an Open Letter to...?

as you know, we've been taking the same bus from Manhattan to Staten Island, for the last 3 years; it's true that we don't see each other every day, but usually once a week, at least. whenever you see me you're incredibly chatty; you've told me about your own children (the cop and the teacher) and your ailing husband's failing kidneys. last march, and this past week, you seemed genuinely concerned about my job. you always ask after my husband and our dog; last year, you were so very interested in the plans for our wedding and offered tons of advice (about everything from the favors to the menu) and your own supportive opinions on gay marriage; in fact i'll admit i was moved by your outrage, on monday, when i told you that we were going up to canada to get married "for real" and then explained that last year's affair was not recognized by the state/federal government. you're pushy but delightful, in a very Jewish Mother (for that is what you are) kinda way.

oddly enough, despite the discussions we've had and the hours we've spent together, standing on line and then riding the bus, i have absolutely no idea what the hell your name is.

you told me once, three years ago, and i promptly forgot it (not realizing that we'd talk more often than i talk to my own mother) and now i feel like an absolute idiot because you know my name and my husband's name and even my dog's name. i've come to think of you and refer to you (to my friends and family) as the Big Haired Blonde Lady from the Bus (you're something of a low-level celeb in my small circle) or sometimes Maude or Stella (since those names seem to fit).

So, i hope i don't offend when i just say Hi or Howyadoin when i see you; it just seems more appropriate than calling you by the name i think you should have.