Music and Lyrics, in Ink

It never gets old living in a city with millions of other people. I appreciate seeing all walks of life each day as I make my way through this concrete jungle.

Lately, I have taken to seeing things I may not have noticed before—maybe it is writing this blog, maybe I'm growing up—but I seem to have sharpened my observation skills.

On the way home last night, I was casually glancing around (taking notice, in case there were blog-worthy subjects) and didn't notice anything out of sorts. Went back to my book.

A few stops later, I see a young guy get on the bus and make his way to the back near me. I was struck. I couldn't stop staring. I had to literally pull my eyes away.

No, it wasn't Brad Pitt. (He's already in New York by now).

This guy had tattoos all over. I know, we've all seen the "sleeve" tattoos where they cover the skin. No, this was diifferent.

He had WORDS written all over his front, covering his arms, legs, neck with lines and lines of text. Nice script font, poetic in its arrangement (slight angle, heading north up his legs in verses), wrapping each arm in neatly organized lines and phrases.

I inched, leaned and craned forward to see the words "La Vie Boheme" in one spot, and other Latin phrases that I didn't recognize. The guy didn't fit the typical "Rent" fan stereotype, so I'm guessing his ode to poetry was deeper and less culturally iconic.

That's not all.

Have you ever had a song in your head and it follows you around all day, popping up at the most inconvnenient of times?

Well, this guy had that. But worse.

On the backs of his legs, neck and arms he had music. I mean it. Not just random stray notes with no pattern or semblance of meaning. It looked like sheet music had been photocopied on his skin. Nice and orderly, straight across, only bending with the body, as if a composer had been with him in the tattoo parlor.

This guy literally liked a song so much that he had it inked onto his body. Forever.

I relish books and music as much as the next guy, but I have to admit, I've never loved a song or a story enough to permanently display it on my skin.

Maybe it is just me.

The looks on the other passengers faces confirmed it is not just me that feels this way.

Whistling his own tune, the guy got off the bus and headed for home. With his reading material leading the way.

One Reason to Like Winter

Last night on the way home, I witnessed first-hand one reason to be thankful for winter here in Chicago.

On the bus, there was a family of 5. Four kids, all under what I would guess to be the age of 6. (Can you say handful?!?)

One of the littler ones, about 3 years old, was out of mom's line of sight. Side note: she had on an iPod and wasn't really paying much attention...

The aforementioned 3-year old started LICKING the metal pole. You know, the hang-on-while-the-bus-careens-around-corners-pole.

Made me thankful for winter.

At least then, when I'm on the bus and hanging on to the pole, I'm wearing gloves.

Sensory Overload

The joy of commuting continues.

Today was like any other morning - scrambling to the bus stop, and glaring at the newcomers to the stop who find it not at all insulting, obvious or rude to push their way to the front of the sidewalk as if they were there all along - and the bus came on time.

I board, along with 50 of my closest friends (and by close, I mean physically jammed up against each other).

As I make my way to the back of the double-length, accordian bus, I grab an inch of the pole and brace myself for another wild ride.

And that's when my nose perks up. Starts to itch. My eyes start to water.

The gentleman next to me, decked out in a suit as if he's ready for an interview, must have showered in cologne. BAD cologne. Not the kind that when you smell it in an elevator or a fancy restaurant makes you ponder all sorts of un-ladylike things about the wearer.

No. The bad kind that they sell at Walgreen's behind the makeup counter.

I am face-to-face with a young guy who, thank God, was sans-cologne. He's secretly, inwardly, dying laughing as my eyes well up, my face starts to scrunch up and the sneezes start.

And I mean sneezes. Multiple ones. I tend to sneeze in threes (like my mom) and today was no exception. I had a good 9 or 12 out before I started to giggle.

Uncontrollably.

The unsuspecting cologne assassin was not the wiser. The young stranger near me was. We avoided eye contact for fear of really losing it.

The ride (30 minutes door to stop on a good day) was hell. Sensory overload. Sneeze-a-licious.

I have never been so glad to get off the bus and be greeted by exhaust fumes and the smell of the baking dirty sidewalk in summer.

It was heaven to my nose.

Hiding Behind Shades

Why is it when I'm wearing sunglasses I feel like no one can see me?

Today I was on the bus to work and I saw an old colleague, one that I didn't favor all that much back then. She's changed a lot since then so I didn't recognize her instantly, but then realized it was her as she sat right across from me.

We both had our free RedEye newspapers to hide behind, and I had my big sunglasses on so I was double-protected. I just didn't feel like doing the "across the aisle with everyone listening small talk" this morning.

So, I used my shades as a weapon and just plain ignored her. I prefer to say "I didn't see her" but she and I both know that's not the truth.

I shouldn't feel too badly—she didn't talk to me either.

Just ruminating on the sunglass protection theory. That's all.

Day from Hell

This isn't exclusively a commuter blog, but bear with me.

You're never going to believe how bad my day was yesterday.

First, I have a huge migraine. Trying to sneak out of work at 5 pm (early for me), and I'm walking through the office kitchen to put away my coffee mug. I slip and fall and go down hard. I couldn't help it - I started crying. (My right arm really hurts today.) Couldn’t get myself together. Sat in my office with door closed and my coworker brought me tea and Kleenex. It was a combo of embarrassment, shock, pain and the yuck of having had a migraine all day.

