Yesterday, I saw a hearse driver peel out and flip someone off. That has to be in direct violation of the employee handbook.

This young man is driving a white minivan, the kind they use to take residents of old-folks homes to the mall. A little girl is buckled in next to him, tapping her hand against the window. He puts a cell phone to his ear and begins talking. She turns from the window, leans across the space between their seats, and shakes her finger in his face. “No, no, no!” He grins, embarrassed, and hangs up.

This man is rolling a car tire up our block. His action is effortless, almost soothing to watch. He walks next to the tire, bending occasionally to give it a slight push or correct its course. The tire seems alive, like an obedient dog, until the man stops it with his foot and lifts it into the trunk of his car.

Me: Have you seen any of these “Girls Gone Wild” videos?

B: It’s all these women showing their boobs, and then every ten minutes or so, the guy filming says (monotone voice), “They’ve gone wild.”

Me: It’s hilarious, he’s totally deadpan, no inflection whatsoever. That poor guy needs a new job, he’s seen one too many pairs of boobs.

E: I heard that stuff was fake, that they bring in strippers.

J: No. Remember? That one girl sued and won.

Me: They actually do bring in strippers. I just read a really interesting article about it. They bring in the strippers and get them to do stuff that wouldn’t ordinarily happen out in public. Then the other girls get more comfortable with it, because of the group-mentality thing. They jump in, and the strippers move out of the camera frame.

E: Really? Smart.

Me: Chilling.

E: Yeah, but smart.

B: I’m just saying

E: Yeah. I’m just saying it’s smart.

B: I’m just saying, “mental note.”

When you don’t leave the house for four days because your mouth hurts when you speak, eat, or breathe, and the medication makes you feel like your brain is swaddled in wool, you find new ways to measure self-worth. For example, a while ago I purchased a lot of spaghetti noodles–too many spaghetti noodles, some might say. (Drat the two-for-one and it’s terrible draw!)

Yesterday, as I shuffled into the pantry for a small spoonful of smooth peanut butter and marshmallow cream, I noticed that we’ve eaten nearly all the spaghetti. This gave me an inexplicable surge of accomplishment. Time to take a shower.

This woman is wearing spike heels, and I am watching her ankles. They shake perceptibly with each tiny step, and she seems to be having trouble balancing her bag on her arm. Who is she trying to attract with the hobbled, mincing look? Perhaps she has a thing for muggers.

There is a store on Valencia Street that sells–among other things–small, dead alligators dressed as Victorian women. They are relatively expensive. Apparently, customers purchase these items and bring them home for display in the living room. Their friends visit and say, “Goodness. What is that?” The proud owners say, “That is a small dead reptile dressed to resemble a turn-of-the-century Christmas caroler.” To which the friends reply, “Oh.”

The bus was crowded and hot this morning. A gentleman standing next to me leaned over two seated passengers to crack the window. This displeased the man sitting by the window. He crinkled his nose and leaned far back in his seat. He waited five blocks, and then closed the window again. The gentleman next to me said, “Excuse me” as he leaned over to reopen the window. The gentleman nearest the window made unpleasant nasal noises for the rest of the trip. The fresh air was nice.

This man in a well-tailored European suit has left his suitcase on the curb while he retrieves something from the intersection. A blue work shirt on a wire hanger dangles from the suitcase handle. As I pass, I want to take this hanger between my thumb and forefinger, lift it, and carry it with me. I’d like to see what the man will do when a well-dressed woman who has obviously showered recently steals his interview shirt. But I keep walking instead, no more interesting than I was to begin with.

Two evangelical missionaries are standing on the corner. The big letters on their chest placards read “FALLEN! FALLEN IS THE GREAT” and “BURNING IN HELL” with little hand-painted flames licking at the letters. It’s a sunny day, and they’re smiling, sipping cups of coffee, laughing at each other’s jokes, and ignoring the commute crowd. Gentlemen, God is watching.