“She thinks she’s Irish? I’m Cherokee! She doesn’t even know she doesn’t wanna open this can of worms! I’ll cut her achilles of her juggler! She’s not smart enough to keep me from hurting her.”

I started to write an introspective piece about my travels today, but I scratched the whole thing because it really boils down to this.

Dear Sir at the Wilshire and Western bus stop: Running into the middle of the street in semi-heavy traffic, leaning and squinting as far as you can, will not make the bus arrive any sooner. It didn’t the first time you did it, or the second, third, fourth, or fifth times. I’m not really sure why you thought it would at all, since the woman’s two attempts before yours were equally futile.  

I must admit, you did peak my curiosity. Was there something in the middle of Wilshire that I was missing? An Ingress portal, perhaps? Sadly, I did not partake in the festivities, nor did I whip out my phone to capture this intriguing behavior, as I was too busy Stumbling on Happiness on my nifty Nook.

My grandmother used to ask, “Am I the only one in this family without any problems?” I don’t think she was really asking, of course. She was being a passive aggressive smart ass, which is why I love her.

We’re having a family reunion this July, and my aunt Vicky is hosting. We all like to call her Aunt Victoria in the most dramatic way possible (I might have to attach a sound bite) because she is quite possibly the most dramatic casual conversationalist ever. There isn’t anything about her that isn’t over the top.

So I shouldn’t be surprised when I see her latest email with an inventory of what has been rented so far for this event of the century. The normal items are there, tables, chairs, chaffing dishes, string lights, tablecloths, port-a-potties, golf carts. Wait. Port-a-potties? There are 3 bathrooms in the house. And what? A golf cart?!? Upon further inspection, I see that the golf cart is to transport folks from the top of the driveway to the bottom of the driveway. I’m not kidding. It’s not like this is a mansion on top of a giant hill. This is just a regular house in Colorado Springs.  

It certainly calms my fears to know that these port-a-potties are the “Just Like Home” type with sinks and mirrors. But the most important quality, as presented in all caps, is NO TURQUOISE. Evidently we can’t have the turquoise clashing with the golf cart. 

One of my friends told me it sounds like we need to sell movie rights to this event. Why not? I’m doing the filming, dammit. I shall request a Director’s Chair.

I know, I know. I’m making her out to be a tool. She’s actually quite great. She’s my second favorite aunt. How can anyone possibly compete with the one who took me shopping in her convertible MG with hippy hair flowing, while trying to convince my parents to let me have a rabbit?

So, one thing did make me grin and pump my fist victoriously. We’re making the Martha Stewart centerpieces ourselves. Yay savings!

Why shouldn’t we have the best to celebrate the fabulousness that we are? I say we go with a hot air balloon! I know it might have to land a bit away from the house, but look at that space between here and Pike’s Peak! Don’t we have a golf cart for that?

The last six weeks have been the coldest I’ve ever experienced in Los Angeles. It’s not like there is snow on the ground or anything, but it isn’t normally this cold. To be honest, I was quite disappointed that I didn’t see people walking around in Alaskan outfits, covered head to toe. Oh they’d still have those damn Ugg boots and fingerless gloves on, but no other skin would dare show itself to such blistery conditions. I mean seriously, when it’s 60 degrees outside, half of LA walks around in a heavy coat, ski hat, scarf, and thick winter mittens. Are Alaskan outfits a thing, btw?

Anyway, I do think this adverse weather has affected the public transport population. In a good way? I have not seen the crazies in a while. This actually makes me a little sad to say because when I really think about the why behind it… well, it’s not a good feeling. 

So I had to smile when I started seeing the regulars again. The Drooler, especially. Yes, I have named them. The Drooler is a short, old, no-nonsense woman with her hair and makeup done, but not overdone. She totes her belongings behind her in a suitcase on wheels, complete with a stack of restaurant napkins sitting on top. She will stand and wait for as long as it takes for anyone to lift her bag on/off the bus, never looking you in the eye. Then she settles into her private seat, which she acquires by the continual drooling and wiping with the restaurant napkins. 

Nice to see you again, Spring. Stay for a while.

