Archive for the ‘Public Transportation Nightmares’ Category

  • Seriously dudes, this is not okay.


    Dear MEN,

    No, I’m not talking to all of you. But it seemed rude to start it “Dear Creepsters.” In fact, if you’re reading this blog, you probably never do this. I hope. Well, Travis might.

    Kidding, Trav, I just know how you like to be linked.

    Anyway, some of you men clearly need to be told that it’s not okay to stop a woman in the street to tell her how sexy her neck is, while licking your lips at her as though you might just throw her down and rip her clothes off right then and there.

    It’s not cool. I won’t claim to speak for all women. I’m sure there are some who like this kind of attention, but I can tell you that most of us don’t. To be on the safe side, you should all just stop it.

    And when I keep walking, because I’m not going to stop and have a conversation with you about the sexiness of my neck and risk getting raped or murdered, don’t yell “Bitch” at my back. I’m not required to respond to your creepiness. It freaks me out, and it’s really the last thing I need at 8am, on my way to work.

    I know, you “nice guys” are out there rolling your eyes, saying, “Man, you can’t say anything to women these days.” But that’s not true. Honestly, there’s a way to compliment someone without making that person uncomfortable. I do it all the time.

    But we also need to address the issue of receptivity. If a woman is not receptive to your attention, she’s probably going to find you “creepy.” Which, at this point, is as nebulous a term as “douchebag.” I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it. And everyone’s definition is probably a little bit different.

    Yeah, it’s as much a bummer for you “nice guys” as the floating definition of “bitch” or “slut” is for us ladies. Welcome to the club.

    Obviously, sexy neck spottings are not the only thing that I believe should be off limits. It’s mostly a class thing. You know, like you should have some. It’s usually easy to tell when someone is being sincere, and “Man, I’d like to put my dick in your mouth” just ain’t it.

    So let’s all take a lesson in class and consideration for our fellow humans. That means no more honking and yelling filthy things from your vehicle, no more lewd talk to strangers on the street, and having some respect for everyone’s space bubble. It’s not so hard; more than half of us do it all day everyday. Give it a try, I’m sure you’ll like it.

    Love (around the space bubble),

  • Monday Morning DART Report: Apparently, the train is the perfect place to talk about your vagina.


    Yes, I was a bit of a lazy ass last week. Let’s move on, shall we?

    A couple of Fridays ago, I got on the train to go home from work. I was thrilled because my favorite seat was available. See, on the regular cars, there’s a place where there are two seats, and then the seat in front of them is turned sideways. It’s perfect for putting your feet up, if there aren’t a bunch of people on the train. As this was a Friday, there were a bunch of people on the train, and this wasn’t even remotely an option. I, without thinking, sat there anyway.

    What I didn’t take into account were the people sitting behind me. They were talking loudly to each other.

    Here’s the conversation that first caught my attention. They had it at THIS VOLUME.

    First Dude: “How do you know when the sex is good?”

    Woman, giggling: “I know.”

    Second Dude: “Uh…when you nut?” (Oh, the eloquence…)

    Woman: “When your pussy is still wet the next day. When you can’t walk. When you have bruises.”

    Second Dude: “What kind of sex you be havin’, girl?”

    Woman: Giggle.

    Let me reiterate: This entire conversation was at shouting level. In my ear.

    I tried valiantly to read a book, but who can concentrate with pussy talk in their ear? And then I got to hear all about their friend Kim’s* haircut. You see, Slim saw Kim at work and noticed she got a new haircut. He didn’t like it, but he told her it was “different.”

    The woman informed him that Kim was out sick that week, and she hadn’t even been at work.

    Slim just knew he had seen her, because her hair was so different! It looked like crap, he almost didn’t recognize her. But she had talked to him like she knew him!

    The woman called Kim to verify that Kim was, indeed, out sick. And she was. Whoever Slim had talked to, it wasn’t Kim! But it looked just like her! Slim was so confused. He was going to go “confront that bitch” and find out “why she pretend she knew me.”

    The woman, still on the phone with Kim (the real one, who has apparently not cut her hair) told Slim that girl “be playin’ him.”

    Slim was mightily upset about this.

    Somewhere near the halfway point of my train journey, a couple of other men got on the train. One of them started randomly yelling at strangers, to ask how tall they were. “Hey boy! Hey boy! How tall are you, boy?”

    The boy tried to ignore him, but the yelling man wouldn’t give up. The boy finally just shrugged his shoulders and the yelling man and his friend dissolved into giggles.

    Shortly after that, and let me mention that it was about 90 degrees on this train, it was packed to the gills, and more than one of its occupants was not acquainted with the shower, someone got on the train wearing so pungent a perfume or cologne that my headache (caused by a woman’s pussy and not-really-Kim’s haircut) immediately got worse.

    That person sat down right next to me.

    I managed to make it off the train without incident (and by that I mean, going postal), but it was a very close call.

