I Sold Out And All I Got Was A Fat(ter) Ass

If you've read my recent posts from the past couple weeks, you'll know that we're attempting to sell our home. Yep, she's still on the market. It's not without interest, though. We've had all kinds of visitors everyday and holy eff I cannot wait to unload a vent about the things these pig strangers have done in my home - so it's just a matter of time .... heh?

Late last week we were in a particularly good mood as we had repeat showings scheduled with two different parties, both booked at 8:30 PM. For one of these couples, it was their third appointment and they were bringing their parents, which means they're intellectual infants who should put on their big girl panties and make a decision for themselves there's some serious interest going on. Patrick and I allowed ourselves to get totally greedy and start fantasizing about these potential buyers bumping into each other in our apartment and getting territorial and then us promptly getting two amazing offers the next day to choose from or bargain with.Oh, we were giddy.

And so, to seal the deal, I decided to go all out and sell my soul:

I got cupcakes. From Prairie Girl Bakery.

I still had my beloved donut display out (which I refreshed with new donuts as the original ones were starting to get, uh, warm). But then I thought, "Cupcakes have broad appeal. I can't count on everyone being as hip toward the prowess of donuts as I am. Let's charm the pants off these generically-minded people through baked goods!"

And yes, I really thought that. And, yes, I have that low of an opinion of people I don't know. And, yes, I really thought cupcakes would be the tipping point. And, yes, I am an idiot.

And so I ran to the bakery that I had previously been so disappointed in due to its misleading name and scooped up a half dozen of their cupcakes for the WTF price of $20. I imagine after reading how much I spent on six not-even-personalized cupcakes, several friends and family members from back home just had their suspicions confirmed that I have become a Classic Toronto Douchenozzle. It's true. I am. But, hey, selling and buying a home! Outrageous spending comes with the territory! Defensive Argument Followed By An Exclamation Point!

So I put some cupcakes in the fridge on a precious little stand, next to some bubbly and organic, local strawberries ("Did she just make a point of letting us know the strawberries were organic and local? Ugh. 'Classic Toronto Douchenozzle' is right"). Placed a few on the table - again, on a little glass stand with a note inviting our chumps dear guests to enjoy them.

And then I updated the flowers in our bedroom with peonies that were just on the verge of exploding into a fluffy feather-like bloom, because peonies are special and so is our apartment.

And then Patrick and I anxiously waited at the nearby bar for our home to work its cupcakey charm.

Bzz Bzz went my cell phone at 7:45 PM.

It was an e-mail from the real estate booking system:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

Aw, crap. One of the parties (the people who would just be there for their second time), had decided to cancel their appointment. Unfortunate and it had surely ruined our dreams of a multiple-offer situation, but ... well, what can you do? Our Realtor later learned that the person coming to see our home was torn between ours and another one nearby - but decided to put in an offer, which was accepted, on the other place. You win some, you lose some, right? And it had always been these third-showing people that we had the most faith in.

So, we took it on the chin, settled in, and ordered another round.

Bzz Bzz.

At 8:35 PM, five minutes after the appointment was to start, was this note on my cell phone:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

I had actually been in the washroom when the message came in. When I returned to the table, Patrick looked sick and said, "And the three-peaters just fucking canceled too."

And I thought he was joking because Patrick thinks giving people feelings of anxiety is hilarious. It's something I've told him really doesn't make for good jokes but really makes for good divorce proceedings.

But he wasn't joking. And so we dragged our sorry asses back home, defeated and disappointed - but still holding out hope that maybe these people just had to reschedule.

The next day we found out that they had changed their minds about the place. Their Realtor sort of sighed with ours, explaining that he had been to A LOT of homes with them, multiple times, and that they were extremely cautious first-time buyers. In other words, the worst clients he has ever had and the real estate equivalent of prick teases.

Which brings me to this question:

When you think of foods that you eat angrily (surely a topic we've all thought about. No? Just me? Of course.), what comes to mind?

Nuts you have to crack open yourself? Hard-boiled eggs? Anything from the Taco Bell Value Menu?

I have a feeling that 'cupcakes' probably don't come to mind. Despite the fact that I think they're overrated, even I have to admit that cupcakes are light and sweet and happy and the sort of things you serve to celebrate stuff like baby showers and businesses launched by twenty-something girls.

But after I got off the phone with our Realtor, my head slowly turned in the direction of the kitchen. And I know it makes no sense, but my eyes locked onto the puffs of cheerful icing. And I seethed. And I maybe accusingly screamed, "YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!" At cupcakes.

And then I ran over and showed those cupcakes a lesson. Disappoint me, will you? Mock me, will you? FEEL MY RAGE, CUPCAKE! The vanilla cake with chocolate frosting got bitten and torn up and then thrown into a vat of stomach acid for good measure. It wasn't an eating experience, it was food torture.

It's a small miracle that I didn't eat the rest of them on the spot. Sure, I had another later on, still angrily, and Patrick had a couple when he got home, not so angrily (unlike his ridiculous wife, he does not have a "strained relationship" with specific baked goods). The cupcakes had started to get a little stale from having sat out, so we tossed the rest, not even bothering to use them as props - out of principle.

Because cupcakes? Are so dead to me. Officially.

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My Latest First World Outrage

The other day Patrick offhandedly mentioned to me that a new bakery had opened up just down the street from us. Unlike most of the things he says, this got my immediate attention.

You can pretty much bet that any time the word 'bakery' is mentioned in my presence, I'll stop what I'm doing and make this noise:

(Link)

"Yah, it's an Albertan or Saskatchewan bakery or something?" he said. "I think it was called Prairie Girl."

And that's when I nearly crapped myself.

Since moving to Toronto from Alberta over ten years ago (OMG! Ten years?), I have been missing the sweet, sweet edible love that is western baked goods. Matrimonial Cake, Peanut Butter Slice, Puffed Wheat Squares, Regular and Mint Nanaimo Bars, Alberta Honey Tarts, Lemon Poppyseed Cake - and the Grand Poobah of prairie treats: Saskatoon Berry Pie.

*Droooooool* Source: Saskatoonberry.com

Whenever I've described Saskatoon berries to people, I hear, "So, they're like blueberries?" No, goddamit, they are NOT like blueberries. They are heaven in the mouth. They are sweet orbs of love. They are a taste sensation that your little Ontario minds can't wrap around. And when you put Saskatoon berries in pie (or pierogies, tarts, cobbler, crisp, pancakes ... *slobber*), you create perfection. Pure, calorie-filled perfection.

Surely a place called Prairie Girl Bakery would carry this western staple and satisfy my fix. So, despite being in the midst of some editing work, I put on my underwear shoes, grabbed my purse and headed out.

If you read my blog regularly, you'll by now know that if I've gone into detail about something I'm excited about and have a big, long lead-up for it, you know the story is headed toward something soul-crushing.

Like this:

Fucking. Cupcakes.

How dare they use the prairie name in vain! I didn't realize "prairie" had joined the ranks of other meaningless words like 'unique' and 'social media expert'. YOU KILL ME, PRAIRIE GIRL BAKERY.

Toronto surely needed another cupcake shop. But you have red velvet cupcakes, you say? WHO GIVES A SHIT. It's a cupcake with red friggin' dye in it. Enjoy eating ground-up bugs, you Upper Canadian hipster chumps! I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT.

WHERE'S MY SASKATOON BERRY PIE?!?!?

WHERE IS IT!?!?

AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

***

 
I have calmed down since initially writing this post, thanks to an emergency Ativan that we kept from one of my many previous run-ins with the dentist.

Now that I'm in a more mellow place, let me say that I do not bear Prairie Girl Bakery any ill will and will probably shop there one day. In fact, it's miraculous that cupcake crumbs aren't falling from my mouth and onto the keyboard as I type this.

