Every day Riley and Dylan’s bus is at least ten to twenty minutes late. I’m deeply paranoid I’ll somehow miss it, so I always arrive at the stop at least five minutes early. That’s a nontrivial weekly amount of waiting on my part, but I bring a book and try to pretend like my car is a sort of mini-spa. One filled with repulsive amounts of kid detritus and the faint odor of wet socks.
Anyway, I’ve considered calling the transportation department to ask WTF is up with the forever-late bus — like, at this point why not just change the schedule? But the last time I described a less-than-ideal bus experience I got a very uncomfortable phone call from the school district transportation manager. A short time after our call, I received the following comment on that post:
Now, for legal reasons I can’t say where this IP address was tracked back to … but let’s just say I’m pretty sure I know who “Pablo” is.
Startlingly unprofessional management aside, our actual bus drivers are the best. I’m particularly fond of the afternoon guy, whose blood pressure I fret about every time he angrily blasts the horn towards oncoming drivers who ignore his flashing red lights (ie, every driver). Lord, he is mad at those oblivious assholes, and I hope
Pablo his boss gives him a raise for it.