Bus Stop Man

Having wasted  wisely spent the morning reading my blogroll and eating figs, dates and manuka honey on toast, I'm finally ready to put Kiddo's laundry out on the line. Because it's sunny. What a gas.

It wasn't an interesting week. SciMan returned from Munich and while he was gone, I again was reminded how much of a badass my mom is/was for being single mom for so long. But I'm more of a badass because I did it while wrangling public transportation schedules and without a dryer. Kiddo started school. Yeah, yeah...so did your kids. But guess what? My kid's four.

They start 'em young here.

Last year I met an elderly gentleman at the bus stop down the road from Kiddo's school. It was during the cold snap when we had weeks of snow and ice covering the sidewalks aka "pavement". We had a lovely conversation about him. I had a great view of his nose hairs. And then the bus arrived.

A few months later, we encountered each other again and it was like brand new acquaintanceship, for him at least. Took me way to long to figure out he didn't remember me. No big whoop, just minor ego bruising that is so trifling, I'm embarrassed to admit to it. Maybe I'm not really all that embarrassed. Americans are a dime a dozen here. And then the bus arrived.

One afternoon after work last week, I'm waiting for a bus to take me to Kiddo's school. This same lovely gentleman and I had the exact same conversation we had in December 2010. And then the bus arrived and I know no more about him now as I did then. But I sure do like him.

Edit 9:05 pm: I guess at some point I'm going to have to publish the post I wrote on December 23, 2010. But I don't fucking want to. Based on the comments from more than one of you by this point in the day, it appears that you don't know the story of me and my grandmother. Understandable, since this blog is not about my past, only about the daily conniptions I experience here in County Durham of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So, for once, I suppose I'll address this. I'll get personal...but don't expect more of the same later. My grandmother was my best friend. I think I was hers, as only a little girl can be.

But then she began to forget me.

It was subtle at first. She began to address me as "Sheila", her daughter's name, who was alive and hale and hearty...just not in the state. The questions began to be repetitive... then tiresome. I got other best friends and other interests on which to spend my time, rather than taking the time to travel the 65 minutes to Ada, Oklahoma.

I grew up. She grew older.

Alzheimer's is a terrible disease. It scared me. I learned I was a coward. I stayed away, rarely initiated phone calls, never replied to letters.

So when I say "minor ego bruising", what I'm really saying is "my fucking heart bleeds still for the beautiful, talented woman who helped raise me and tried to teach me about what was good in life but died before she could finish".

So yeah, I know about dementia. And I'm fucking scared for my dad, for me, for Kiddo.