However, should anyone know of a Toronto-based restaurant or "import" company that provides Saskatoon berries and Saskatoon berry products (besides jam and syrup - I've been able to hunt those down), please pass their name along to me. I will be their very best customer.

If there isn't such a place, there really should be. I mean, if we can get dragon fruit from Asia, we can surely ship some berries (or at worst - frozen Saskatoon berry pies) from a few provinces over, right? So, if you're an entrepreneur who wants to start a business but you just need a good idea, there it is: Saskatoon berries. And Puffed Wheat Squares. And Matrimonial Cake. Oh, also lacking? A good donair place. There - that's two good businesses (or one amazing business).

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Expectations

A note before we begin Day 14's adventures: The phrase "leave them wanting more" hardly describes my approach to things. Once this dancing monkey gets attention by doing something, I usually wear it out so badly that I turn people off me forever. Had it not been for the fact that I stated that this was just for two weeks, and my reasons for keeping the 50s Housewife Experiment that short was for the health of my body and self-employment, you can bet this experiment would have carried on and on and on. My blog would have started to feature strange appearances by someone named Cousin Oliver and a post about yours truly taking up water skiing lessons just to show off vintage swimwear.

While Day 14 marked the last official day of the 50s Housewife Experiment, there will be a few more posts that fall into the 50s housewife category. We'll be updating you on our "stats" (weight change, blood pressure, spending, etc.) since taking on this project, going over what was learned by living as a 1950s housewife, and looking at what we might try to incorporate into our everyday lives from it. Patrick will also do a guest post to give his side of the story - and I've had to promise not to edit it. Gah! I believe the phrase you're searching for is, "payback's a bitch."

There may also be the odd occasion where "The 50s Housewife Returns" for "a very special episode of Jen But Never Jenn" as there really is so much in these household guides that could still be exploited.

Finally, I'll be doing a "Phase 2" of the 50s Housewife Experiment where I take on the same / similar goals she had, but do it all 2010-style with modern ideas and information on food, exercise, entertainment and of course - technologies. It will likely lack the kitsch of the 50s, but I imagine there's an audience out there who wouldn't mind seeing poor Patrick choke down some vegan cuisine.

So without further ado, onto that last day:

The morning started a bit late, something typical for a Sunday in the Byck household. I decided for this last day that I would make Patrick a bigger breakfast (well, really, brunch) and take a picture of it, even though it was hardly wacky.
What you see there is a grilled onion and cheddar omelet, homemade hash browns, sausage, toast with butter, half a grapefruit, coffee, milk and an orange and grapefruit sparkler (fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh squeezed grapefruit, topped with a bit of 7-UP).

I realize I haven't been featuring a lot of breakfasts or lunches throughout the 50s Housewife Experiment. Breakfasts weren't all that loopy then and our lunches were usually just leftovers or a really simple brown bag of peanut butter and jelly, fruit and a slice of cheese (I often had a tomato and lettuce sandwich for lunch with fruit and tea - which was actually really nice and light).

That isn't to say there weren't "creative" lunch and leftover ideas to choose from, though. I guess I just didn't hate my husband enough to send him off to work with things like these to eat (for Good Housekeeping's Salad Book):

That tomato salad in the middle, in particular, reminds me of the scene from The Empire Strikes Back when Han Solo slices open his Tauntaun and the white bowels explode out.


When Mia Farrow looks into the crib at the end of Rosemary's Baby, this is what I imagine was staring back at her (from Good Housekeeping's Quick 'N' Easy Cook Book):

And finally, check out this combination of food (from Searchlight Recipe Book):
The lesson from this recipe: Valium is a hell of a drug.

I had decided my final meal for the 50s housewife project wasn't going to be revolting, necessarily, but would be quirky. I settled on making the now-famous Frank n' Bean Bake, broccoli with "Cheez" sauce and Apple Marshmallow Pie.

