Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

We're all going to fall to our deaths. Basically.

For Christsakes.

It's been fairly discouraging at work lately. We're working on a big project and everywhere we turn there's a new fucking pothole in our way. "Can't go over it, can't go under it, gotta go through it."

So we patch up the potholes, or we find a way around, or we curse until we feel better and try to move on.

But sometimes they aren't just potholes. Sometimes they are giant fucking caverns and caves and mystery mad hatter rabbit holes that lead us to hell in a goddam coffin masquerading as a hand basket.

So it's frustrating.

To say the least.

And then tonight, I was pretty pleased with myself. I tolerated my day and managed to work EXACTLY eight hours. I arrived at 9:40 and then I was perfectly ready to leave at 5:40.

So I did.

I walked in the rain to the bus stop, waited, got onto a damp and smelly bus, opened my book, and tried to tune out the world for my next 45 to 50 minutes of peace.

And then, 5 minutes from my last stop, the bus just. stopped. moving. It just stopped.

Now. In a city of expert bus designers, our buses never just stop. There are bus lanes and terminals and all forms of this-isn't-a-subway-but-it's-almost-the-same-we-swear tactics that keep our buses running smoothly.

Sometimes.

Kind of.

Probably.

So when my bus came to a dead halt in the highway bus lane, my confusion slowly turned to frustration, which in my case usually leads to homicidal tendencies.

As you can surely imagine, my murderous rage didn't improve much as we sat there FOR 25 MINUTES. 

And do you care to know WHY this injustice was brought upon me?

Behold:

POTHOLE.

It was a fucking pothole, people.

No. Not a pothole. A SINKHOLE.

That's a car. IN A SINKHOLE.

That car there - the one with its ass end sticking out of the highway - is not hunting for buried treasure; it is not pretending it is a cartoon ostrich; it is not digging a fort.

No.

That car GOT SUCKED INTO THE EARTH BY THE COMMUTING DEMON WHO IS SET ON RUINING MY LIFE.

Don't worry. The guy got out ok. He just crawled out (wtf) and now he has a great story for dinner parties. 

As for me, not only did I get home an hour late, but now I'm terrified that the ground is just going to open up randomly under my feet like those apocalypse movies when the earth cracks and all the people try to run but the crack spreads and they all get sucked in and I'm obviously going to fall miles and miles to my eventual painful demise.

Or worse, I might get trapped in a muddy pit.

Either way, it ain't pretty.

Today kicked my ass

Ugh. 

I'm tired. 

6:50 - The TV comes on to awake me from my slumber. 

6:59 - I curse, because my cable has been busted for a week, making a very loud BUZZING sound every 8-12 seconds. 

7:01 - I still watch it, because, well, CLASSY. 

7:33 - I eat breakfast, etc, knowing I have to leave "early" for work to ensure I arrive in time for a 9:30 meeting.  (Fuck you, commute.)

7:42 - Hubby goes running downstairs with a garbage bag, trying to catch the garbage truck.  He fails in his mission.  He curses.  I laugh. 

9:24 - I arrive at the meeting, with 3 people emailing me asking what building they are supposed to go to.  And then one gets mad, as if it's my fault.  I complain to my boss.   

9:30 - Someone bitches at me. 

11:00 - I leave the meeting.  My boss buys me an iced coffee.  I add honey.  Yum. 

11:30 - I work hard all afternoon, with too much to do and too little time to do it.  I also look up a clip of Grey's Anatomy.  Someone else bitches at me. 

3:15 - Another meeting sneaks up on me.  It eats up the rest of my day.   

5:00 - My day doesn't end, rather someone else bitches at me.  That's 3 separate people bitching at me.  In one day. 

5:30 - My boss gets stuck on a conference call.  I feel guilty. 

5:40 - I continue to bicker with people until I'm so cranky and exhausted that I rant to multiple bosses and pretty much fall asleep during a conversation. 

6:15 - I leave the office, with no particular idea what exactly caused such a significant level of exhaustion.  I can't quite put my finger on what, if anything, was accomplished.

6:26 - I continue working via blackberry the whole way home. 

7:15 - I arrive home, find that Hubby has finally cleaned out my drain and vacuumed the bedroom (thank you darling), have a calming "don't go crazy" shower, eat a grilled vegy wrap, watch Jimmy Fallon, write a blog, and hopefully go to sleep momentarily. 

The end. 

Gangstas who read

To help offset the bitch-fest that was my last post, here's something less ranty. 

On Friday afternoon I was genuinely grinning from ear to ear when I overheard a conversation between these two young dudes on the bus:

Gangstas who read. 

