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Everyone is always so reserved at the bus stop.
Thursday night, for whatever reason, all the eastbound buses into Denver were delayed, so the queue at the Market Street Station was huge, snaking around the metal dividers. It could have filled three buses. Yet everyone just stood there patiently.  Occasionally, someone would make a raspberry-esque sound or heave a sigh.
I spurred a few chats with the woman ahead of me – she was wearing spike heels, and I was thinking of how her feet must feel.  I had been wearing my spike-heel, over-the-knee boots a few days earlier and noticed that, after walking for a while, my feet were killing me, and yet my face never gave it away.  So I broached the subject with her and she expressed extreme solidarity with the sentiment. We then speculated on how, seeing as how you have oodles of acupressure points in your feet that effect your entire body, this kind of foot pain might impact so many parts of us of without us being conscious of it, or relating the two. (I guess the moral of the story is don’t wear spike heels. Tell that to today’s fashion designers. And besides, they make you feel kind of sexy. And taller.)
When the bus finally arrived, everyone waited their turn and boarded in an orderly fashion, until all the seats were filled. And the bus departed.
I recall ex-Pat telling me tales of his trips to China, and among them was his first experience boarding a bus or a train. Everyone was milling around when the train arrived.  And when the doors opened, it became a free-for-all, a scene like something out a small-town downtown after their team has just won the NCAA championship title:  people pushing, shoving, elbowing, toe-stomping.  Little old grannies, using market bags as weapons were the worst, he said.  And once the seats were taken, the cramming continued until the standees were packed in like sardines and the seatees were subjected to up-close views of clothed body parts that no one wants to see, and nose-in physical aromas that no one wants to smell.
And heaven help the people getting off the bus. As he recounted it, I suspect some of them were forced against their will to make the return trip, simply due to the unforgiving press of boarding passengers.

Someday, I will have to experience this for myself. Perhaps in Nepal, or India. Or yes, maybe China on my own, Who knows?

It makes my idea of instigating a 10-second dance party at the morning bus stop (when I am in a good mood) seem rather tame. But I think to my fellow passengers, a 10-second dance party would be unthinkable.

So maybe next week, if I am in an exceptionally good mood, I’ll shake things up a bit.  There’s just no need for such propriety.

I love color.  It’s so nice that I have scarlet and turquoise in my living room now.  Pat’s house, while panelled in wonderful old knotty pine, is all beige.  Why is it that men like beige so much?  Is it just easier to make a decision about beige?  Does it just require less thought?

I just discovered that there’s a “Dark Shadows” Festival in July in Burbank. (Burbank?!)  Now, I don’t know if I would really fit in there.  My fan status was the same as many people my age (including Johnny Depp, who is hoping to play Barnabas in the planned Tim Burton movie version of the ’60s daytime gothic soap.  And it would be worth going just in case Johnny Depp is there in person, wouldn’t it, ladies?)  Anyway, back to my fan-dom —  we used to hurry home from school to watch this wierd, quirky show every day, and even as unsophisticated as we were, were astounded by the poor cinematography, entertained by the perilous mistakes of live television, amused by the fact that Julia ALWAYS had her mouth open, and annoyed by the fact that Barnabas could never reconnect with his true love, what with constantly changing centuries and incarnations.  Yes, folks, vampires and werewolves were popular long before the Twilight series.  But I’m not one of those people who can recite every line, dress in character, or even explain the progression of beings that was Daphne-Maggie-Angelique-Cassandra (or something like that.)  So maybe I wouldn’t fit in at the festival.  But it might make a good story.  And it would definitely be a unique experience.  Hmmm.

I am coughing so much that it’s making me throw up — probably TMI — sorry, but it’s random.

My new website for my new business is up and running – still need to add some samples, but it looks pretty good.  A friend helped me toot my own horn more, as that’s always been tough for me, and the first version was too shrinking violet.

Kendra and I have finally exchanged the last of our Christmas presents.  Oh wait, I still have to send some to E-Bro.  Darn!

I was coughing so much last night that I only got about 3 hours of sleep.  The only good thing about getting that little sleep is that you have a pretty good shot at getting a better night’s sleep the next night.

There’s a bar in Nanjing, China called the Rising Sun Anger Release Bar.  You can drink, break glasses and beat up the staff.  Really.  And most of its customers are women.

Today is Unique Names Day, and here’s a doozy for you:  Adolph Blaine Charles David Earl Frederick Gerald Hubert Irvin John Kenneth Lloyd Martin Nero Oliver Paul Quincy Randolph Sherman Thomas Uncas Victor William Xerxes Yancy Zeus Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorffvoralternwarengewissenhaftschaferswessenschafewarenwohlgepflegeunds
vorangreifenvonandererintelligentgeschopfs vonhinzwischensternartigraum, Senior.  That’s not going to fit on the name badge.

I am one of those unfortunates whom Nyquil makes jittery.  Hence, I look like the disgusting sick people in the Nyquil commercials even when I am awake.  Sigh.  Snort.

December 2019
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