Happy belated Halloween, Internetters!

Candy highs are the best! Soo good! Especially when combined with caffeine highs! I wish I had discovered that winning combination when I was still of legitimate trick or treating age. Wouldn't my mother have loved that?

True story:

I go to my local corner store pretty regularly, even though sometimes I get asked for spare change on the street, on the corner and … in the store. Inside. Seriously. The dude that works there is mostly cool, even though he usually rocks this heinous faux hawk, had a t-shirt that mimicked (and tongue-in-cheeked) Jon Gosselin’s bestie of hideous outerwear. His shirt was blue and had a dove on it, among other things, with the tag line: Fancy Mother Fucker. Yes you are, faux hawk, yes you are!

I had a dream, perhaps inspired by his fancy shirt, that I was a tattoo artist. How cool would that job be? So naturally, I Googled how to follow my life’s new direction, and found this article. I love this for so many reasons!

1. That it is found on about.com! Nothing says cool and bad-ass like about.com!!
2. That all those people who can’t colour within the lines have to find a different life path. Sorry guys. You suck and will have to take you untalented asses elsewhere. Try accounting!
3. That theres a “What You’ll Need” checklist!
4. The requirement to apprentice. It makes sense, but it does seem to be a bit straight and narrow. Don’t you think?

Things that are annoying me today:

People pressure washing* the sidewalks. Honestly, guys, there's a move to conserve water. Pressure washing a sidewalk is not conducive to that. There used to be a thing they used years ago...I think it was called a broom. Get it, use it, love it! Also, you always get the bottom of my pants wet.

*As a digression, which I so love to do, my Uncle calls his pressure washer a Hotsy. I'm not sure if that's a brand name or something that he made up, but it led me to thinking of a word he did make up: Gizunder. His kid, my cousin T, operated well into her twenties thinking that this was an actual word and even convinced ESL students that a gizunder is a very real kitchen implement. You see, a gizunder goes under things, and the modern world calls it a spatula. (or sometimes a flipper, which is a dolphin not a spatula. ugh.)

The people filming a movie outside my office. I'm pretty sure that I'm an extra in your fancy pants New York/London disaster and I would like my $5 for that. See me inside when you have the cheque ready.

That it is a beautiful, sunny day outside, which has prompted the air conditioning to turn on (Hi, it's November!) and am freezing at my desk as a breeze straight from the arctic blows down the back of my neck.

Things that are not annoying me today:

I am enjoying that the straws in my can o' Coke Zero keeps fizzing up after every sip, causing a volcano effect that is way more entertaining than it really should be.

The extra packet of plum sauce I got with my noodles and veggies. Thank you lady, you usually only give me one. I will enjoy this very much and expect that this is the new precedence that you're setting.

It's a beautiful, sunny day outside. I'll get to play out there in a few short hours. Wait for me!!

-Anna

The Bus Chronicles

Tuesday night, because I am a Good Person, I rode the bus. To be clear, I loathe the bus, that wretched, inefficient waste of my time. I hate the frequent stop-starting and the heavy footedness of the drivers. I despise the grimy, unwashed masses and the grimy, unwashed seats. And most of all, I abhor what a total time suck that is: Taking The Bus.

I like the idea of busses. And in theory, they work for me. But, much like communism, in practice: they suck icy, cold balls. And it’s not that I hate public transit. Trains are good. Trains I like. I can so get on board with trains (no pun intended) There is rarely unscheduled stopping and it generally arrives on time, every time. Trains also rarely depend on the movement and moods of traffic and drivers.

I appreciate that some people have long commutes and others are forced to take long, involved transit journeys every day of their working lives. I am not one of those people. I choose to live downtown, close to work, close to all the essentials like grocery stores, coffee shops, the good drug dealers, being close to a variety of fun and interesting things to do.

But, I digress, the journey, which you are, no doubt, oh-so-fucking-eager for this vitriolic rant to be finished with. Trust me, so am I. But if I were to write: I took the bus, hated it, returned on the bus and went to bed, it would be neither entertaining nor* cathartic.

*nor!! That just put me in a wonderful mood. Nor! Way to go grammar check, which I normally ignore, you’re my hero and looking smashing in your green sweater!

