Bus Report #350
In which Fog City Notes meets Fog City Mommy and the two Rachels crash a party.
Last week I get an email from the other Rachel, asking if I want to crash a party with her. A party for people like us, you know, the blog-writey types.
She assures me that she is not crazy, but my little sister still asks me to check in with her after the meet up to make sure I haven't been kidnapped or tortured.
Rachel calls me last night, says she's on the 38 heading towards my stop.
I grab my purse, my keys and a bottle of wine and tear down the street towards the bus stop.
The bus gets to my stop a moment after I do.
I hope the other Rachel won't be put off by my Medusa hair and shortness of breath from my run.
She's sitting in the front of the bus with Rick, and says to me, "You must be Rachel."
Well, she's right.
Our bus driver is a jerk, stopping short, making rude comments to people.
Luckily Rick charms the other passengers and people seem to be in a generally good mood.
We ride downtown to the party venue, stopping first so that Rick can watch some trucks and buses go up and down Powell Street. He loves his trucks and buses.
We go to the party, picking up a lost party-goer from the Midwest along the way. We rendezvous with Rachel's friends, in town from cities I've never visited.
There are a lot of bloggers there, everyone quick to hand out their card, ask what we write about, marvel that we are two fog city Rachels.
We tell them we're crashing their party, and they love us.
It was fun, and very nice to meet my doppelganger, finally.
This morning on my 38 Geary, a man sat in front of me filing his nails. Gross. He stopped and pulled a hard back book from a box on the seat next to him. It was called something like, Tormented Passion. Awesome.
The 22 came as I was getting off the 38. The driver waited for me and I got on, sitting next to a guy that looked a lot like my old friend from college, B.
Lavender hat guy sat in front of me, and just like he has done every day this week so far, he stunk, STUNK and I had to open the windows.
The woman who looks like a model sat a few rows back. She was wearing a gold trenchcoat and gold flats, talk about a bold statement.
Catfish face man sat across from me.
It was a quiet morning on the 22, most people looked sleepy and relieved that it is Friday.
Chatty construction workers got on at Church and I was soon surrounded by them on all sides.
I turned up my music and stared out the window.
Last week I get an email from the other Rachel, asking if I want to crash a party with her. A party for people like us, you know, the blog-writey types.
She assures me that she is not crazy, but my little sister still asks me to check in with her after the meet up to make sure I haven't been kidnapped or tortured.
Rachel calls me last night, says she's on the 38 heading towards my stop.
I grab my purse, my keys and a bottle of wine and tear down the street towards the bus stop.
The bus gets to my stop a moment after I do.
I hope the other Rachel won't be put off by my Medusa hair and shortness of breath from my run.
She's sitting in the front of the bus with Rick, and says to me, "You must be Rachel."
Well, she's right.
Our bus driver is a jerk, stopping short, making rude comments to people.
Luckily Rick charms the other passengers and people seem to be in a generally good mood.
We ride downtown to the party venue, stopping first so that Rick can watch some trucks and buses go up and down Powell Street. He loves his trucks and buses.
We go to the party, picking up a lost party-goer from the Midwest along the way. We rendezvous with Rachel's friends, in town from cities I've never visited.
There are a lot of bloggers there, everyone quick to hand out their card, ask what we write about, marvel that we are two fog city Rachels.
We tell them we're crashing their party, and they love us.
It was fun, and very nice to meet my doppelganger, finally.
This morning on my 38 Geary, a man sat in front of me filing his nails. Gross. He stopped and pulled a hard back book from a box on the seat next to him. It was called something like, Tormented Passion. Awesome.
The 22 came as I was getting off the 38. The driver waited for me and I got on, sitting next to a guy that looked a lot like my old friend from college, B.
Lavender hat guy sat in front of me, and just like he has done every day this week so far, he stunk, STUNK and I had to open the windows.
The woman who looks like a model sat a few rows back. She was wearing a gold trenchcoat and gold flats, talk about a bold statement.
Catfish face man sat across from me.
It was a quiet morning on the 22, most people looked sleepy and relieved that it is Friday.
Chatty construction workers got on at Church and I was soon surrounded by them on all sides.
I turned up my music and stared out the window.
posted by Rachel at 7:42 AM
3 Comments:
and it was a freaking blast.
I owe you a ten for the cab ride home (tipped him 4 bucks because it was really late and I didn't want to deal with change. lol)
saturday then?
It's a plan, sister.
I'll call ya.
and then we drank margaritas.
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