The Dells had invited us up to the patio for a mid-day BBQ but as it was my last 50s housewife day and I wanted to take it oh-so seriously, we took a rain-check so that I could keep things "on brand" with my experiment. Plus, brunch was pretty substantial and as delicious as BBQ would be, I wanted our appetites strong for dinner.

Shortly after brunch Patrick asked if there was any problem with his sister, Erin, and her two dogs dropping by in a few hours for a quick hello. That sounded great to me (I am lucky to have marvelous in-laws), plus it was enough notice to make sure the condo was up to 50s standards for guests.

As I mentioned the day before, the place doesn't seem quite so sparkly-clean when the both of us have been lounging around. A tidy was definitely necessary before Erin would come by - but it was totally doable and I still had time to finish the last of the laundry.

Perhaps 30 minutes later, as I was folding towels, I heard Patrick call me from the other room.

"I just got a text," Patrick said. "I told Barry to come by and he's on his way over."

I looked up from the laundry and thought, "We can do this. We can totally whip the place into decent shape if we work quickly. There's the breakfast dishes to be cleaned, some straightening up of the living room, a spot-clean of the bathroom, sweeping the floors ..." and then I heard one of my most hated sounds coming from the living room:

E.A. Sports - it's in the game.

Oh, no, he di'n't! Apparently, if you're my husband and your sister and your best friend are en route and the home needs a solid once-over, that's the prime time to start up the ol' Playstation.

And that's when I got a serious case of 50s Housewife Rage.

I won't go into the dirty details, but the language I used to yell at my husband may not exactly have been becoming of a lady. My bow may have gone flying in a certain person's direction. Jabba the Hut may have suddenly showed up and asked "Hey, how did my Rancor get out?", did a double-take of me and then said, "Oh, sorry, I thought you were ... er, my bad." (And yes, that's my second Star Wars reference in this post. You know I'm a total dork, right?)

In any case, Patrick was up and wiping the bathroom vanity moments later even though he didn't understand why it needed to be done as our place was already "totally clean."

In the midst of this, his mother called and I'm sure she unfortunately caught bits of me cursing and muttering each time I came across something Patrick had skipped or "forgot" to do in the cleaning process. That awful, raging woman who married her little prince surely didn't deserve to be called a Byck!

But - we got it done and by the time Barry arrived, we were able to pretend all was idyllic in our little 50s household. Patrick's sister soon arrived as well, with two hilarious dogs in tow - which gave me an idea to test something from the day before.

I still had the leftovers (practically the entire thing) of the Asparagus Meat Mold in the fridge, stinking up the joint. Was it in fact the dog food I made it out to be?

Even the docile lab, Ziggy, was thrilled when I pulled the little meat monster out of the fridge. Oakley, her excitable Jack Russell, lost his mind and all manners and began jumping for it. I put it in a bowl (but excluded the peas / olives / mayonnaise part), laid some newspaper down and let them have at it.

They loooooved it.

When I started this experiment, I had no idea that I would become such a gourmet.

Anyway ... Erin and the dogs eventually had to go, and while it would have been nice if she could have stayed longer, I have to admit I was relieved the dogs were out of there before the Asparagus Meat Mold made it fully through their systems (we all know that was not going to be pretty). As it was a lovely day outside and since my dinner recipes were fairly easy, we decided to all take a little break and have a drink on the rooftop patio.

And that was my 50s housewife downfall.

You see, for this experiment, I've been greeting Patrick with a new cocktail nearly every day on his return from work. A vodka martini. A gin martini. A Manhattan. A Cuba Libra. A Tom Collins, etc., etc. This meant that our bar had a little of everything to choose from.

Unfortunately, a little of everything is what we decided to drink that afternoon.

How three grown adults with plenty of experience with the pitfalls of mixing drinks didn't stop the following from happening, I'll never know, but in the course of a few hours, we EACH had the following:

• Pimm's with 7 Up
• Rum and coke
• Canadian Club and coke
• Gin and tonic
• Vodka and tonic
• Just straight vodka because we ran out of mix

Oh, how I wish I could say I was exaggerating.