But back to (on?) the bus. My cousin T. called earlier in the day asking for a favor and a favor. Because I like her,and because she promised me dinner, I agreed, temporarily forgetting the chore that is riding Vancouver busses. I also forgot just how far out of town she lives.

I realized as I was walking to the bus stop exactly what I had done. I agreed to 1. take the bus, 2. in rush hour, 3. with a very large suitcase. It’s a great, big suitcase. So big, I’m confident that I could smuggle at least four children into the country with it, with room to spare for at least 8 pairs of socks. It’s great for traveling … except when on public transit which, ridiculously, has no under the bus storage for my shit.

For forty five awful minutes, I shuffled my bag back and forth, in and out, angered many commuters and shared a few sarcastic remarks with people trying to exit. (I was standing in the exit well because it was the only spot big enough to accommodate both me and my bag. But, I only took up one side of the exit and did the best I could not to impede anyone. I can be good like that, unless you're a complete douche and then I will do nothing to make life easier for you.)

I always, always get lost when trying to find T’s house. My mind self erases itself when I am out past the middle of nowhere (which is 40 something ave, maybe) So, I picked my way through what I though was the right street, feeling very conspicuous with my very large suitcase, which, ironically (or not) is the perfect size for filling with loot after breaking and entering. I tried.

And I got to what I thought was her house and I called her, just to be sure it was the right place. I certainly didn’t want to alarm a nice family happily eating their dinner by knocking on the wrong door, wearing all black with matching luggage. Uhhhh, Trick or Treat?

She wasn’t home.

You have to be mother-fucking kidding me.

Eventually she got home and to be fair, it wasn't really her fault. Just an unfortunate series of happenings that make me want to curl up in a ball and never leave my bed.

I only stayed 20 minutes so I could catch the bus back. The other thing about T’s place, aside from having difficulties locating it, is catching a return bus. I always seem to miss it and wind up waiting a looong time (occasionally suffering abuse from teenage boys grunting out of their parents Toyota's) for one to come by again. Fortunately, I was not tempted by taxis buzzing past like I usually am, and the bus was on time.

The ride back was more entertaining due to the crazy, dispossessed and not-quite-sober people that replaced the commuters. Oh how I enjoy being a casual observer of these fringe dwellers in their natural (?) habitat.

There was the man that growled (I shit you not) at anyone getting on the bus. He got on after I did, so I was not a recipient of said growls, but he did announce his presence with an eardrum shattering “rock and roll!” Yeah, dude, we’re gonna rock this bus tonight! Get down with your bad mullet...wait...all mullets are bad!

The woman that sat in front of me was missing all of her front teeth, which is unfortunate and I do genuinely feel bad for her. It’s got to suck not having front teeth. And, apparently, it causes you to suck at your phantom teeth. Because that is what the lady did. For 25 minutes, bless her. Feelings of sympathy aside, that really grossed me out in a train wreck way: where you want to look away, but you’re so fascinated and on the lookout for a severed head that you just can’t help yourself and stare at the upper half of a face being sucked into a mouth.

I also had this odd exchange with a tiny woman with the manliest man hands I’ve ever seen:

She: Buy me dinner!

Me: No.

She: Give me three dollars, then.

Me: No.

She: Buy me a coffee, then.

Me: No. I’m not bargaining with you.

She: mutters something about Indians and hits up the next person.

I then had a food dilemma. I have those regularly and cannot pin those on anyone but myself. The bus crossed Davie street, which happens to be the home of Fritz. Which happens to have the very best poutine in Western Canada. I resisted and I will definitely do a post about Fritz when it's fresh and gooey in my mind.

In the end, Campells garden something soup was the meal of the day, with toast and milk. And it was far too good for tinned soup, so I suspect they're adding crack rocks to the tins so I'll buy more (I did).

That was my soul crushing evening. I'm so glad I got that out of my system and I apologize for the tone. I tried to lighten it up, but it would appear that there is nothing funny about riding the bus, unless you find misery funny, in which case I accuse you of being a rock'n'roller.

Grrrrooowl!

Anna