Mondays

I go into the office on Monday. It bursts my illusion that I don't have a full-time job. There are times when I think I would be happier if I went into the office more often (as they would like me to do, so that they could suck out my brain and still not give me benefits) but there are other times when I'm very happy to be free of the get-up-ride-the-bus-only-to-sit-around with strangers routine that I feel like I'm living in a dream world.

Just me. Just me and the cats. Just me and the cats, sitting in the basement meeting all my deadlines. Just me, talking to the cats, just me, singing to the cats. Just me, isolating myself from the world. There are many days I have to resist picking up the phone to call the office in a fit of paranoia, and scream, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON THERE?"

Maybe I should go into the office more often. Then again, what about the cats?

Plus, riding public transportation is over-rated (if only by MY MOM.) Last year, my mother and I spent a weekend in Chicago and (because my mom has a bum knee) we took the bus down Michigan Avenue to the Art Institute. It was a public bus, but because nearly everyone who got on it was a clueless visitor who asked the bus driver for directions, it basically was a "tourist shuttle."

My mom said to me, "You know, riding the bus is great!" and I (sarcastic daughter) retorted, "Yes THIS bus is a nice bus, but not all buses are like this." She said, "But it's so convenient to hop on a bus and get to where you want to go." I responded, "Well, a few blocks on a bus down Michigan Avenue with a bus driver who is giving everyone directions is great. But really mom, not ALL buses are as nice as this bus." She just looked at me blankly -- she has no idea! My mother has missed out on the day to day horrors of big city bus riding.

Sometimes when I'm riding the #14 down Mission Street, I come to the realization that I'm the only white yuppie lady on the bus -- arms rubbing against probable gang members (who use bad words that hurt my tender ears), prostitutes (who discuss late-night intrigue and their "little somethin' somethin'" and who is trying to steal it where to hide it) and (ooof) blindingly pungent homeless drug addicts full of the crazies on their way SF General for methodone treatments. I try hard not to make eye contact with anyone and hope that I haven't just sat in something horrible and I think, wow, my mom would COMPLETELY freak out if she knew I rode the bus. She would probably make me move back to Wisconsin. But that bus ride down Michigan Avenue from Watertower Place to the Art Institute of Chicago -- that's a sweet carefree ride.