Sitting at the train station in Irvine. The woman at the counter
would not sell me a ticket because I don't have ID. When I was
arrested, the cop took my driver's license, so I haven't had an ID for
awhile. You can get a state-issued, "valid" ID card from the DMV, but I haven't gotten around to it.
It hasn't been a problem until now. I don't drink, so I don't get
carded, although I was out with friends one night and they wouldn't
let me into a bar where we were going to get some kind of famous tacos.
I bought the ticket to come up here on-line, printed it out at a
kiosk, and the conductor didn't ask for ID once I was onboard.
I tried to argue with the ticket vending woman. She didn't seem at all phased that I had ridden the train up with no ID. Grasping at straws, I told her I was a
lawyer. I don't know why this seemed like a good idea. Because lawyers
inspire confidence and feelings of trustworthiness in others. Right.
I asked for her supervisor. "I am the supervisor." Of course she is.
I'm not good at this kind of thing. A friend of mine recently talked
his way onto an airplane without valid ID. An airplane! I'm not
silver-tongued. I go straight to bullying, then wheedling. No one
gives in to that.
So I left the station and bought a ticket at the kiosk. We'll see if
they let me on. And not the train, mind you. It's not running
southbound today, so it's a big coach bus. I think the worse thing
that happens is they don't let me on. And then I say fuck it and hire
a limo. That's my plan.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Post From The Road
The kids have been with their grandparents out of state for a week. Serendipitously, a very dear friend from the other coast is on this coast, so I'm on the train to go visit her. The trip would take about an hour in the car. The train adds nearly another hour. Nevertheless, it's quite pleasant. And there are electric strips! So you can plug in your laptop or charge your phone! Pretty cool. I was inspired to blog from my phone. If I remember correctly, we will have a full view of the coast in a few moments. I'll try to upload a picture. By the way, guy next to me is totally passed out. Gently snoring.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Right to Privacy
I'm home with the kids for a few days because school is out and day camp is not yet in. We spent several hours at the park yesterday and I got to observe a group of pre-school moms with their young ones. As they all got ready to leave, I watched them pack their gear into their mostly SUV-type cars and take off.
I remember doing that. I stayed home with my boys for about two years when they were very small. I really loved my jeep then because I could fit everything I needed into it--diaper bags, snacks, kids, dogs. We could go where I wanted when I wanted. I was ready for anything in those days, and I didn't need anyone to help me.
I'm realizing that our cars give us freedom, but I'm finding that they also give us a strange sense of privacy. As long as you can get around on your own steam, you don't have to explain yourself to other people.
One day, when I was walking home from the bus stop, my next-door neighbor picked me up. She is in the unique position of watching my comings and going fairly closely.
"So, where is your car?"
(I'm in her car, right? She's doing me a favor. I can't exactly say 'none of your beeswax!' Not very friendly, or gracious.)
"Oh, my friend Judi has it. I take the bus to work." Yes, slightly evasive, but I'm a lawyer, I'm trained in evasive.
"Do you get it back on the weekends so that you can run your errands and things?"
Crap, she's got me. I decide to go for it--we're only as sick as our secrets, right?
"Well, no, this is embarrassing, but . . ." and I give her the short version.
She's pretty cool about it, and I get the impression she's been suspecting something of the sort and I've only just confirmed it for her.
I shared the information with one of my kids' friends' moms the other day. We had been talking about letting the kids go to the Boys' and Girls' club for a few weeks in the summer, instead of the day camp at the school. This, of course, presents a transportation problem for me. I told her I wasn't going to be able to carpool because I wouldn't be driving this summer. She didn't ask, but I told her anyway. She smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well, I've done a lot worse." And shaking her head, "A lot worse...." I didn't ask. But she offered to drive the kids, and I can't believe her kindness.
Have people always been this nice? What the hell is wrong with me that I didn't know this? I'm really going to have to work on this attitude that one can't ask for help, essentially because people will think you're an evil leech. In the last two months, the exact opposite has proven to be true.
