wait! wait!

My father once, at a rather melodramatically unfabulous time in my life, bestowed upon me a bit of advice that his friend George had received from his father. It was that "girlfriends are like buses-- if you miss out on one, there will always be another coming soon."

And sure, the attitude enabled by this sentiment might be considered the hose end of the slip n'slide to full-on sociopathic behavior. But he told me this because it is funny, and it made me feel better, if by simple distraction.

At any rate, I have recently found in this argument a very serious flaw. What happens when you miss the only bus that was devoid of stenches, and creepy dudes with band-aid hands, and ladies screaming at you about their alimony? And what if that bus was impossible for you to reach in the first place?

I have found that bus. It is my 60-something year-old land lady, Lydia. And oh what a primo bus she is.

Insane? Sure.

Overly talkative and reptitive in her ramblings about painting cabinets and what one might hypothetically cook on a stove (coffee was all she could think of)? Hell yes.

But she has already been taken. Long ago. By a small bald fellow, whom I thoroughly, ragingly envy. If only I had been there to scream this in the Polish church on that fateful day: