Breakfast and Shoes

I ate my breakfast on the bus this morning. I’ve been doing that lately, carefully slathering two slices of locally baked rye bread with the cranapple butter that my friend left for me when she moved, then packing it all into my lunch bag and walking to the bus.

There is a swath of grass and a pond in between where two roads coalesce into one. I cross there every morning, inspecting the damp grass for frogs or more likely, geese poop. A trail of stones cuts through the green. Stepping across the heavy, grey slabs make me feel dainty.

Then up the hill, crossing at the lights and then again at the next intersection. Finally arriving at my stop. My work changed locations this year, so although I wait at the same intersection, the view is different. My former stop was along the busier of the two roads, waiting there in the morning light, the thrum of the city could be felt all around. The new stop is located on a main street but the pace slows because of the divide further down that I cross over. The stop faces a building with a mural of the queen visiting and waving at passersby. I often wonder how long ago the monarch graced my city with her presence, or whether the painting is an elaborate, hopeful figment of an artist’s imagination.

The bus arrives. Late. But I am late so the coach and I are friends. The driver recognizes me now and gives a smile as I step on. Quickly, I find my seat, bus surfing is not my forte and frequently ends with an “EEEEEeeeeee” as I go flying towards the front doors through the aisle, having lost my balance when it shifted into motion.

Sitting down, the city passes before me, the pawn shops, the closed storefronts, the meth clinic, the used car dealers and finally green trees hanging over quaint homes. The bus ride meanders from bad, to struggling, to quiet parts of town. Often I read. But sometimes I inspect the mixture of humanity around me while I eat my breakfast. Noticing people’s shoes, their hair, various body art they’ve adorned themselves with.

A person’s shoes tell you a lot. In poorer countries, it isn’t uncommon to not wear such things. Even here in the great white north, shoes are expensive. Steel toes means construction, trade or a job where heavy objects could fall on feet. Holes can indicate either poverty or comfort of a beloved sneaker. The grey, aged kind of dirty combined with holes marks a person who struggles, often worn by skinny people whose skin has a grey tinge to match their footwear.

My leather, orthopedic Mary Janes tell my story; I have never wanted for food or a roof over my head, I am well cared for, so much so that even the health of my feet is a concern. These are my thoughts as I carefully chew my breakfast, half lovingly provided by one of the many people who cares for me.

This Was Supposed To Be A Post About My Weekend, But It’s A Weather Report Instead. Or An Instruction Manual For Peeping Toms, I’m Not Sure

It is raining. It is raining torrents. It is raining so hard that I can hear the water droplets hitting our house. I find this situation unfair for a number of reasons.

A)     It is winter in Canada. It should be snowing because otherwise I look ridiculous when I wander around in my snow pants.

B)      Rain causes my creative Chi to go AWOL.

This blog is my attempt at becoming a “real” writer. Prior to releasing the Great Unwashed I was a person who wrote in creative spurts. Such spurts were generally associated with sunlight.  Roscoe keeps telling me that I need to write even when I’m not creative, consequently you, my Unwashed public are getting this post.

So because I can’t blog about funny things, I’m going to blog about the rain.

Reasons Why I Hate The Rain

  1. This is my second list in this post, apparently rain causes me to write in lists rather than paragraphs like a normal person. Thanks a lot rain, like I needed another thing to separate me from everyone else.
  2. It prohibits me from engaging in my second most beloved hobby- frat boy watching. We live next to a frathouse. A fratboy’s purpose in life is to; hang out, play basketball, drink and have parties, all of this occurs outside in their backyard. I don’t actually participate in any of this, I just like to pull out my sleigh chair, sit on our miniature deck and read while pretending that I’m young and hip by association. Fratboys don’t go out in the rain, they play videogames inside during inclement weather. I don’t actually know this for sure though, I misplaced my binoculars awhile back so it’s entirely possible that they have parties inside when it storms.*
  3. Bus tidal waves. Rain doesn’t keep me indoors but it does prevent me from enjoying the outdoors somewhat. I’m fortunate in that my city has a well developed transit system. This however means that when I’m running along small puddles become potential sites for bus tidal waves, i.e. the wall of dirty street water that rushes at you at high speed when a bus goes by. In my non matching hat, mittens and multicoloured socks running outfit, I feel like I become a target on wet days. An outlet for irritated bus drivers who are tired of dealing with rude students.
  4. And of course the last one. Rain = water. Water= bathing. And everyone knows I’m so not into that concept.

*I’m kidding about the binoculars. I’m not that weird. Also you don’t need binoculars where I live, students don’t own curtains. **

**See I added the addendum so I would seem less creepy for not owning binoculars, but then I added the curtain thing and now I’m seeming more creepy, even though I’m not. I feel like I’m digging myself into a perverted hole. In my defense students really don’t own curtains, they put up flags, bed sheets and the occasional towel. Unless of course they’re exhibitionists in which case they don’t put up anything at all.