Canadian Adventure Update: Shorts

Bus from London to Toronto

How do you shut up Canadians who are talking on their mobile on the bus? Well, it's not by glaring at them. That seems to be most ineffectual.

Richmond Street, London, ON

I walked into a smoke shop in London, Ontario and was blown away by the rows of potting soil, hydroponic equipment, racks of seeds with names like “purple haze” and my personal favorite “the devil's stomping boots”, and racks of dangling grow lights. Also, tie died t-shirts and the requisite hippie behind the counter. Legalization seems to have gone over well in Ontario.

Argyle Mall, London, ON

What is Canadian Wal-mart like? Exactly the same, right down to the over riding nationalism. Just walk into your Wal-mart and replace every reference to America (of which, if you have not already noticed, will amaze you- what exactly does Wal-mart sell to small towns? Patriotism, it seems.) to Canada. It's low prices from province to province: Walmart Keeps Canada's Prices Falling, eh!

Outside

It's already fall here. I didn't bring enough socks.

Canadian Tire, Toronto

Canadian Tire sells all kinds of crap, including picnic tables, tools, shoes and cameras, but I didn't see a single tire (Update: I have been informed that Canadian Tire does sell tires, just not in it's downtown Toronto location). Has anyone considered changing the name?

Vomitown, ON

I've had an awesome time staying with my friend and her baby. But damn, babies take a lot of work. Do you have shirts that have been vomited on? No? Well, you can have some of mine. I have plenty. I'll trade you for a full night's sleep. Parents are brave creatures.

On the Bus from Toronto to Ottawa

The man sitting next to me on the bus, who is dressed like a quaker right down to the white beard and broad brimmed hat, just pulled out an iPod. I've heard of buffet catholics, but quakers? “Yeah, well I won't use rubber wheels- those are the devil's wheels, but the iPod- that's God's consumer electronic device.”

Elmo's World

After spending the week with a baby, I would like to pronounce judgment over something: Elmo rules, Barney drools.

Two year olds have a pretty good sense of humor. It edifies me and warms my heart that babies can find Elmo hilarious. Because he is hilarious; he named his fish Dorothy. Don't even act like that isn't awesome. Also, when he sings songs about things, he just sings any tune, and makes his subject the only word. For example:

The Sandwich Song

(Tune: Old Mac Donald)

Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich, sandwich, sandwich sandwich sandwich!

I do that all the time.

The Severance Pay Song

(Tune: White Christmas)

Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-verance, severance pay severance pay severance pay!

Severance severance severance pay!

Unmitigated kickass-ness.

Also, if Elmo was a ninja instead of a three year old monster, he would have Barney and Friends dispatched with lighting speed in the dead of night. Because Barney is the most earnest, unfunny show I have ever seen. I know that his earnestness is supposed to set a good example for children about how we should always be nice to people, but what it is simply unthinking dullness. People are not always nice. Things in life are funny. And I mean funny, schaudenfraud, laughing-at-you, laughing-at-me, hilarious circumstance funny. Not “Dur Dur Duh! I think I see a butterfly! Chuckle”. I could cut that Barney.

The Good, The Bad, The Unmentionable

The future, I ask? Unclear, the cosmos mumbles. Thoughts on ditching my real job to go to culinary school:

The Good:

No more cubicle. Cubicles should be hated with a passion. It's the beige regularity, the illusion of privacy that makes other people place loud phone calls to their lovers and then complain when you make fun of them, it's the fact that there was no door, nor a window. And... it was just so beige. And cubicle. And... uhhh, beige

I will get to be creative at work. My boss once said to me “You are so very creative with these TPS reports. I really appreciate that.”. Mmmmmk. Let's be clear. That wasn't me being creative so much as staving off suicide. Or, more likely, murder-suicide.

Food. All the time. I already think about it, read about it, plan for it, plan to thing and read about it. I am perfectly happy to spend an entire day chopping things. I might as well do that for money.