I’ve been featured!  Dusting off my tiara…

So I lead this thing called Drink and Click™ LA. It’s fabulous. It’s a cross between bar hopping and photo walking. I think some prefer the term pubcrawling as it sounds a bit less trashy, eh? Anyway, Juan Gonzalez from Austin started it, and now it’s international. I happen to lead the Los Angeles chapter, which means I’m now your go-to-girl for the fab spots in LA. 

It seriously has been so much fun, and I’ve met new people whom I actually like! 

Well, anyway, here’s the “interview”. I’m afraid that I took this seriously, so this is the end of the sass for this post. Enjoy! 

Meet +Christi Nielsen, Drink and Click ™ Featured Photographer of The Month

I’m quite intrigued by bus drivers. These people have seen more than my sassy butt thinks is cute to write about. And I’m quite often surprised, to be honest. I’m surprised at their patience. 

I was a flight attendant for four years back in my twenties. Being on an airplane with the crazies made retail seem like a walk in the park. These people were pissed. I mean, really, what can you expect? Imagine every single thing that could possibly go wrong with your flight. The annoying price games are over now. But…. you’ve barely made it to the airport, who knows if you’re going to make it through security on time, the gate has been changed, your bag doesn’t fit, someone’s in your seat. We haven’t even shut the door yet, and your life is hell. By the time you get on the plane, everything that’s going to go wrong has… and I’m stuck with you in a metal tube in the middle of the sky for the next two hours. Multiply yourself by 100. Smacking my ass does NOT help the situation, btw.

This kind of stress causes people to lose their minds. They ask me for help because they see rows 8, 9, and 10 but can’t find row 11. They ask me how to open doors with knobs. I show them how to flush the toilet by pushing the button that says FLUSH TOILET. I must defend myself to my supervisor because I was written up by a passenger who was pissed because we didn’t have his brand of whiskey… ON AN AIRPLANE! And then there is Mommy, who sees my arms as the next best thing to a Diaper Genie. You should always take this into consideration before accepting that glass of juice on an airplane.  

So when I see the calm of the bus driver, I am intrigued. I have witnessed the crazy on an airplane, and I’ve witnessed the crazy on a bus. There is no comparison. Well, except during airline price wars. Then you’ve got the Hefty Haute Couture luggage making its way up your gray carpet. You’re silently praying that the Glad ForceFlex is with you. After experiencing what people bring in plain sight, you seriously do not want a breach of stretchable strength to reveal what’s tucked away.

I can’t seem to stay focused on the patient bus drivers, can I?

So why is it that so many of these bus drivers take shit in stride? Literally. What the hell is that stench? Oh that. Someone stepped in dog shit before getting on the bus. Now every third person is stepping in said shit and tracking it further down that rubber carpet of glory. It’s so bad that the bus driver actually makes a pit stop at a corner gas station. Yay! He’s our hero and he’s going to clean the shit! 

We’re on our way again, and I’m trying to figure out why he thought taking dry paper towels and smearing the shit around was a successful way of removing it. 

He’s male? 

I have nothing.

You don’t expect me to bitch about buses on every post, do you? ;-)

We’re having a family reunion this July, and I have the daunting task of scanning a few thousand images. It’s actually quite fun. This is my grandfather, Ford Hubbert. He was adopted, but his biological family name was James. As in Jesse James… the outlaw. I’m not kidding. He’s like my great great great uncle or something like that. Anyhoo, my grandfather witnessed his father murder his mother and then run out the back door, never to be found. I guess that outlaw blood gets passed down. So all the children were split up and adopted, and he became a Hubbert.

My grandfather always had a camera on him, and he was quite the character. So I wasn’t surprised when I came across this image of him doing a BATHROOM SELFIE!! LOL 

I know it’s the thing right now, but… My granddaddy was doin’ bathroom selfies before bathroom selfies were cool. ;-)

Rock that reflection, Grandpa!

Sometime down the road, I just know there will be a day when there is no crazy on the bus. I’m waiting for it. And when that day comes, I’ll be ready. I’ll flip the switch.