We drank this all while sitting under the sun with nothing in our stomachs besides the day's earlier brunch.

And then Barry had a brilliant idea that we should go for beer at The Press Club. Genius! Off we went, a trio of well-lubricated tools for - you guessed it - more alcohol. We were met by a friend, Pat Travers (we know a lot of Patricks), and Barry's fiance, Brigitte, who were no doubt proud to hang with people who were swaying while seated. Then it was beer, beer, beer. I ordered the organic type! Because that was healthy!

Parts of the evening are still a little fuzzy but I recall at one point my husband was yapping with the people at the table next to us (because everyone wants to start drunk-talking with us) and he mentioned my 50s housewife experiment to them.

"So, she's pretending to be a 50s housewife right now?" they asked confused.

I'm sure if they were looking over at me at that moment (and they probably were - but I couldn't quite tell as my eyes had started floating off in different directions by that point) they would have seen an exceptionally disheveled woman, slumping in her seat, licking her arm in attempt to cool it from the slight sun burn received that afternoon.

"I'm supposed to be making pie," I bellowed.

Finally, some force of nature - which may have been the bouncer - got us up out of our seats and heading home. We caught a cab and as Patrick and I were driven home, I started to sulk.

"This was supposed to be my last day with the 50s housewife thing and I totally ruined it," I slurred.

"Remember, we started this for fun. It didn't really matter if you did it all. We had fun today regardless," said Patrick, who was clearly able to hold his liquor better than I could, but was still totally wasted.

"Whhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy did we get so druuuuuuunk? I had a plaaaaaan. FRANK N' BEAN BAKE. THERE WAS GOING TO BE FRANK N' BEAN BAKE," I moaned.

"Oh my god, I'm starving," said Patrick.

I had to agree with him. It was 11:52 P.M. and we'd been drinking all day with only one meal in the morning tiding us over.

The cab dropped us off at our place and we decided to run to Wendy's to get some food. Ugh. What an epic, epic failure of a 50s day. I had decided, though, that if I didn't technically have a bite of fast food until after midnight, when my experiment was officially over, it wasn't cheating.

We ordered our food (just in time, too, as the restaurant closed at 12:00 A.M.) and came home with it. Before I could eat, I had to go to the bathroom. As I was sitting on the toilet, peeing out gallons of alcohol, I kept thinking about the blog and what a horrible, silly ending this was for it. I contemplated lying about the day and making up some sort of truly 50s-themed adventure ... but then I'd have to kill all the witnesses that I was drinking with, and that wasn't a very nice thing to do. I thought about extending the experiment for a day just to get one more 50s meal in, but that seemed ridiculous too. And then I thought it was just best to be honest and fess up to my disastrous non-50s day - because not all experiments are meant to be perfect.

I nearly cried when I emerged from the washroom. Normally when we have fast food, we splay it all out in the packaging it came in and slob out on the couch to gorge ourselves. This time, while I was on the can feeling sorry for myself, Patrick had pulled our burgers and fries out of the bags for us:
On plates. At the table. Like at a good little 50s home. He pulled out my chair, gave me a drunk but sweet kiss and said, "After you, Mrs. Byck."

I don't think he even realized what he had done.

I love him.

Image Sources: Dole advertisement, circa 1946 and The Bride's Reference Book.

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Talking To Myself ... More Than Usual

It looks like my site is still unreadable and unreachable for most people. I can view it, for some strange reason, but no one else can. The tech powers that be are supposedly working on this, but both e-mails they've sent to me indicated that they didn't see a problem. Right. HRMPH.

Not a happy camper.

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Ugh Canada

Warning: Long and rather un-funny political post follows.

