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Of Pickles, Weaves, And Strollers

It's been a day, kids. It's been a day. The workday was short, as usual for a Tuesday; the commute home: notsomuch. I use public transportation as a means of travel to and from the workplace on a daily basis. One thing I've learned about using said service in said city is that no matter how down and out I may be feeling prior to boarding the bus, you can rest assured that I most certainly feel much better about my life once I'm actually on my way to work and have to time to get a good long look at my fellow travelers.

Case in point: Vinegar Man. He doesn't appear on my route too often, but when he does; let's just say that I honestly don't feel the need to avert my gaze from the window to know he's there. Seriously, the man must work at a pickle plant. Either that, or there's a new hip 'rotten cucumber melon' soap I haven't had the pleasure of trying. I'm not certain I want to smell like a gherkin.

Next up, we have: Wig Woman. Now, don't throw that stone just yet. I simply adore the right wig on the right person. The keyword here is on. Wear it, sister. Don't adjust it, scratch at it, pick random objects out of it, or tear stray flyaway hairs from it while you are sitting on a public bus. In front of me, even. I'm giving her one more chance, kids. I mean it. I will seriously surprise her by disembarking two stops too early and do everyone she comes into contact with a favor by ripping the nest from her head and joyfully (yes, with a smile on my face and love in my heart) toss that putrid polyester piece of crap under the bus tires as I dash off to my morning destination.

And finally, (see above photo): The Triple Threat. This can be a touchy subject. Your touchy subjects don't need to touch me. Seriously. Grape jelly doesn't wash out of clothing as easily as you might imagine. I don't care what you need to do. Shackle 'em down, duct tape them to the seat, velcro them to one another. Really don't care. But do something. And while I'm happy to help you with your monstrosity of a stroller, I'm not at all obliged to help you navigate the damn thing. Get a GPS system for all I care. Better yet, sell it and pay for a baby sitter. My ankle is still sore.

Anybody got any aspirin?

Gripes aside (i laughed at this so hard i swear i have to pee) it's now time for some quality boyfriend time. We're heading out: Karaoke style. I'll raise a glass and sing a tune for you.

p.s. don't forget your earplugs

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