People are thrilled to help--I know I love it when I can. It's like we are all starving for community and we want to reach out but we're stuck in our cars and our houses without front porches and we can't interact the way maybe we once did. Are we so concerned with protecting our privacy that we are losing our community? Why don't the moms going to the park ever ride together?
Why can't we all just get along?
Just kidding--the devolution into a boring rant needed to be stopped.
But I am curious about whether the desire for privacy blocks the building of community.
In the meantime, I better get these kids out of the house before the dog starts chewing on them.
I remember doing that. I stayed home with my boys for about two years when they were very small. I really loved my jeep then because I could fit everything I needed into it--diaper bags, snacks, kids, dogs. We could go where I wanted when I wanted. I was ready for anything in those days, and I didn't need anyone to help me.
I'm realizing that our cars give us freedom, but I'm finding that they also give us a strange sense of privacy. As long as you can get around on your own steam, you don't have to explain yourself to other people.
One day, when I was walking home from the bus stop, my next-door neighbor picked me up. She is in the unique position of watching my comings and going fairly closely.
"So, where is your car?"
(I'm in her car, right? She's doing me a favor. I can't exactly say 'none of your beeswax!' Not very friendly, or gracious.)
"Oh, my friend Judi has it. I take the bus to work." Yes, slightly evasive, but I'm a lawyer, I'm trained in evasive.
"Do you get it back on the weekends so that you can run your errands and things?"
Crap, she's got me. I decide to go for it--we're only as sick as our secrets, right?
"Well, no, this is embarrassing, but . . ." and I give her the short version.
She's pretty cool about it, and I get the impression she's been suspecting something of the sort and I've only just confirmed it for her.
I shared the information with one of my kids' friends' moms the other day. We had been talking about letting the kids go to the Boys' and Girls' club for a few weeks in the summer, instead of the day camp at the school. This, of course, presents a transportation problem for me. I told her I wasn't going to be able to carpool because I wouldn't be driving this summer. She didn't ask, but I told her anyway. She smiled ruefully. "Yeah, well, I've done a lot worse." And shaking her head, "A lot worse...." I didn't ask. But she offered to drive the kids, and I can't believe her kindness.
Have people always been this nice? What the hell is wrong with me that I didn't know this? I'm really going to have to work on this attitude that one can't ask for help, essentially because people will think you're an evil leech. In the last two months, the exact opposite has proven to be true.
People are thrilled to help--I know I love it when I can. It's like we are all starving for community and we want to reach out but we're stuck in our cars and our houses without front porches and we can't interact the way maybe we once did. Are we so concerned with protecting our privacy that we are losing our community? Why don't the moms going to the park ever ride together?
Why can't we all just get along?
Just kidding--the devolution into a boring rant needed to be stopped.
But I am curious about whether the desire for privacy blocks the building of community.
In the meantime, I better get these kids out of the house before the dog starts chewing on them.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
DOG is GOD spelled backwards
The dog ate my God Box.
The God Box is, I believe, a twelve-step thing. It allows the owner to manifest physically the concept of "turning over" a problem to one's higher power. The idea is that you write down the thing that is fretting you and put it in the box. You've turned it over. I find it to be like writing troubling things down in a journal. It's a nifty idea.
My sponsor made me a God Box. It was cute and round and nicely decorated. A lovely gift. But I left it out on a side table and Boomer, my 22-month old lab, ate it. I wanted to kill him. It's not the only thing that dog has wolfed down. Last week, he went after a two-pound cube of cheese on the kitchen counter. One minute it was there, the next, gone. I chased him into the backyard and he growled at me while I tried to pry his jaws open and dig it out. I got about a third of it out before he swallowed the rest, wrapper and all. All I could think of was if he needed to go to the emergency vet, I couldn't drive him there. It didn't slow him down at all, though. In fact, a couple of days later he stopped in the hallway, hocked up the wrapper on the carpet, and just kept moving. Unbelievable.
