City Rage and Beleaguered Bus Drivers

I had to visit the terrible, throbbing metropolis today. Wait, I had meant for that to sound less dirty and more dreadful. Regardless, I was there, caught in the weekend scurry of people, and long lines of honking, angry cars moving around the construction. Luckily it was a way point for me, merely a brief stop between my home and my Dad’s house.

The extensive excavation of one of the main roads meant that the bus dropped me further from my connecting bus stop than usual. I hurried down the streets, eager to be rid of the city, the feeling I had was awful but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

As I crossed the road, a car turned right in front of me, despite my having the right of way. I got up close to the car, making it look like I was going to bang on the window but intending to stop just shy of the glass. Inside the car, the rude occupant gave me a one finger salute. This enraged me and the vengeful part of my brain cried out “Key the car!” But the vehicle was too fast and the normal part of my brain that doesn’t live in the metropolis took over and soothed me “Leave the car Unwashed”. So I kept walking, faster now, riding on the anger of that interaction, breaking into a run upon seeing my bus stop in the distance. As I ran, I was able to pinpoint the feeling – contempt. “Metropolis I despise you!” I screamed, my feet pounding the pavement and I became just another crazy in a too big city.

At the end of the platform I saw the early bus, the one I thought I hadn’t a hope in hell of catching, waiting there. I put on more speed, my years of long distance running propelling me forward faster and faster. I arrived at the bus with just a minute to spare.

“Do you go to the downtown of the nameless sprawling suburb*?” I asked the driver breathlessly.

“No” he replied curtly, “You want the next bus.”

I remembered from the schedule that there were three buses each going to a different place near my father’s house. “Do you go to the giant, expanding mall with lots of glass and too many people**?”

“No” he answered even more brusquely this time. “You want the next bus.”

“Wait!” I cried as he went to close the doors. “There’s one minute left until you have to leave. Do you go anywhere near the nameless sprawling suburb?”

“Yes I go to the intersection of the highways” the exasperated driver said flatly.

“Amazeballs” I exclaimed, “I’ll take it, hold on, I just have to arrange for someone to pick me up.” I quickly dialed Sula’s number who is my closest girlfriend and the reason for my visit this weekend. She didn’t pick up. The clock ticked over to 3:50 PM, it was now time for the bus to leave. “She didn’t pick up” I shouted to the driver from the bottom of the steps, “I’m going to call my Dad”

Luckily my father picked up on the second ring. “Dad can you come pick me up at” I gave the intersection but then realized I was missing the time, climbing two steps up into the bus I quickly asked the driver “At what time?”

The bus driver had now given up any hope of getting rid of me and consulted his sheet. “16:22 ma’am” he said.

I relayed this to my Dad and promptly hung up, climbing all the way up the steps into the bus. “How much is the fare?” I asked brightly. “You don’t even have a ticket?” the driver asked incredulously.

“Nope, but I’ve got change.” After all of this the man didn’t believe me and waited until I had counted every single red cent out before he began to drive. It was one of those rare times that I was thankful for the fact that I look and sound about twelve, I doubt he would have been as patient had he known that I will turn thirty next month.

*At one point my Dad’s city was a sleeper suburb, then it decided to go along with the worldly trend of putting on girth at a rapid rate. It’s now the tenth least lovable city in Canada, unlovable places with few walking path don’t deserve names.

**Once upon a time when I thought mesh shirts were trendy, I worked at this mall. Then like this city it grew to be cavernous and confusing and now I treat it like a cross between Ebola and Lord Voldemort; I’ll visit if necessary but only with proper protective equipment and I never speak it’s name.

Tex’s Areolas- Coming to a Mailbox Near You

I called my father yesterday “Dad I need everyone in the family’s addresses, I’ve misplaced my address book”.

“What are you sending?” he asked. “Naked pictures, Tex and I had tasteful nudes done and we want to share them.” There was a moment of silence as my father waited for me to laugh, and then another moment as he attempted to decide whether I was being serious. “Oh you just love to pull my leg” he said hopefully, anticipating my confession that I was joking. I rushed onwards “They’re very understated, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tex’s nipples look quite so attractive. I’ll take Aunty Camelia’s and her children’s addresses first.”

My poor Dad, thrown off by my failure to admit that it is a joke and no doubt a mental image of Tex’s nipples in his head, started to blindly recite his sister’s address, hoping to get me off of the phone before I started describing other parts of Tex’s or my anatomy also likely in a hurry to find someone to open his mail for the next couple of weeks.

