Now, I recognize that the kids in the back of the bus are stereotypically your run-of-the-mill “behavior problems.” They’re your Ritalin kids. Your detention after school kids. Your “Phoenix Stereobox, stop jamming your pencil into Phantacy’s forearm. That’s not acceptable behavior!” kind of kids. That’s right, they’re as special and unique as their names let on.

But the part of my brain that has been oft educated about these sorts of things by my school teacher mother failed me this morning. Selective memory perhaps. An overlooked pocket of lingering hope and optimism maybe. Either way, when I saw that little child’s hand begin to wipe the condensation off the back window of the bus, I thought, “Oh, how cute. He’s going to wave at me.”

Just as I was about to raise my own hand from the steering wheel and wave back with a friendly smile, the eight year old’s face appeared. He wasn’t waving. He wasn’t smiling. He was sticking his tongue out at me.

“Well, look at you, you little brat! Your North Shore mommy and daddy must be so proud,” I thought to myself as I relinquished my hold on the steering wheel. I began to laugh at his own stupidity and poorly chosen attempts to insult. “Kid, look who you’re dealing with,” I would have told him. “Try a little harder when you’re looking to offend someone like me.”

But then, something happened. Something untoward and unholy and unbelievably perverted except that it actually happened. The pre-tween, with his tongue still sticking out, began to wave it back and forth. Which was when his hand reappeared. He raised it to his mouth and…YUP. Tongue still wagging. Fingers split to either side.

Insert record screeching sound here. My previously bemused laughter was swiftly replaced with internal screams of horror. “NO. NO. NO! WHAT THE HELL, OH MY GOD, YOU DID NOT JUST DO THAT. NO. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP!”

Looks like someone is well on his way to his first STD. Good luck with that, Phoenix Stereobox!

We sat down. We ordered food. We sat in silence. We looked about the room. We sipped our drinks. We talked about how sad the Whale Wars marathon on Planet Green was last night. We sat in silence some more. We eavesdropped- it was unavoidable!

The conversation next door was a runaway train of dating energy. The girl would NOT stop her “laughing.” She was overeager and it was embarrassing to witness her unreciprocated enthusiasm. While she dug and scraped at her Eggs Benedict with feigned interest in eating, the dude peppered her with a question here or there. He was polite, though douchey, playing it cool in that nonchalant way that dudes can affect whilst still wearing sweatpants. There were mentions of “last night” and, curiously enough, “one dollar bills.” There were references to high school and trips to DC. There was a brief swapping of future job interests.

Loudly, and not at all concerned for himself being overheard (because he couldn’t give a shit and is just as, if not more, judgmental than me), my boyfriend remarks more than asks, “What is this, the guy she picked up at the bar last night?” We both laughed and I thought,”I love you for statements like that.” Later, as we quickly wrapped up our breakfast and went about our day, the whole episode got me to thinking…

When you’re in the early stages of a relationship, when you’re still full of hope and joy and giddiness, before you’ve found that one thing that annoys the ever living fuck out of you; you look at couples sitting silently like my boyfriend and I and tell yourself you’ll never let that happen to YOUR relationship. Oh no. Perish the thought.

And then, when you’re in a relationship like ours and you’re sitting in companionable quiet, you mock and smirk at those fledgling couples with open disdain. You reflect upon their doings with genuine gratitude that you no longer have to partake in such put-on happiness and optimism and “oh, isn’t everything just wonderful, I’m never in a bad mood ever, I’m wonderful, like me like me like me!” Instead, you can just be.

I don’t know that one perspective is better than the other, but I’m content and grateful to be with someone like him, someone who I can joke around with and be all judgey and 100% me- annoying habits and bad moods and all.

Punta Cana 2009

And this?

Punta Cana Sunrise

And this too?

Punta Cana Awesomeness

This is where I’ll be, topless and tanning, INSTEAD of playing baby games at that bullshit “Couple’s Shower.“  Oopsie. I’m sure that will go over real well. 

Sixteen days and counting!

In the wee small hours of the morning, I decided that I don’t like it when people and/or dudes refer to their junk as “meat.” It’s grody. Also, grody? This boyfriend I had in high school who would seriously go around saying “hot beef injection” all the time. Shocker that didn’t work out.

Speaking of schooling, whenever someone starts talking about licking butts I always think of cholera and how in seventh grade biology I had to give a report in front of the whole class (on cholera, not butt licking). I nearly hyperventilated when I realized I’d have to actually say “diarrhea” as part of the symptom description. Thankfully, by some eleventh hour stroke of future Thesaurus Rex wordsmithing skills, I said “flu-like symptoms” instead. Whew! Seventh grade was hard enough without also being known as “Diarrhea Girl”.

Incidentally, seventh grade was also my first introduction to Sex Ed, which ABSOLUTELY FAILED me. It was at that time I was instructed that boys have things called “nocturnal emissions” and was shown a video of a woman shooting a baby out of her lady bits into a bath tub and OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP, THE HORROR, MY EYES MY EYES!!! That image will forever be seared into visual memory. And to think, I had hitherto somehow believed that babies came out of a girl’s belly button. Yes, really.

As for learning anything of value- like how to kiss, or how to have the sex exactly- I remained at a loss and would be forced to continue scouring my Seventeen and YM magazines for clues. I also remained clueless about oral sex, believing it was when you and a boy talked about having the sex. This continued until I was, oh, 15 when a dude actually broke up with me after failing to convince me that people did that sort of thing. Yeah….