    *I’m calling her Kim, because I can’t remember her name. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Kim, though.

  • Monday Morning DART Report: No, no…excuse YOU.


    Last week, I took a detour from my usual public transportation route. I got off at an earlier stop to take a look at some minimalist running shoes. I’ve been contemplating them for months, so I wanted to try some on.

    Hot damn, are they great! But that’s a story for another day. Or one I’ve already told you by now. I’m awesome like that.

    Anyway, this particular stop is in a sort of low tunnel thing, so there are stairs, elevators, and an escalator to get out. I was closer to the escalator, so I chose that. Not one to be lazy these days, I always force myself to walk up at least one escalator (at my usual stop, there are three and one of them is ENORMOUS, so I walk up the first, half the second, and the third).

    There was a man on the escalator, about halfway up. He had chosen, as people often do, to stand directly in the middle of the step and he was taking full advantage of the escalator. Read: He wasn’t moving a muscle.

    As I approached him, I said, “Excuse me.” No response. Again, “Excuse me.” Again, nothing. So I just stepped around him, since clearly he had decided to be a dick today.

    Then it happened. I stepped around him on his step, then stepped up to the next one and he said, “Excuse you, ugh.”

    I turned around, more disdain in my eyes than even I thought I could muster.

    “I said excuse me, thank you very much, but you didn’t bother to fucking listen. Maybe if you didn’t have to take up the entire fucking step, this wouldn’t be a problem, you lazy ass bastard.” I stopped short of, “and pull your damn pants up, I don’t want to smell your ass.”

    So it seems that I’m at my “rude assholes” maximum for the DART train. And it’s only been six months. This should get interesting.

  • Monday Morning: DART Story of the Week


    I’m sure that I’ll rant about public transportation more than just on Mondays, but I think for a while, I’ll try to share an awesome story with you every Monday morning. And let’s face it, that’s one less day I have to think about content, right?

    We should get things started off with a bang, too, so I’ll start with the only day that I’ve wished for a car.

    My boss, who can’t remember how to attach files to emails, has a really hard time understanding that the train runs on a schedule. And if I’m not there when it leaves…I can’t get on it. So he’s constantly just asking me one more thing or making endless small talk as I watch my train leave the station.

    The day in question was one of those days. I usually leave the office at 4:00 pm, to catch the 4:13 train. It takes 20 minutes to get to my stop from the office. That day, I had missed the 4:13 and the 4:28 and was running to catch the 4:43. I reached my stop just a little past 5:00 pm and went to wait for my bus. The 5:10 bus.

    Twice in the three months before this day, the 5:10 bus had not shown up at all. Every other time I had to take it, it was very late. And so I sat down to wait.

    And wait. And wait. And wait.

    The buses are on a 20-minute schedule at that time of day. By 5:30, the time for the next bus, I was still waiting.

    And waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

    It was a cloudy, humid day. One of the first hot days of the year. The sky was so swollen with rain, it looked like it might explode.

    Tick. Tick. Tick.

    Finally, at 5:45, when I could have walked home nearly twice (it takes about 25-30 minutes) in the time I had been waiting for the bus, I stalked off toward home.

    About halfway across a parking lot, I saw the bus FINALLY coming around the corner. I ran to catch it at the next stop.

    Safely on the bus, I figured my troubles were over.

    At the next stop, there was a woman waiting. She was not a small woman. She couldn’t climb the two stairs to get on the bus, so the driver had to activate the handicap-person hydraulic system for her. This system is slower than Christmas. The woman finally made it on the bus, sat down and left her walker out in the aisle; she immediately starting having the loudest conversation ever with the bus driver…about coupons. As our bus was pulling back out into the street, the 5:50 bus (of the same route) passed us. It stopped at the next stop and we passed it.

    We, however, got to stop for the CAN! Academy kids. One of whom, who was at most 14, was pushing an enormous stroller with her infant in it. Cue hydraulic system again. When the kids got their kid on the bus, they found themselves at an impasse. The large woman’s walker was still in the middle of the aisle (as was half of herself), and she wasn’t really interested in moving it. The bus driver refused to go until they sorted it out. We sat at the intersection through three lights and the rest of my patience.

    The 5:50 bus passed us once again, as we got underway. We were close to my stop, so I thought, again, that my pain was about to end. I pushed the dingy-bell, requesting a stop. The bus driver…ignored it.

    I jumped up and said, “HEY! That’s my stop.”

    She said, “Well, that other bus is behind me, so I can’t stop there.” It does no good to yell at bus drivers, but keeping my mouth shut was the hardest thing I had done all day.

    I had to get off at the next stop, which meant that I ended up walking half a mile home anyway. And the guy who got off the bus with me?

    “Hey. How you doin’?”

    “Sir, you can fuck off.”

    “Why you gotta be that way?”

    “Because I am having a bad fucking day and you are just going to piss me off.”

    By the time I got home, I pretty much hated everyone. Even myself.