Maybe you can't tell, but the white dude has a few tattoos - one on his neck, and some others on his forearms.  His jeans are also hanging around his ass.  The black dude has a chain around his neck and he's clearly wearing a muscle shirt.  And both have oversized backwards hats.  (Although neither of them was wearing sunglasses, and the beard is my doing too.)

They seemed like decent kids.  When I say "gangstas" I don't mean murderous drug dealers - just young goofballs who are perhaps a little too caught up in pop culture.

But then I overheard them talking:

White gangsta:  I, uh, started reading a book yesterday. 

Black gangsta:  Really?

White gangsta:  Yeah. I was at my buddy's house and he had a lot of books.  This one looked interesting, so I borrowed it.  So far, it's really good.

Black gangsta:  That's cool, man. 

White gangsta:  So I'm just gonna read, now, K?

Black gangsta:  Yeah, ok.   

And then I smiled ALL THE WAY HOME. 

Leave my vagina alone, please.

What a wonderful day I had today.  I bet you'd all like to hear about it. 

I had a lovely appointment with my doctor this morning that I wasn't at all late for.  It was such a pleasant appointment, too.  Which of course did not include a pap smear with a plastic thing shoved up my hoo-haw.  And the doctor didn't even forget to do some other random uterus swab, and I didn't therefore have to lay BACK DOWN for her to finish her important work inside my va-jay-jay. 

Then I didn't have to spend 30 dollars on a birthday cake for a colleague. 

THEN I totally didn't have an afternoon full of annoying meetings at work.  All my non-meetings were particularly productive and especially hilarious.  I came away feeling extremely useful and like a valuable member of my organization. 

Also, the hem on my pants stayed intact all day long.  I was totally not walking around all afternoon carrying my pant leg in my left hand.  Because that would've been a real pain. Had that happened.  Which it didn't. 

After all that, I didn't have to rush to an appointment with my therapist.  I drove there smoothly, without coming across even one obnoxious protest-related traffic jam.  I was perfectly on time for my appointment - early even - and I got the opportunity to talk to my therapist for the following hour about how sane and rational I am at all times.  It's embarrassing, actually, what great shape I'm in.  I love getting up to face the day.  (It's also embarrassing that I can totally afford the 160 bucks it cost for my therapist to tell me about my mental stability.) 

To top off my near-perfect day, I in no way witnessed an automobile accident in which a cab driver's car spun in multiple circles across 5 lanes of traffic directly behind me.  Any day that you don't have to call 911 is a good day!  Lucky, too, because that type of traumatic event could cause a sane person (such as myself) to react calmly and rationally - with regular breathing patterns, a slow heartbeat, and very dry eyes. 

I think the best part of today was my evening of peace and quiet. 

Not once did I have to re-live a terrifying experience over the phone to a cop who is investigating a car crash.

Not once did I have to consider calling in sick tomorrow. 

Not once did I regret leaving the house in the fucking first place this morning. 

My life is soooo relaxing.  Ahhhhh...

*gentle exhale*

Are we sure *today* wasn't Friday the 13th?

I was running an hour late this morning.  No different than every single other morning (because mornings are assholes), but still, it sucks. 

When I finally got going, I tried to drive to the bus station with a frosty windshield and summer tires (becasue I've been to lazy/cheap to get the winter tires switched). 

Despite the impending snow storm, I finally got to the bus station.  And immediately proceeded to fall UP the stairs.  IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.  

I picked my ass up off the floor, just in time to see my bus pulling away.  So I took off up another set of stairs to run - and I mean RUN - across the pedestrian overpass to catch the bus at the next stop. 

Note:  Running when you've not done any cardio activity in several months is a problem. 

But I made it!  I basically suffocated, but I made it. 

Unfortunately, I then spent what felt like 20 minutes trying to dig my bus tickets out of my coat pocket while the bus driver sat there and stared at me.  And so did everyone else.  He wouldn't drive until I handed them over.  He just sat there.  What did he think? I was pretending? 

I found the damn things and apologized.  He seemed to perk up, and expressed his concern that bus tickets are a pain in the ass for everyone.  Including him.

The bus started moving and I made my way to my seat.  And then I began to DIE.  It was 150 degrees in there and the heat was blowing RIGHT ON ME.  Plus I was all hot and bothered from running a mile at top speed. 

It took another 20 minutes to get my coat, scarf, and gloves off, to blow my cold runny nose, and to situate my kickass new iPod and kickass iPhone within reach. 

Sigh. 

And then this. 

And then all of a sudden all was right in the world again.