Other things that dog has eaten, or at least tried to eat: my glasses, my blackberry, my red stiletto patent leather pumps, and several other shoes I once held dear, a few books, food off the table, food from the kids' hands, and an awful lot of trash.
I've had labs my whole life. I like having dogs around, I even let them sleep on the bed. But the two black ones I have right now can overwhelm me. They each weigh about 75 pounds, which is only slightly heavier than my kids. Sometimes I feel like I have four kids. My house is just under 1300 square feet, so when I'm walking around and the dogs are underfoot, and the kids are underfoot, I kind of feel like the Bumpuses.
No wonder I used to drink so much. You can understand why the kids' dad really wanted his own room when we were still together--I cannot blame him.
Here's what's funny about getting sober, though. When I was drinking, I really thought that was the only way I could deal with the stress and responsibilities of holding down a job, rearing kids and taking care of these dogs. But in reality, I kind of ignored the dogs. Now, with all this time on my hands, the dogs tend to get walked a lot more. The kids like to go, too, so we spend more time at the park.
This is all very positive, and yet the damn dog continues to eat things. He regularly pokes his head into the trash in the bathroom like it's his own personal snack bar, pulls out a tissue and just munches it down. I happen to wear bras with underwire in them, which I guess make great chew toys. Look out if he gets ahold of one of those--I'm a lovely sight chasing him around the backyard with a pink Victoria's Secret hanging out of his mouth.
What I'm wondering is, if I write down my troubles on a piece of paper, and feed them to the dog, could it be the same as giving them over to my higher power?
The God Box is, I believe, a twelve-step thing. It allows the owner to manifest physically the concept of "turning over" a problem to one's higher power. The idea is that you write down the thing that is fretting you and put it in the box. You've turned it over. I find it to be like writing troubling things down in a journal. It's a nifty idea.
My sponsor made me a God Box. It was cute and round and nicely decorated. A lovely gift. But I left it out on a side table and Boomer, my 22-month old lab, ate it. I wanted to kill him. It's not the only thing that dog has wolfed down. Last week, he went after a two-pound cube of cheese on the kitchen counter. One minute it was there, the next, gone. I chased him into the backyard and he growled at me while I tried to pry his jaws open and dig it out. I got about a third of it out before he swallowed the rest, wrapper and all. All I could think of was if he needed to go to the emergency vet, I couldn't drive him there. It didn't slow him down at all, though. In fact, a couple of days later he stopped in the hallway, hocked up the wrapper on the carpet, and just kept moving. Unbelievable.
Other things that dog has eaten, or at least tried to eat: my glasses, my blackberry, my red stiletto patent leather pumps, and several other shoes I once held dear, a few books, food off the table, food from the kids' hands, and an awful lot of trash.
I've had labs my whole life. I like having dogs around, I even let them sleep on the bed. But the two black ones I have right now can overwhelm me. They each weigh about 75 pounds, which is only slightly heavier than my kids. Sometimes I feel like I have four kids. My house is just under 1300 square feet, so when I'm walking around and the dogs are underfoot, and the kids are underfoot, I kind of feel like the Bumpuses.
No wonder I used to drink so much. You can understand why the kids' dad really wanted his own room when we were still together--I cannot blame him.
Here's what's funny about getting sober, though. When I was drinking, I really thought that was the only way I could deal with the stress and responsibilities of holding down a job, rearing kids and taking care of these dogs. But in reality, I kind of ignored the dogs. Now, with all this time on my hands, the dogs tend to get walked a lot more. The kids like to go, too, so we spend more time at the park.
This is all very positive, and yet the damn dog continues to eat things. He regularly pokes his head into the trash in the bathroom like it's his own personal snack bar, pulls out a tissue and just munches it down. I happen to wear bras with underwire in them, which I guess make great chew toys. Look out if he gets ahold of one of those--I'm a lovely sight chasing him around the backyard with a pink Victoria's Secret hanging out of his mouth.
What I'm wondering is, if I write down my troubles on a piece of paper, and feed them to the dog, could it be the same as giving them over to my higher power?
Sunday, May 30, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
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.
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