I Say Potato, You Say Orange Juice

I was on the way to Philly a few weeks ago on my favorite mode of transportation, Greyhound. (See http://emilyepstein.blogspot.com/2006/03/leaving-driving-to-us-indeed.html).

First the bus was delayed. Or it was late. Or the one before it never came. Frankly, I'm not really sure as they never make announcements, which encourages you to play “what do you think happened to the bus?” with the person behind you in line.

Then the "Greyhound management" decided to do bag and person check. As they searched through my bags, I asked them what they were looking for.

"Anything that could cause a problem," the woman said. "Alcohol, guns, knives."

So apparently anything that could make the trip more interesting.

The thing is, you never hear people planning suicide missions that involve Greyhound. Planes, yes, buses on fictional movies like Speed, also true. But Greyhound? Not so much.

And I think that’s go to be because you will never find anyone important on a Greyhound bus. Starving artists? Definitely. Baby mammas? Hell yeah. But never heads of state.

So at least the terrorists realize that to blow up a Greyhound bus would be a waste of their time, and no furtherance of their mission. And if you were to get the sorry mission of blowing yourself to the afterlife by detonating a bus, I’m pretty sure there won't be any of those 72 virgins waiting for you.

When all the bag fondling was over, I settled in to my seat, hoping to go over my set list before the show I was heading to. I ended up, however, sitting next to an incredibly inquisitive woman. Which was the last thing I wanted.

Those of you that know me, probably find that to be amusing, as I'm not exactly shy. But I have to say, I've never had less in common with someone then I did with this woman.

She was Pakistani and very sweet, and had moved to the states four years ago. She married a dude at 20 years old that she met in church and only knew him for a few days before they jumped over the broom. (I think it was an arranged marriage). Her hubby is now the manager of a Dominos. She has never been a trip on her own until now and she's never been on the subway without her husband. In addition, she has never owned a cell phone nor knows how to use it.

Throw me a bone here, people!

So we stumbled through a conversation trying to be able to relate to each other, which was kind of heartwarming.

When I told her I was Jewish, her face lit up.

"I love those people!" she exclaimed. "They are so beautiful."

Now we were getting somewhere! I mean, we Heebs are indeed a very beautiful people, if I may say so myself.

"But why do you all have the same hair?" she asked.

And then it hit me. She was talking about Orthodox Jews.

I was then forced to do my best to teach Hassidic Jewry 101. Talk about awkward.

After our lesson, she asked me what I did for a living. I explained to her about my dual professions of comedy and book publishing. I had to describe to her what stand-up comedy is.

"Tell me one of your stories," she implored.

So I thought. And thought. And thought some more. And I realized, there was not a single joke (or Spanish telenovela) I could tell that wouldn't confuse her or upset her.

"I got nothing," I said. "Wanna talk more about the beautiful Jewish people?"

She nodded her head. And so we did.

You Owe Me

One of my best friends just got knocked up. Don't worry, it's a good thing. She's happy about it, her hubby is happy about it, and we, her friends, are all excited, too.

She's my first close friend to have a baby, and I’m realizing it’s really going to change things. No more binge drinking, or staying out till all hours of the night, or taking inappropriate pictures and posting them on the web (because, you know, the baby might see them and be emotionally scarred or something).

More then anything, since I can’t help her carry the baby, I really want to help.

"What do you say to me becoming a midwife? That way I can be useful when the baby pops out," I said to her.

"Thanks, but no," she said, grimacing.

"Oh, come on! I mean, if you can do those online tests to become a priest, it can't be that different to become an untrained medical helper."

But she stuck to her guns, so now all I can do is look for cute baby outfits, and plan how I'll pass along my wisdom to the new baby. Since I don't have any actual wisdom, maybe I'll teach him/her about jokes and gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhoods, which seem to be my only skills.

I'm thinking that something must come over you when you're pregnant because my friend is having an awful time. She's has had to stay home from work because she can't keep any food down and she's losing weight. She's even had to go to the hospital because she was so dehydrated.

How can a child be this difficult before it's even come into the world? Do the hormones shooting through your body make you so loving and patient that you just glow with the light of life? Because I think, if I ever become pregnant, and my child was this much of a pain, it would owe me before it even came out of the womb. None of that "letting a child be a child business," the baby better be supporting mommy in her old age by the time she hits the ripe old age of 5. That’s right, I said get to dancing, Shaquanda!

Then again, maybe it's sign that I'm not quite ready to have a kid yet. Guess I'll just stick to taking care of my goldfish. Actually, it's my roommate's.