After giving me the eighth family member’s address, he asked again “Now what is this for?” I caved slightly and answered “In Tex’s family, they give out photos of the couple to other family members at Christmas; we’ve just put our own spin on it. As you can see I’m a little late.” At this my Dad seemed a little more hopeful that he wouldn’t be receiving a photo of my boyfriend tastefully holding a puppy over his junk in the mail. However my recent inappropriate Christmas gift to my grandmother of framed modeling photos of my cousin’s swimsuit fashion show still loomed large in his mind and gave an unsure tone to his voice as he asked “Who else do you need to send these too?”

Once I had secured every person in our family’s addresses including my elderly great aunts, I bid my father adieu. He hung up reluctantly, now unsure whether he needed to find someone to open his mail and my grandmother’s as well.

Addendum- While reading this post aloud to text to check for errors, Tex panicked and asked whether I had in fact enclosed topless photos of him. Priceless.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those whose naked images may have been sent to everyone I know.

Lurking Bad Guys in the Night

This is what my neighbourhood looks like during the day or when my roommate is home. (Photo Credit:

Where I live during the day or when my roommate is home. (Photo Credit:

My house at night. (Photo Credit:

My house at night. (Photo Credit:

It was like the climax of any good horror movie; a young woman sitting at home alone in the dark, talking on the phone, unaware of the impending danger.

There I was, happily ensconced in my favourite enormous chair when I first heard the sound. The scratching was so soft that I could almost brush it off. I continued my phone conversation determined to not give in to my ever present fear that a burglar/ninja/bad guy will break into my house.

But then the scratching grew more insistent. My responses on the phone became distracted as I began to listen intently to locate the source.

It was coming from my closet. Now the scratching became persistent, it was as though whatever was in there was trying to get out. Filled with the kind of courage and determination that makes characters in films search the supposedly empty basement unarmed and in a bikini, I strode toward my closet (fully clothed) and slid open one of the two doors to- nothing. The scratching stopped and I convinced myself that even though there were no trees close to my house, that the sound had merely been a branch brushing against a window.

Focusing on the phone conversation once again, I sat back down in my easy chair. Then just like in the films shown every Friday the 13th, the noise started again, softly to start, then increasing in volume. And though the other side of the closet was packed to the gills so nothing could fit, I understood that I had to look.

“I’m sorry” I said to my friend over the phone. “There’s this noise and I have to check it out”. Having someone on the other end of the line comforted me, although everyone knows that in a good horror film, the friend, upon hearing screams through the phone before it goes dead, never calls the police instead they come to the house to be murdered too.

With trepidation, I crept towards the closet, constant scratching made my heart beat loudly in my throat. Once more I slid open the closet door to nothing. Relieved, I exhaled, but my respite was short lived because I heard the noise again, louder this time, now that the closet door no longer muffled the sound. It was then that I knew I would have to look in the giant box in my closet. Carefully pulling back the flaps, there two eyes peered out at me from the darkness. I screamed bloody murder into the phone and took two leaps backwards from the closet in terror before I realized that it was Whiskey, Meredith’s* cat.

What I thought was in my closet. (Photo Credit:

What I thought was in my closet. (Photo Credit:

What was actually in my closet. (Photo Cresdit:

What was actually in my closet. (Photo Credit:

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of people who may have hired their pets to assassinate me using fear as their weapon.

Daily Weirdness Wednesday: The Mucus Edition

  1. Despite my small stature I have an unparalleled ability to sneeze broadly. This is to say that if someone is standing within two feet of me when I sneeze, they will get wet. I am strangely proud of this. In other unrelated news, my social circle has rapidly decreased since the start of cold and flu season.
  2. The only thing I enjoy more than sneezing on people is watching others sneeze on innocent passersby. The most notable example being at a children’s concert when a boy in the back row stopped singing just long enough to cover part of the second and first row in a mixture of snot and saliva. The only person alarmed by this was the small girl standing next to him, who caught some gooey flak as well. I laughed for about five minutes. The kind of laughter where your eyes tear up and you can’t breathe. I am a horrible person, not just for this but also for my third weirdness of the day.
  3. I don’t believe in Kleenex. Being an environmentalist, I believe in reusable handkerchiefs. The difference between me and other environmentalists is that my arm is my hanky. It’s disgusting and I will confess that my arm hair gets crackly when I’m sick but I feel good about my green choice.
  4. Onto less snotty pastures, when I owned a car, I would puppeteer at stop lights. This would have been less noticeable if I didn’t have multiple sets of puppet eyes stored in the ash tray of my car for such occasions. And if I didn’t sing and flail my limbs at the same time. I frequently received thumbs up and awkward amused smiles from other drivers.
  5. Tragically none of my New Year’s resolutions are about changing the aforementioned behaviours.