Taking the Bus

So yesterday at around 4pm I was standing on Queen waiting for a streetcar. After 15 minutes of peeking West every 30 seconds expecting to see a streetcar, one finally came. Actually, my transport ended up being a chartered bus. I think the fire at Portland had something to do with it. Maybe.

Anyways, I walked around a stale snowbank, nearly slid (my Browns leather boots just don't grip the ice), and got in line. I was in last place.

First the art students got on (one of whom explained to me that she's not a bag lady, shes just carrying bags full of who-knows-what and a plastic shovel because they're part of a project). Then the Jamaican-looking lady got on. It was down to a grandpa, a seemingly-sketchy man, and me.

Let me explain the sketchy man. He was wearing a down jacket with at least 15 holes. Feathers were sticking out. His jeans just looked malaised. His brown hair was curly like mine, but unkempt. I glanced down for half-a-second, brushed the snow off of my boots and looked at him again. With that glance I noticed he was holding a long skinny branch that was painted white. A homemade white cane. He was blind.

I was maybe 2 metres away from him. I know there are thousands of blind people in the city. Last week I talked to Randy Firth, a media guy from the CNIB. He has a guide dog and a white cane. He told me that the blind ride the TTC for free. I didn't know that.

So, the guy screams out, with an assertive radio-voice, "Can I grab someones arm to get on?". Maybe I'm just a prissy girl. But i didn't run to his side. I let the trench-coated grandpa guide the man onto the Queen East bus. I let the old man who seemed to need a cane himself lead the blind guy. Should I have helped? I don't know.

The blind man ended up having tourette's syndrome, or as he said "a sickness like tourettes". He kept on screaming FUCK YOU over and over inside of the tiny bus. He proceeded to howl like a wolf.

Imagine getting around the city like that. Having to rely on girls who don't want strangers touching their wool coats, and ttc drivers who don't understand that you're not freaking out, you're just abrupt and can't help it.

Seaweed

I slept over at Miju's last night. I'm usually partial to my own bed, but I think Miju's is better.
Let me explain why. I love the feeling of cotton again my skin. Thus, when I sleep I tend to wear spanky pants so I can just rub all over my sheets. But recently I've been waking up shivering because spanky pants don't cover much.

Well Miju had a heated bed pad. So basically it's a mat that you put over the matress and it warms up the bed. Sorta like having a person there warming it up for u, so when you get in it's all cozy.

But Miju, I have one concern.

x

Mrs. Vain? Let Me Defend Myself

I should state why I started this blog.

After enduring 5 months of classes specifically about broadcasting, I feel like I'm incapable of writing a proper sentence.

My broadcasting high-point? Interviewing these French-Canadian circus performers. Dragging the camera from Gould St. to Bloor was worth it, just for those brown eyes and deltoids. Also, having CityTV and CBC wait for me to untangle my extended audio cord was emberrassing, but retrospecitvely I'm sure my reporter and I provided some cute "aw look at them" entertainment. I'm also sure that Francisco Cruz loved being interviewed by 2 fit coeds as opposed to staring at a white-beareded frenchman from Radio-Canada. OK, frenchman had a shiny white lighting-umbrella, but we had a twinkle in our eye.

So, aside from the broadcasting high points, I earnestly missed subordinate clauses, thesaurus.com, and hyphenable-nouns.

Welcome home, home row. I hope i can click you a bit more often.

x

Instant Pleasure

If I did my own grocery shopping, I predict that I'd buy some of the same foods each week.

1. ginger, for tea-making
2. royal gala apples
3. calipo tuna
4. lychee
5. instant mashed potatoes

Instant mashed are so satisfying.

Thinking of all things delicious, this weekend i baked my mother a cake. It's bad. I do sweet deeds mostly so I can mention them to her when she accuses me of being a bad kid. Her issue with me? I'm never home. So, the ideastarted when I found a box of duncan hines chocolate fudge cake mix in my cupboard 2 weeks ago. It was next to a can of zoodles.

But aside from the zoodles, everything else in my cupboard was Italian-mother approved. AKA there was no sugary, crisco-ey, 170-cal per tablespoon icing. After days of putting the buying off, I knew i had to go buy some diabetic-inducing joy. I had to go out that night. I had to show my mother that I still care about her, even if I only go home to eat, sometimes sleep and to watch MTV and the news.

But buying the vanilla icing was almost as gross as what eating that shit will do to your arteries.

I ventured into No Frills at 3pm on a Saturday. JAMMED. I felt midly out of place between the Indian families and men who must shop here. I found the express line (1-16 items), payed the $1.99, and ran back to my Crown Victoria. Slush got all over my calfs (or cows).

2-hrs later I iced the cake, presented it to her, and dissappeared downtown until the next morning. She loves me still.

Even though i stuffed down most of the cake this afternoon. As noted prior, they're cows.

x

Bland City

My Ericsson just rang, and it took my eyes off of my computer screen.

It was a certain friend of mine who's at the Spice Girl's Toronto show right now. I'm guessing she's all sweaty in her black Uggs. All that I heard from the other end were distorted vocals and screeeeams.

Secretly guys, I never really got into the Spice Girls. BUT I totally missed my best friend's Grade 6 birthday party because I had to go to a Spice Girl's "Tribute Show". Worst night ever. Not only was Scary Spice white, but I ended up tucking my skirt into my underwear.

Eternally scandalous-- Except right now. I'm reading, but it's some quality words. So Toronto Star's David Graham wants to see how Canadians stand on gay marriage. He drove from BC to NFLD in a dark-blue Saturn and approached truckers and giggly 19-year-olds for their opinions.

For me it's completely a non-issue. I've danced with the sassiest drags, gotten hit on by the french-canadian Ellen (who gushed to me, "Je veux votre coeur"), endured conversations about gay sex, and have experienced, what, like 10 of my high school friends come out? But I'm a liberal-minded, perceptive 20-year-old chick. I'm not like Jerry Bluda who Graham approached at a McDonalds in Lloydminster, Sask.

He says that "Marriage is for a man and a woman." He also admits he has a "queer" cousin in Ottawa with whom he does not communicate. "We have nothing to talk about."

Fine, Bluda. I'm sure he'd rather not associate with your face, which im sure is topped off with a mesh trucker cap. FYI if my brother were gay I'd still love him. Maybe more than i already do. At least we'd share some common ground.

x