Not long ago, I blogged about how I wanted to become more passionate and active in local and national politics. I said this while basking in the glow of the Obama victory and the outpouring of everyday citizens who believed they could make a difference to better their nation. When I imagined myself becoming ga-ga for government, it was with a naïve vision of making myself heard in order to help push through important legislation, stop a great injustice or promote an inspiring leader. Instead, I am muttering about the crappiness of our elected officials and doubts that Canadians have little say over what’s going to happen next.

Before I continue, I’ll let my biases be known: I’m a socially left and fiscally right-ish individual. I don’t belong to any party and view each election as open season when it comes to my vote. In past federal elections, I’ve voted Conservative, Liberal and most recently, Green (dare to dream, little vote!). I’m by-and-large not optimistic about the people we elect and tend to presume that they’re all just a bunch of egomaniacs who will likely do and say anything to get what they want. I don’t, however, “hate” anyone – not even the people who are least likely to ever get my vote. I don’t think anyone or any party is evil – but I don’t think any one party is particularly awesome – they’re all as fully capable of corruption as they are at doing good. My vote in every election is done so that I can retain the right to take part in Canada’s favourite pastime: complaining.

This is how I see the events of late:

Prime Minister Harper, leader of the party with the most votes, has been described as the type of guy who only likes to be in the company of Yes Men. Where Obama hopes to surround himself with diverse thinkers, Harper prefers to hear one unified voice. It’s this trait – not his much heckled cold Syberian Husky-esque eyes or Lego Man inspired hairdo – that seems most defining. Anyhoo … a lack of dissenting opinion has a history of producing the risky environment of group-think and like nearly all occasions of when group-think has been festering, a false set of realities sink in (like, oh say, acting as if you have a majority) and crap that would normally be flagged as dicey or unwise gets the green light. Add into this mix that these group-thinkers are also all politicians (a.k.a. self-interested pigs) and you can actually see shit clearing space to create clear runways toward fans. So, when the Conservatives presented their Challenger Shuttle of a budget, the Tory Fantasy World burst.

Now, the elements within the budget that have people up in arms are actually worthy of debate. Not everyone supports public funding of parties. Not everyone stands behind strikers. And not everyone thinks pay equity suits should go beyond a union to solve. But according to some, these hot-ish button issues were tossed into the budget as a bully move and peeps don’t like getting bullied.

Especially Stéphane Dion, chronic victim and lame duck leader of the Liberals. He had his share of bullying in the last election, largely at the hands of the Tories, partially at the hands of the media that loved photographing him with his backpack. So rather than hand over his lunch money once again, Dion threw down the abacus. Harper got the big remind-o that numbers are everything and a new election isn’t the only trick up the constitutional sleeve in the case of non-confidence. Harper flinched and the Conservatives pulled the plug on several budget bloopers and pledged to make changes before representing the budget.

This is where Stéphane should have said “You better – because we’ll be watching, Tabernak!” and then sauntered off into the sunset. He would have gotten one hell of a high-five from the countless Canadians who were less than thrilled with Harper-style decision making but still needed to keep our country moving. And it would have been about as positive of a note Dion could have hoped for to wrap his already finished career with, short of having another Dion-kin serenade him with a song from the hit film, Titanic.

But, no, this isn’t what happened. Remember, we are talking about petty, petty politicians whose decisions are completely personal. Instead, we get The Coalition: a merry band of power-hungry white hairs who proclaim to represent most Canadians. You know, because a vote for the Liberals is the same thing as voting for the Bloc. Or the NDP. Or vice versa. Totally the same thing. Where the coalition passes the math test, they flunk the one about ideologies.

Cue idiotic mud-slinging. Conservatives transform themselves into Sarah Palin and shriek that Dion is “pallin’ around” with communists and unity terrorists. They refer to the coalition as traitors who are attempting to perform a coup d’etat (apparently some Tories believe that the world is their Wikipedia and this term can now be edited to describe a legal shift in power that occurs without military force). They stupidly poke the dormant separatist beast. It quickly gets fugly.

