Today might have been the most hellish day since my arrival in America. Yes, my two-piece box springs arrived, and that was nice — now I have a bed after my queen box spring wouldn’t fit up the stairs.  Anyone looking for a queen box spring?

And yes, FINALLY, my son’s document arrived, and so I decided I’d be brave and travel by city transit from Silver Spring to the document Nazis kind employees of the International Students Office in Rockville, which looked close enough on a map. Wrong.

With the rain pouring down, I got on the bus to the Metro station to begin my trek. Sure enough, I get off at the wrong Metro station — the names were similar — but it took about a half hour of wandering around the bus depot section of the station, which was completely deserted of any employees, to figure it out. Back down to the tube I go. But my pay card won’t work. More money is required. By this time a splitting migraine is developing.

I finally get to Rockville, about an hour and three transfers later, and literally burst into tears when the woman at the counter tries to tell me no, this document won’t do, because it’s not the original. But, I plead, the Ontario government doesn’t give out the originals, they give out certified copies with the Registrar-General’s signature on them. “THAT’S HOW THEY DO IT IN ONTARIO!!!” I sob bitterly. Seeing the tears flowing down my cheeks, the frightened woman basically gives me the green light after consulting, trembling, with a superior.

Life is beginning to look up. The smoking hot bus driver on the first leg of the return journey gives me a better, faster route to go, and hands me his number as I’m getting off the bus, with the cock of an eyebrow. I must say I’m tempted, although I suppose “suburban DC bus driver with amazing upper body” was not what my mother had dreamed of for me. But to hell with her, the guy was hotter than hell. Feeling attractive for a change, after two weeks of hotel/misery eating, no exercise, weeping, shrieking at the father of my children in the middle of a Target for being so cheap (more on that later) and constantly furrowing my brow,  I sit and wait for a connecting bus while eating an ice cream cone as the sun briefly reappears.

And here’s where things go bad.

I get on the next bus. I sit down. A scruffy looking but young and attractive Hispanic guy sits next to me. At first, I thought he’d fallen asleep because he seems to be leaning into me. But soon I realize he is ever so slowly stroking my outer thigh, and rubbing his own cock while doing so. I glare at him. He stops. A few minutes pass. It happens again. And again. And again as I try to melt into my side of the seat to get away from him. By the time we are pulling into the final stop, he is really trying to give it one last try and the cock rubbing gets more spirited. A woman across the aisle spots what he’s doing and hisses something in Spanish to him. He flees.

What I am still struggling to understand is why I didn’t speak up. That is just not me, to sit and suffer in silence. I didn’t say a word at any point. I didn’t tell the bus driver, I didn’t call the cops. I know I would have ripped him a new one if I’d been back home. But part of me was thinking: “I am a stranger in a strange land here, and I don’t even have my social security number yet. I better not cause any trouble.” I suddenly have a real understanding for what immigrants go through when they come to new countries. For that reason, I will try to see the silver lining in the The Cock-Rubbing Bus Incident, and appreciate that it at least gave me a new compassion for anyone trying to start a life in a new place.

I arrived home shaken and my head pounding — made more severe by the fact that the Verizon modem won’t work and we still cannot get online here — and told the story to my son, and later my best male friend (who I texted a few times in the middle of the The Cock-Rubbing Bus Incident, and he went nuts wanting to call 911).  My son said: “Ewww, gross. I’m surprised you didn’t pound his head in.” My best male friend said: “You should have told the driver and called the cops, and if I ever find out who that fucking creep was, I will fly down there and kick his goddamned cock in. Be careful! I love you!!!”

And so I am getting into the bath, drinking a beer and going to bed. I don’t have any weed. Oh how I wish I did. The stress is beginning to necessitate Botox. I can’t wait til BAngieB gets here next week to give me some Southern sisterly loving.