Grabbed a nap yesterday after the spousebeast went to work, and when he got home, beat him soundly (10-2) in Game One of the Glass Asylum July Munchkin Tourney (according to my FB memories, we've been doing this every month for a year now.  Gods, we're such geeks).  Needless to say, nap or no, I stayed up waaaay past my bedtime.

So I was a touch cranky this morning.  My 6:10 bus to work used to be quiet.  Now, we have chattering hoardes of late summer term med students.  I've actually started wearing earbuds in *both* ears when I ride, instead of my usual practice of just one.  So I was listening to my music, re-discovering the wonders of Carson McCullers' The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.  A tap on my shoulder nearly made me jump out of my skin.

Now, the medical science students at UNC wear solid color scrubs colored coded by department.  I think it's kind of a cool game to figure out which color belongs to which department.

I, on the other hand, buy my scrubs at PTA Thrift and wear cute stuff. Flowers, butterflies, stuff like that.  Bright scrub pants.  Weird socks. I'm like perpetual Free Dress Day in a bus full of kids forced to wear uniforms ever day.

That said, PLEASE obey the new social codes of earbuds + book =/= tap someone on the shoulder.  I jumped about a foot, and little Miss Perky, Blonde, and Highly Caffeinated (I don't inherently dislike any of these things.  Except at 6:10 in the morning.  When I have had about 4 hours of sleep, cumulitive.  And then I pretty much  hate everying except gorgeous prose and the Bee Gees) indicated she wanted to ask me something.

"So, what do you study to get to wear the cool scrubs?"

Now, Underslept Alicia's mouth has 2 speeds:  "Don't talk to me.  Need.  Iced tea.  And sugary cereal.  Now."  (Imagine Buffy in the "Beer Bad" episode.)  And the one where my internal censor has her feet up on the desk in the back of my brain, sippin' wine and paging through a magazine...and totally misses the big red "WARNING:  SHE'S ABOUT TO SPEAK" light until it is too late.

In other words, option number two was in the house this morning,

I smiled and said "English. Get your Masters, have a baby the day after you get your degree, another 18 months later, spend 10 years as a barista, and find yourself as a PCA in the dementia ward of an assisted living facility in your mid-forties."

I think I ruined some peoples' days.  The whole crew chattered a lot less after that.

I think I'm going to get up a tad bit earlier and take the 5:55 in, though.  More time to write, and less noise.  And fewer students to fuck with.