So, then I get out of here (snuck out at 5:30) and am waiting for a bus. The ones that go express all the way up Lake Shore were all coming by full, so I got on the 151 that stops all the way thru Lincoln Park. Every block.

I am on the bus, and basically falling asleep from the miserable head pain (and now shooting pain in my arm and hip) and wake up at about Belmont and Inner Lake Shore to realize that the rain is coming down upside down and sideways. Trees were all over Lake Shore, and the bus was leaking all over us. The wind was like a tornado.

I had an umbrella, but knew at that point it would be useless. I had on a black t-shirt, white/black skirt and black slippery sandals.

I got off the bus at Addison, and literally RAN across the street, through huge puddles and my hair was blowing and matted in knots all over the place. I got inside and was SOAKED head to toe, like I’d been hosed. There was a guy standing in the overhang of my building and he was laughing. And offered to “hug it out.”

I didn’t take him up on it, but could have used a hug.

My hair was hilarious. Knotted, dripping, blown everywhere. I looked a fright and just started laughing. Got upstairs and changed clothes. Then I realize my place smells really strongly of the oil infused room thingy that I have on my windowsill.

That is because my window was open and the vase with the bamboo had flown off the sill onto the floor (water everywhere) and the oil infused vase had spilled and the oil was now embedded into my carpet. Forever. It smells like the inside of a perfume bottle and the carpet is greasy.

AND, if that wasn't bad enough, I go into the kitchen and bath and see that the air vents that are useless (they don't suck anything out of the apartment, but they do manage to attract dust) have SPIT out dusty hairball-like globs of old black furry dust into my kitchen (4 feet from vent), and ALL over my bathroom. I had to scrub the entire bathroom. AFTER my headache went away, of course.

It was awful. I’m almost glad to be back at work today.

Old Shouting Broad Sighting

The bus this morning featured the old shouting lady (from "Shouting Match" post earlier) and I just held my breath, waiting for the fireworks.

Nothing.

What a letdown, for me and for my (six) loyal blog readers. Especially you, Mrs. N.

Next time I'll incite some action. You know, like walk slowly or sit in the front row where it is reserved for old ladies who yell.

Meaty in the Morning

I'll probably go to hell for this one.

I'll take a chance.

I race out my front door this morning, in heels and the 87% humidity, to board the 145 bus downtown. I stroll to the back of the bus (it was a single, not an accordian bus, so seats were premium) and I find a seat at the back. On the back row, in the center. Lots of leg swinging room, if a gal was keen to do that. I was just happy to sit my heeled feet and read my book in peace.

For you non-Chicago readers, this bus style has 5 seats across the back. Facing forward. The seats are those lovely molded plastic ones that show you where to put your tush. Mine fits nicely. (It won't for much longer at the rate I'm eating, but for now, I fit.)

There was a rather large woman (ok, she was huge) sitting to the left, in the seat by the window nearest the lake. In contrast, there was a rather thin man (ok, he's never had a late night pizza in his life) sitting to the right, in the seat by the window nearest the buildings.

I wisely choose the middle seat, leaving an open seat on either side of me, for the fool that wants to be squashed. To my left, where the large lady sits, I note that she's spilling out of her molded plastic seat into about 1/3 of the next seat over. Pity the fool that chooses that one.

The lean man is flanked by not only the seat to my right, but God blessedly, about 1/3 of HIS seat is blank due to his sore lack of backside.

Lo and behold (and how often do you get to say Lo about anything?), the bus fills up and my bookend seats, closest to my elbows, begin to get eyed by the early morning, already weary, needing their coffee, travelers.

Then I spot her. The largest woman I've seen outside of a 20/20 special in quite some time. And, yes, she's making her way towards my row.

She chooses, NOT wisely, the seat to my left. To refresh, that is the seat that is already 1/3 filled by some kind lady's thigh. And, she's down. Squeezes (how?) into that spot, pushing me literally up and over the molded plastic ridge into the empty seat to my right. I gently move over.

I had no choice.

As if that wasn't bad enough...then I spot her friend. She is even bigger. I kid you not.

She chooses, of course, the seat to my right. Even with the 1/3 loaner seat from Thin Guy, she is spilling out like the not-so-hot pale-skinned muffin tops over jeans.

Now I am literally squished, squeezed, smashed between two thighs of the largest diameter that I've seen. It is 87% humidity today, please remember. I can barely see out the windows past all of this weight.

I rise up, by no doing of my own, into the sky...literally smooshed upwards to accomodate their extra baggage.

I ride for 28 minutes, the entire way to my office, perched atop their thighs. Balanced, actually. It took everything in my power not to laugh. Or cry.

All I know is that I was sweaty. And I don't sweat.

I had to peel myself out. It was painful. I think I have bruises, but that isn't saying much. I bruise like a peach.

Did I mention that they were both drinking supersized drinks - you know the ones - the kind that says BIG GULP on the side, but are filled with caramel-high-fat-full-whip-with-an extra shot of-sugary-glaze-on-top-machiatos? Yes. Both of them.

Even the cups were sweating.

Side note: I heard recently that Americans drink 60% of their calories each day. I think between the two of them they have me covered until January.

I did survive, bruises and all. I blamed the humidity on the sweat marks on my skirt.

I know. I'll have a CTA pass for a one-way bus pass to hell, please. Thank you.