Wherein you should probably stop reading right now.

I feel like I have 1000 secrets that all might burst out of me at once. But really I have none. Nothing is a secret, just private.

I just woke up, at 4am, and stared at the ceiling for about an hour. I have two days of conversations with CJ running through my head. Tonight, at midnight (that's right, four hours of sleep), when I got back to my little couch oasis, I was a bit perturbed and it is just late (or is it early?) enough and I had just enough glasses of wine (two point five) to get up in the middle of the night to post a junky rant on my junky blog.

And it is not even a rant. There are two things I do when I am stressed, 1. Make everything into a list and 2. Turn every sentence into a song lyric.

So here goes.

1. This is my least favorite time of year. We are past fall. Fall is September, October, the first part of November before Thanksgiving. We are no longer in the fall.
2. I am tired of being a hobo.
3. I am not a control freak.
4. I miss my mom and I miss RF and I am tired of missing people.
5. I'm not ready to make nice.


And that is all I got. Mostly because I'm pretty sure there is someone staring at me through this window. Or maybe that is just my reflection. I can't really tell.

After work tonight, as I was walking to the bus stop in the dark, I was trying to imagine the number of home robberies that occur when the intruder knows the family is most likely home. Then I mentally removed the incidents of which the intruder is on some sort of drugs or alcohol. Then I mentally removed the incidents of which the intruder is probably a fucking nut job.

Then I decided I was probably pretty safe living alone.

Or that I could always get an attack cat. If I could get a fatty like Buttons, I would do it tomorrow. But cats, like men, are deceiving. You might think they are fat and cuddly but then they tear your face off.

Le sigh.

Dark and twisty. I'm going back to bed. This blog proves two things: 1) never blog in the middle of the night when you feel sad and can't sleep, and 2) I take the morning train / I work from 10 to 7 and then / I take another home to find Snuggie waiting for me.

Wherein Bry takes the train now.

Last night I was walking from the max stop to AM's, it was about 8:30pm. A man approached me.

I saw this man get off the max at the same time, and I also noticed he had been staring at me on the train. I was waiting at the crosswalk when he came up next to me.

He was a tiny little nub, kinda drunk and weighed down by two heavy coats.

"Hello lovely."

"Uh. Hi."

"What's your name?"

"Sarah."

"I'm Peter." Peter tries to shake my hand, I pretend I'm looking at traffic.

"You work today?"

I nod.

"You have a man."

I nod.

"How long you've been with your boyfriend?"

"I'm married."

"How long?"

"10 years."

"You have babies?"

I nod.

Then the crosswalk signals to walk.

I scurry away. Peter follows.

"It was nice to meet you."

Then Peter tries to hug me. He leans in and puts his arms around me. I keep walking.

Turns out that the walking rejection hug is the most awkward hug ever. Too bad I wasted it on a crazy stranger.

My favorite part of this story is that I felt that a pretend husband and children was going to somehow protect me. The entire time, I had my hand in my bag, adjusting my grip on my knitting needle.

My max dismounts need some work. Today I got off the train with my fly unzipped.

"Hey. XYZ," a girl called.

Yikes.

Wherein Bry takes hobo to a new level.

My blogs tend to be about the following things:

1. Ways I am a hobo.

2. Ways I am a spinster.

3. Things that happen on the bus.

4. Things that happen at work.

5. My snuggie.

6. Burritos.

If I were able to wear my snuggie to work and eat a burrito while I sell books, I could accomplish nearly all of these things in one day.

On Tuesday I really out did myself.

At about 3pm, as I was trying to leave, I realized my bag was locked in the office where they were conducting a group interview.

There was no way, after being awake since 3am, that I was waiting around an hour. So I knocked on the door.

"Sorry! But I need my bag."

Of course my boss had placed the bag in the furthest corner.

And when I say bag, I should clarify that it was a huge IKEA shopping bag. I hadn't been home in days, was towards the end of LL's wedding weekend and also house-sitting, and was carrying around the contents of my closet in an IKEA bag. I'm pretty sure an adult human being (like CPR!) could easily fit in the bag.

"Yeah, sorry I'm such a hobo!" I said as they shifted around the tiny office to hand me my hobo luggage. I later said they couldn't hire any of the prospectives because they should find out I'm a hobo after they are hired, not before. Kind of ruins the fun.

Speaking of house-sitting, I watched LL and KL's critters while they went to San Juan, WA. The two cats (Buttons and Ziggy) and dog (Madeline) always looked upon me distantly, but favorably, when I was just a visitor. But Buttons wanted nothing to do with me as her temporary owner. I was determined to make Buttons love me.

