'm not making this up.

I'm not in charge

I never stopped fretting over the karmic debt that I feel I am building up by asking for rides here and there, help with my kids, etc. And then the other day, I had this great epiphany--since when am I in charge of the balance sheet for the universe? Who the hell am I to say if I'm getting too much or too little? I should just shut up my head and do what's in front of me and ask for help if I need it and help others if they need it! This may seem very obvious to those of you who are more spiritually advanced than I, but I'm kind of on a caveman level of spirtuality right now--the place where I'm just leaving the cave and putting my hand over my eyes because the light's too bright.

I've cut my walking time to the bus by 2 minutes. It only takes me 22 minutes now. I may be ruining my feet, though. At first I was walking in Old Navy flip-flops and carrying my heels in my purse. My Dad suggested wearing tennis shoes, at which I scoffed--what, should I start wearing scarves tied in bows around my neck, too? But he might be right. I've graduated to a pair of Sanuk flip-flops that I got at REI. They're made of the same material as a yoga mat--very cushy. But my ankles are starting to give me trouble. Is it so much to ask for a stylish pair of walking shoes? More research is required.

Unexpected benefit of not driving--I never drive through Jack in the Box.

And guess what? I'm six weeks into this gig. Only 10 and a half more months to go.

Yes, I'm sure.

Due to budget cuts, even though I made bail the night I was arrested, I still had to spend the night in a holding cell. They didn't have enough staff to release anyone between 10:30 p.m. and 7:00 a.m. I still don't understand this, but again, I was in no condition to argue. The profile of the ladies with whom I spent the evening is another story for another time. At about 2 a.m., though, I was called out of the holding cell and put in what looked to be some kind of interview room. I guessed someone had come to see me. I prayed it wasn't my father, whom I had called crying from the holding cell hours earlier. I didn't want him to see his high-achieving pride and joy behind bars.

It was the kids' dad. He came to see if I was okay. He told them he was my lawyer, showed them his bar card, and they let him in. The first thing he said when they brought him into the interview room, "I can't touch you." I must've looked like I really wanted to hug him, but no mind, I wouldn't have wanted to touch me either. Remember the earlier urges to pee--they hadn't ended well. We sat in silence for a few minutes and he said,

"You know you have to quit drinking."

I nodded slowly, as I had been thinking the same thing. Nevertheless, some part of me thought, "Really? Do I really have to quit?"

And that's how I know I'm an alcoholic.

I have friends who have told me they don't think I am. One in particular who jokes that I wasn't trying hard enough. I called two people before I got in the car that night who've both told me I sounded fine. But I know. A little voice had been suggesting it for some time.

A couple of weeks ago, in an effort to clear out a jumbled mess of thoughts that were bugging me, I reached for an old journal to jot some of the mess down. I came across a list of fears I wrote down at the suggestion of my therapist, about a year ago. Top of the list? "I'm afraid I'm an alcoholic." So I knew. And I know.

I'm not going to preach my 12-step program. I'm not supposed to do that, and it sounds queer anyway. But it's AWESOME. And no matter how uncomfortable all of these "feelings" get--the ones I used to drink away--I like being sober a lot.

Depends on what you mean by resisting

I went to meet with my lawyer today. Not only was I charged with DUI, and "refusal," but I was also charged with resisting arrest. The DUI charge is due to the fact that I was, well, driving under the influence of alcohol. (As it turns out, my blood alcohol content was .19--yes my friends, that is more than twice the legal limit). The refusal charge is because I refused a chemical test. That is to say, I not only refused the breathalizer when I was pulled over, but after the nice men took me to the police station, I kind of wouldn't give them any blood either. They had to sort of pin me down. Not my finest hour.

The resisting arrest charge I'm a little unsure of. My lawyer is trying to get the DA to drop the charge, and suggested I get some letters of support from friends, colleagues, etc. My AA sponsor wrote one, affirming that I have been sober since my arrest. The kids' dad wrote an extremely generous and heartfelt letter for leniency as well. I am truly humbled by his kindness.

At any rate, today was the first day I actually read the police report. Good God. My guess is that they settled on the charge of resisting arrest because there isn't a charge of being an enormous drunken pain in the ass to law enforcement.

I mocked the police officer. I remember this. I don't remember accusing him of threatening me with his baton (which apparently was a flashlight), or telling him I didn't have to step away from the vehicle when he ordered me to do so. I don't remember running over to the bushes at the side of the road to pee, mid-field sobriety test. I remember wriggling out of the handcuffs and waving at him from the backseat of the cruiser. I don't remember screaming quite as much as is reported, but really, I was in no condition to remember. I don't remember saying I wanted a lawyer before they took the blood test (This is almost the most embarrassing part--I AM a lawyer, after all. I know a lawyer is not necessary at the testing portion of this scenario). I do remember another cop threatening to taze me if I moved off the bench, but in my defense, I really had to pee (again--c'mon people, if you had a BAC of .19, you'd have to pee a lot, too!). I remember about four different officers pinning me down to take my blood. I think that was the first time that night I realized this was serious business.

So we'll see. We'll see if they drop that resisting arrest charge. In the meantime, I wrote a letter, too. To the cop. Apologizing. And thanking him. He saved my life in more ways than one.

A dose of humility

One of the kids' after school program teachers pulled me over the other day and said, "A was sharing some information about your situation today." I raised my eyebrows and she nodded knowingly. "I told him maybe that was mom's private information." I smiled and thanked her.

There's a fine line between being honest and being private. As I wrote here earlier, the kids know what happened. They don't know the gory details, but they know the results. It seemed important to be honest with them. But I didn't say, "Don't tell anyone." I'm still not sure that I should. I'm wondering about things like shame, humility, honesty and the concept of reputation. Should I have told them not to tell anyone so that the parents in the neighborhood don't think ill of me? Like I care. But should I have found a delicate way to suggest this information is private so that parents in the neighborhood won't think ill of them? Maybe. Would they confuse that to think that lying was okay sometimes? I don't know. I guess ultimately, I didn't want to put the stress of thinking they needed to keep a secret for me on them. Seemed like a bad precedent to set.

The concept of discretion doesn't completely escape them, however.

Before we rode down to the pool one day, I called for W, who had gone to visit with our four-year old neighbor in his front yard.

"Come on W, we're going to the pool now." I can't remember if I've mentioned it before but this boy, my oldest son, is LOUD. He proceeded to bid his little friend adieu as follows,

"OKAY, WE'RE GONNA GO NOW. WE'RE RIDING OUR BIKES DOWN TO THE POOL... BECAUSE RIDING YOUR BIKE IS GOOD FOR YOU...AND BECAUSE MY MOM CAN'T DRIVE A CAR BECAUSE . . . " At this point, I got pretty uncomfortable, so I interjected,

"Um, W?" He got the message immediately,

"WELL, I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY, CAUSE IT'S PRIVATE, AND YOU CAN'T GUESS, AND I CAN'T TELL YOU, BUT IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THIS," And holding his hand up to his mouth, mimicking drinking from a bottle,
"GLUG, GLUG, GLUG!"

Oh, the shame. As we rode our bikes past the neighbor's house I saw that not only had W announced my mistake to his little friend, but also to his grandfather, who was sitting out front watching his grandson. I smiled weakly, waved and pedaled on.