The Bad:

Stupid, retarded hours. What will J do if I am at work until midnight every night? Hopefully not dump me and find a boyfriend that has normal, real person hours.

Dumb Pants. Chef's wear stupid crap. The coat I understand, but the pajamas pants... we are going to have to work on that. Pajama pants make my ass look fat. And not good fat, just fat fat.

Huge, fat ass after eating Food, All the Time. As my wise friend Chris advises, spit, don't swallow. But we all know how unattractive that is. Let's hope being on my feet the entire day will discount the fact there will be eight hundred pounds of butter in my work place at all times.

The Unmentionable:

What if I fail?

I've been having nightmares.

The Poopypants Complex

This post is going to make me deeply unpopular. Deeply. Be forewarned. Maybe if you already have children, then you should just stop reading it now.

There is a phenomenon that afflicts some people with children. Let's call it the "I-procreated-therefore-I-get-to-do-whatever-the-hell-I-want” complex, or “Poopypants Complex” for short. I know lots of kickass parents. They are really good with their kids, and they are also fun people to hang around with, both when the kids are awake and when the kids are in bed. I like kids. I like families. Hurray for propagating the species!

But some parents, oh, woah is me. How do do you ever expect to convince the gays to participate in rearing our collective young when you act like this?

Let's explore the poopypants complex, shall we? We shall.

Normal Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this bag of potatoes with me, and, well, I'm embarrassed to say this, but it's a lot heavier than I thought it was going to be, so could you switch seats with me so that I can sit close to the front of the plane?

Passenger Dos: I'm sorry, what?

Passenger Uno: Move seats so me and my bag of tubers can be in front of the plane.

Passenger Dos: I will cut you.

Other passengers: Hurray!

Poopypants Interaction on Airplane:

Passenger Uno: Hi, I brought this baby with me, and well, I'm embarrassed to say that the baby wants to sit close to the front of the plane so we can get off earlier. Could we switch seats?

Passenger Dos: Look, that's why I chose this seat- I have a tight connection to make in Detroit. I'm sorry.

Passenger Uno: But- a baby! I have a baby! I did something that every species has done forever since the beginning of time, and that entitles me!

Other Passengers: Kill him! Baby hater! Maybe they like your kind in Detroit, but not here! Boooooo!

Now, we should all be considerate of people on whom destiny has placed heavier burdens than our own. People should give up bus seats for old people, and disabled people, and yes, pregnant women. It's hard being those things, and it's hard work having kids. But other things is life are hard too. So if you chose to have children, remember to replace them with a bag of root vegetables and rehearse conversations in your head to determine if you are making a polite request, or being a fucking raging bitch with an ugly baby. Smooches to you, lady in seat 23B!

**Disclaimer: the only babies in my life are M and K and D, who are, of course, amazingly beautiful babies, and have awesome parents who I would never refer to as raging bitches. Also, I was not a party in the above conversation, just an observer. I would have hit her, not argued with her. Don't wave your baby at me like some limitless credit card.**

Detroit

Riding the bus from the Detroit airport to the cross-border tunnel: this city is punctuated with smelters and burn off towers and exhaust stacks. There is no one on the streets- everything is a strip mall; the bus is full of the people who can't own a car in the Motor City. I've been riding this bus through this abandoned factory of a city for longer than it took to fly here from DC.

On the Road

Whoohoo! Work's done, severance pay delivered, office supplies
repurposed. Now it's time to take a deep breath and consider the
future. Or, rather, it will be time to freak out because no matter
how calm and composed I may appear, I am screaming a bit on the
inside. More than a little bit. I'm on a plane as I write this, and
the seatbelt sign just dinged, signaling unlimited possibility and
possible terror. Hurray!

Shiny and New Update

The boxes have been lifted, the furniture has been hoisted and wrangled, all of the odds and ends hunted down and thrown into bags where they will most assuredly never be found and will perish when I get tired of looking at all of the unpacked things. Thanks to the friends that helped, we even got done in record short time. Now comes the part where everything must be sorted and put away.

A place for everything, but most things on the floor.