The coalition, on the other hand, likens Harper to a certain dictator who had a fondness for goose-stepping. They act incredibly dismissive of people who actually DID vote Conservative, provoking that other dormant beast, western alienation. They also become more entrenched in their resolve to gain control of the government and perform a vote of non-confidence, even if the Conservatives delivered a new budget that contained seeds for trees that grew money. The fug worsens. For the first time ever, America - with its lack of health care and an insane love of guns in the hands of everyday chump citizens - looks like a tempting place to live.

So, rather than being instantly voted out, Harper did the obvious thing – request the suspension of parliament for nearly two months. If anyone thinks that the Liberals or NDP would have done differently if in the same position, you are either lying to yourself or a monumental idiot.

So now we are where we are.

In my opinion, this small break presents an opportunity to right wrongs:

• The Conservatives need to create a budget that is chiefly focused on benefiting Canadians – not sucker punching their foes.
• Harper needs to learn to play nice or take a hike.
• The coalition needs to wipe their shit-eating grins off their faces, start thinking about Canadians and work with our government to pass a good budget.
• Dion and Layton: Enough. We know this is about $1.95 and your own blind ambitions.
• Jean Charest. Jean Charest. Jean Charest.
  
• We ALL need to demand more from our elected officials. Make your voice heard today.
  
• Finally, for fuck's sake, show up to vote. Even if it is only a few months after the last one.
  

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Are the Olympics over yet?

There's one sound I hate more than my alarm in the morning and that is the sound of TSN. Sport highlights, jock-speak, commentary ... UGH. Patrick likes to start and end his day with highlight reels and it drives me mental.

The frickin' Olympics have turned nearly every channel into a sports channel, and oh-my-fuck, do I ever loath it. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care. Why is someone jumping from a plank into water newsworthy? Why should my national pride swoon when a man throws a synethic ball into a small netted hoop? And does it really matter when someone jumps 1/2 inch higher than the last person? Did it inspire Israel and Palestine to high-five each other in a moment of "Humans Are AWESOME!" pride?

I'm all for people of the world coming together, but why does it have to occur for such a lame reason?

Does this post get me into the Grumpy Bitch Bastard Hall of Fame, or what?

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The Great White Narcissists

Today, Toronto is a living snow globe. Heaps of the white stuff have hit the city square in the crotch and everyone is in full-blown, keeled-over storytelling mode of their individual "survivor story" of how they made it to work.


"I had to shovel my pathway before I could leave! Yah, it was really bad!"

"What normally takes me 40 minutes took me 1.5 hours!"

"Geeez, look at my pant legs! Does anyone have a hair dryer?"

"We all had to huddle on the GO Train platform together for warmth!"

Even though I live mere minutes away from my office, I clearly can’t be left out and must rant a bit about my trek.

Torontonians, you have so much to learn about snow etiquette. In other areas of the country, where folks are much less a-holey and much more adaptive to weather conditions, there are certain rules that people abide by. They’re not posted anywhere and rarely spoken of, but we all just follow them for the betterment of humankind. Since so many people in this city have no concept of consideration for others, I’ll lay them out for you:

1. When there is a single-person path through the snow (a sidewalk full of snow, and a path that is just wide enough for one person to walk on it), you need to share. If there are two people walking toward each other, the nice thing to do is for each person to keep one foot on the path and put the other foot into the snow as you pass each other. That way, each person gets a bit of path, a bit of snow and we keep things equal. Toronto: You do not keep barreling down the path, assuming the other person will just dive out of your way like some kind of game of chicken. And if that person doesn’t immediately sacrifice themselves into a snow bank to make way for your precious self, you don’t smash up against them without a word of apology. You stupid, stupid pricks.

2. If you’re one of those dorks who uses an umbrella in the snow, LIFT or TURN the umbrella so that you don’t impale peoples’ faces with its little spokes. Do not treat your umbrella like one of those supped-up Roman chariots that takes out whatever and whoever is next to you.