Anyway, back to the butt licking cholera. I learned, thanks to some super sleuth pre-Internet research (seriously how did we actually learn about anything back then?), that contaminated water is the cause. So, when someone takes a side trip over yonder, doesn’t that just pose potential exposure to a concentrated form? I mean, what if some microscopic dookie particles are still present? Boom! Cholera. Or something like that.

Moral of the story: don’t call your junk “meat” because apparently it gets my mind to thinking about these things.

Black wool pea coats and puffer down jackets. Black berets and black gloves. Black dress shoes and ballet flats and knee high boots in black tights. Black trouser pants and skirts and suits. Black messenger bags and laptop cases and satchels. Black iPhones and Blackberrys.

Black. You’d almost think they’re all headed to a funeral. Maybe they are. They are, after all, on their way to work. An all black funeral procession dreading that 8 a.m. conference call. Dreading that “chummy” office banter- pedantic and forced and not all that funny really. Dreading the 3:30 vending machine run for overpriced but absolutely necessary Snickers because it satisfies. Dreading the pre-meeting to prepare for the meeting that will be followed by the post-meeting recap. Dreading brainstorming sessions with “the team” to throw even more words about synergies onto the heap already accumulated.

Black. They’ve accessorized their dread with sullen, sallow, vacant faces to match. So even should the sun brave the gloom, it’s always dark dark dark on this bus with those faces and their dread and all that black.

Briefly standing there, I scan the huddled masses- one onyx coat sleeve blending into the next- and TRIUMPH! find a coveted seat. It is then that I proceed to virtually slap my seatmates across the face. WAKE UP!

I’m on my way to a funeral too. But I’m the girl in the blood-orange toggle coat.

Behold, my list of unabated and MAJESTIC! snark…

• I hate the abbreviated usage of the word “appetizer.” I always think of Lincoln Park douchebags who begin most sentences with “a couple of my buddies and I…” These are the same fratastic Jäger bomb drinkers who spout “let’s get some apps” all the time. AH! Hate hate hate that. Which is only compounded these days by all the iPhone “there’s an app for that” bullshit. How about there’s an app for SHUT THE HELL UP?!

• People who don’t say “hi” back or look at me all “I don’t give a shit, you whore” when I smile politely at them as I pass by. Smile, dammit! I’m nice, despite all evidence to the contrary.

• Easter grass. The plastic static cling kind. I detest the stuff- always have. I hate how when you’re reaching for that hidden treasure (Reese’s egg), you invariably come away with the janky ass crap on your shirt sleeve, which transfers to your pant leg, which you find on the side of your couch two weeks later.

• Eat Pray Love. I proudly stand as my own one woman crusade of haterade for Elizabeth Gilbert. I think her book- and I read it cover to cover- is a misguided epitaph against mental health awareness. I should note that I’m supportive of therapists and anti-depressants from my own need for both and the benefits I’ve experienced as a result. Which is why I think it’s unethical for dear ole Lizzy to perpetuate the stigma attached to treating depression by her own ill advised decisions to treat hers with food, yoga, and a freaking man. Problem solved. Yeah, right.

• Board and/or card games, also known as my personal hell. Although I have been known to make exception for Scrabble, Uno, or Jenga. Mostly because I divide and conquer at Scrabble. Bring it.

• The words “loin,” “pussy,” “tits, “moist,” “fashionista,” “taint,” “va-jay-jay,” “discharge,” “c you next Tuesday”… hell, who am I kidding? We could be here all day. “Panty,” “vom,” “muffin-top”…

• Jeggings. Seriously people, just stop. Stop it. Back away from the overpriced stretchy fake ass denim “pants.” They cost as much, if not more, than honest to goodness jeans. And what’s with those pockets on the back? Why not just wear some effing skinny jeans and call it a day? While I’m at it, I hate crocs too. If you’re going to wear crocs, why don’t you just give up on life? Because that’s what you look like when you shuffle along wearing them.

• Sweetest Day. One word: LAME.

What gets you unabashedly snarky?

The impetus for my morally ambiguous state.

I am, at present, besieged with inner turmoil, an ethical and moral dilemma, a conflict of righteousness of my own making.

I am getting my hair cut and colored once again this Saturday. Having decided that the shade of brunette I chose last November is “way harsh” for my pasty-ass skin tone, I have been looking for something more appropriate. Something chocolatey and rich, ash rather than auburn.  And I’ve found it, I think. In all honesty, I found it in December and have been mulling it over since because….I want Brittany Murphy’s hair color.

I know, I know…. “dude, she just died.” Believe me, I’ve been thinking a lot about this and what it says about me as a person. And I promise, when they announced her death and I came across this picture, my first thought was not “bingo.” I thought, like most people probably, about what a cute girl she was and how much I loved her in Clueless. I spent the day baking Christmas cookies with sporadic outbursts of  “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

I still want her hair color though.

So I’m wondering now, would it be “okay” to print out and bring the picture to my colorist? Or is that morally reprehensible? What will my colorist think if and when I show her the picture? What look of incredulity will I see in her eyes? What words of explanation will I feel obligated to offer? Does it say something weird about me that I want the hair color of a recently passed away actress? Or would that actually be a compliment?

Either way, please don’t haunt me, Brittany Murphy.