This past two weeks of jobbity-jobness has not been without doubts. Frowning thoughts have jabbed at me during the commute like, “WHAT AM I DOING WHEN THERE IS STILL SO MUCH GOLDEN GIRLS TO WATCH!” I drove the first week and then remembered that I hate hate hate driving in Seattle during the morning, the exact window of time everyone in the Pacific Northwest gets into his/her respective Prius and decides to get in the way of my arriving-to-work-on-time goals. I don’t get road rage, friends, I get road murder.
I’ve been taking the bus and my chi is back to normal. Not just because I don’t have to spend money on gas/oil/parking, but because I get to hang around crazy people again! I love you Metro for putting the crazies and loud mouths in my ear-hungry proximity.
Like today, when the pleather-jacketed dude sitting across stopped hypothesizing on Nam long enough to look up and say, “Sorry about that. Just working some shit out.” And what about the mousse-haired pre-teens dressed in suits, nudging each other with, “Let me show you which building I want to throw a rock at!”
Let’s find a backseat, King County. Awww yeah.
Nathan has been cruising a lot lately, shakily making his way from the coffee table to the couch, from the couch to whatever’s nearby, like my lap or Lilo the autistic cat. If he were in college, he could blame the utter lack of graceful movement on the beer bong, but he’s only nine months old and has only his developing motor skills to curse as he crashes onto the carpet. I shake my head at this and point at him, “Well there goes MENSA! Way to go my first-born!”
And would someone tell me how many times he has to smack his head on the side of the couch before he really needs a helmet?