Buttons was determined to murder me.

Or at the very least, make me think she was capable of getting the butcher knife and stabbing me.

She does this thing in the middle of the night where she gets in the cupboards and leaps off her perch by the window, making it sound like someone is opening the door.

Cue Bry waking up several times convinced a crazy person was in the house.

She stopped snubbing me somewhere in the final day of my tenure as her fake owner, and even willingly got on the bed. However, I woke up from a nap (and her napping on top of me) with cat scratches right in between my cleavage.

So thank you Buttons for roughing up my chesties, for not actually murdering me, and making me grateful I don't have pets.

As I like to say, I'm only a cat, or a dolphin figurine collection, away from being a real spinster.

I hate the days I leave the house unsure of whether I put on deodorant.

I'm pretty sure I did, somewhere between brushing my teeth and spraying on some perfume, but there is a bit of doubt in the back of my mind.

Kind of the same as did I lock the door? did I turn off the stove? did I turn off the hot iron?

Except not putting on deodorant will not get me robbed or burn the house down.

I'm pretty sure I did put on deodorant and this weird little lady I sat next to on the bus DID NOT which lead to my self-doubt. I mean, I am pretty hobo so I wouldn't put it past me, but I should really consider my environment.

A man just turned around and stared at me and I stared back for at least a minute until he looked away in defeat. Then he looked again and nodded. We either just made non-verbal plans to go on a date or he noticed that my clothes don't match.

I should really just rename this blog "Things That Happen To Me On The Bus."

I am having a serious good music drought. I feel like I have no time to listen to new music and all the old stuff is boring me.

This is indicative of a greater problem in my life in which I feel like all I do is go to work and go home. This is clearly not true, but I am feeling stressed out so all the islands of fun in between work are distant memories seconds after they end.

The exception is this week as RF is here, but last night I was pretty much the most boring person ever while hanging out with GZ. I have nothing to say.

I need 12 hours of sleep in a row. Not spread out over three days.

I cannot wait for camping. It is my oasis. If I can just make it to September 17th, I will survive.

Wherein Bry does what she does.

Whenever I post a dark and twisty blog, I feel like I immediately have to follow it up with some lighter topics. So here are some short vignettes of normal-ish Bry stuff.

Overheard on the bus:
A kid said he didn't know who the Indigo Girls were but their name "sure sounded gay."

On Tuesday I wore my black JCrew scarf I've had since college and left it on the desk. I called late Tuesday night, but JK told me it wasn't there. I was super sad. Then today I found it hiding in a cubby and I put it on even though it was 1000 degrees. JAO asked me why I was wearing a scarf. "Because I'm happy it wasn't lost." JW thought this was an adorable answer. JAO accused me of trying to cover a hickey.

The good thing about commuting on the same bus line every day is that it has become fairly predictable. However, I'm beginning to recognize the other regulars and they me. Unlike the other commuters, I believe a bus ride should be spent in silence or talking quietly to a traveling partner. I really think people who talk to strangers on the bus are bat-shit crazy people.

Today I look like a hobo not because of what I am wearing, but because of how ill-fitting it is. Everything is so baggy. This makes me sad, some of my clothes are kinda cute. I told MP I was going to start eating until everything fits again, I just can't afford to buy new clothes. She was aghast. "I'm just kidding, I swear!"

Today a woman asked me for a book by a man called Henky. I said, "Henning Mankell?" No, she was positive that wasn't it. She told me he wrote Scandinavian mysteries. "Right. Mankell. I'm positive." But oh no, she was sure I was wrong. So I lead her to the section. Oh, yah, that was it. Then she asked me if Sarah Waters was similar. Now, this is very book snobish, I do admit, but are you freaking kidding me? How could you mistake them for the same writing. She also took me to task for not reading PD James. "I don't read mysteries. I'm more of a trashy romance kinda gal." I then made a joke about his name being Henna Ankles. So I officially can never read his stuff.

My brother got married today. And his ex-wife got married a few weeks ago. I can't wait for HH, LH, or TG's memoirs in 20 years "That was the summer my parents got married to other people." This is sort of a dark thing to say and I don't mean it in jest or as a criticism. I just like to imagine them growing from the little people they are now into adults who do adult like things, such as drink port, smoke tobacco from pipes, wear monocles, and write memoirs. Oh, and apparently they are early-century British in this scenario.

The End