3. People in cars: Get over yourselves. Think about it – you’re SITTING in a dry, warm vehicle listening to music and sipping your coffee. You can wait the whole three seconds for the people WALKING outside in the wet, cold, slippery weather to make it across the street. Glaring and huffing and puffing over this horrible inconvenience just proves that it’s not human blood that runs through your veins but the toilet flushings from a roadside cantina.

There are more, but I don’t want to overwhelm you, Hogtown. And for the wonderfully people of this city that already follow these rules: Thank you! (And what part of the country are your originally from?)

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I Used To Be A Mellow Person

I'm starting to realize that the commute to work, which got longer when I moved, is turning me into an Angry Jen. I recently heard a song that reminded me of what life was like when I worked downtown. I'd often hear that song when I plugged into my iPod and iWalked home at the end of the day. So happy. So relaxed. So enjoying the wonderfulness of the spring and summer in the city (I didn't walk home in the winter - that is crazy talk). People used to comment about how very laid-back I was, even when shit was hitting the fan at work.

They don't say that about me anymore.

Now my day is bookend-ed by long rides on the TTC, and I have to say, it is no way to start or end a day.

More and more, as I encounter people who choose to crowd the doorway before letting those of us already on the subway out, I feel myself getting closer to actualizing my fantasy of sticking out of my fist, shouting "Go-Go-Gadget Battering Ram!" and smashing the crowders apart like a modern anger-filled Moses.

This week, the following happened while I was using the TTC:
* Two people, one of which was a crazy homeless person with a penchant for the n-word and a disregard for deodorant, got in an insane fist-fight in my subway car. Everyone did their best to pretend it wasn't happening and the TTC staff just kind of let them 'fight it out'. At one point, Crazy Guy grabbed something from his bag and gestured that he had a weapon. Weee.
* A giant, long pause for no known reason on the subway lasted 10 minutes. Result? Missed the bus! Got to wait 20 minutes in pee-stink subway station.
* I was about to park by butt in a seat when an annoying teen pushed herself into the spot and then snotted "Hellooooo!" to me. Again, the Go-Go-Gadget Battery Ram would have come in handy.

This is in addition to the usual: People pushing, shoving, not walking on the left-side of the escalator, crowding, not giving seats up to the elderly, etc, etc, etc.

I've tried to turn my commute into a "My Time" experience - with a book, music, daydreaming - but it just hasn't been working lately, and instead I arrive at my destination pissy and pouty, and I don't like the grump I've become. Change is required. Now.

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Why Phone Etiquette Is Oh So Important In This Day And Age

Just now someone called my home. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Teen: Yo.

Me: Um ... hi. Who wer...

Teen: *click*

Nice.

A simple "Sorry, I have the wrong number" would have been supremely easy to spit out and would have been gladly accepted. I'm blogging this little exchange as a warning to all the politeness-challenged morons out there who have yet to realize that manners are important.

Just imagine that you, Teen, hung up on someone that was a REAL a-hole. A busy-body. A psycho. A gamer that has been camping outside of a Best Buy in vain, coming home empty Wii-handed. A woman who is raging with PMS and just ran out of chocolate. I could go on ... basically, Teen, these are the people in your neighbourhood. People that you should not be messing with with your lack of phone etiquette.

Why, asks the ignorant Teen? Because, stupid Teen, these people more than likely have the most basic access to everyday technology. Call display, for instance, and a computer that hooks up to the Internet. Pretty standard, yes?

Within 2 minutes of the click in my ear, I - and anybody that knows how to read and type - was able to find out the following:

* The name of Teen's mother

* The home phone number

* Teen's home address

* A map leading me to that address

* Teen's mother's volunteer organization, of which she is on the board

* Meeting times of Teen mother's organization

* A map to those meeting locations

And I'm not even that driven to find you, Teen. You are so lucky that I still had some Toblerone in the house.

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