Fucking r-tards.  Don't ring the bell until your stop comes.  And if you ring it early, you better damn well get off at the next stop if nobody else does because if you make my bus stop moving for no effing reason I WILL kill you.  Amateurs. 

Proof positive that mornings are assholes

Hubby bought a car.  He bought a car and he did so even though I was supposed to be the one getting the new car. He beat me to it and I'm going to kick his ass. 

As much as he loves his pickup truck, his new job doesn't really require it, and he's actually been driving more (if that's possible).  I'm not sure if you've heard, but gas is a little pricy. 

[Sidebar:  When we were in New Orleans, gas was $3.30 per gallon.  I want to point out that up here in Canada, we pay $1.25 per litre.  My calulation reveals that we pay 32 cents MORE per litre than Americans do! And there are almost four litres in a gallon! Which means we pay, like, $4.50 a gallon!  $4.50! WTF you guys?]

So gas is expensive.  And Hubby had to make a tough decision to let go of his precious pickup and buy a car. 

Oh, pooooooooor Hubby. 

What's so bad about Hubby buying a new car, you ask?  Of course the problem is that it's an inconvenience to me.  I had to help him drive it home, seeing as he can't really drive two vehicles at one time - especially if he's texting. 

Well, I totally effed up the whole car-switching plan (two people, three cars, and asshole mornings that make it difficult for me to take the bus).  So... the shit-show ended with me leaving my car parked at the office last night. 

This morning I was supposed to take the bus to work and then drive my car home. 

But as I may have mentioned previously: mornings are ASSHOLES. 

I had a tricky time getting up today, but even when I did manage to get my ass out of bed everything still went to shit. 

First Tuxedo wouldn't get off my neck.  Which is ok, becasue he is the cutest thing in Canada, but still. 

This is real.

Then I had outfit issues. 

Then I had to let the neighbour's dog out, but I didn't have the key because I left it in my car (which was, of course, still at the office). 

So I struggled through the neighbour's garage and then struggled to get Doggie outside. 

By then I was late for the bus.  But I was determined. 

I drove half-way to the mall bus station (in Hubby's truck) before I realized that I wasn't wearing my glasses and I couldn't see a fucking thing. 

So I TURNED AROUND and drove home. 

Then I spent 10 minutes searching for my goddam glasses. WHICH I FOUND IN MY LAUNDRY HAMPER.  No, I don't have a clue. 

Then I decided to change my jacket to a warmer one. 

And of course forgot my phone in the pocket. 

By this time I was way too late for the bus, so I drove to work - in Hubby's truck... WHICH REQUIRED GAS - and parked his truck RIGHT NEXT TO MY CAR at the office.  So we have three cars, and two of them were parked in my office parking lot. 

The same office parking lot that has some remarkably passive aggressive parkers who leave angry notes on windshields.  Including this one that I saw on someone's window the other day.

Luckily this one wasn't on my windshield, but I still took a picture of it.

So I left my car at the office again tonight, and I'll attempt the whole damn thing once more tomorrow. 

Christ. 

_

There are so many effing things wrong with this

I've been driving to work more often lately, rather than taking the bus, since mornings are such giant assholes.  Driving takes less time if I make sure to leave after rush hour, which I can pretty much guarantee, since mornings are such giant assholes. 

I don't even have to pay for parking because nobody makes me.  I never seem to get a ticket.  I do repeatedly get "warnings" but this never translates into actually requiring anything from me, so why in the hell would I ever feel threatened?

The tricky part is that arriving so late to work means that most of the parking spaces are already occupied. But that doesn't really matter either, given that most people just park on the edges of the rows and in the corners anyway.  It's a gravel parking lot - there are no pretty yellow lines or anything. 

But then tonight I was walking to my car and explaining all of this to my boss (who was carrying my huge-ass pumpkin).  "No I don't pay. Yes, they give me warnings. No they never give me tickets."

And then we saw something on my wind shied from the distance, which I assumed was another warning.

Well.  It wasn't. 

A napkin?  Really? 

And I wasn't even blocking anybody! Why are people so uptight?

So, in response, I wrote the following open napkin note to my anonymous office-mate.

Douchebag. 

Praise me please!

If you've ever spent a lot of time treating yourself like shit, you know how difficult it is to JUST QUIT IT ALREADY. 

So.  Counting the things to be proud of in my day is my new approach to being less crazy. 

Here goes.

The good news: I got up at a reasonable hour today. And I got my ass washed and dressed in time to - wait for it - TAKE THE BUS TO WORK.  You see, the bus takes longer (usually), so lately, driving to work has become a more convenient let-me-sleep-30-minutes-more-for-the-love-of-all-that-is-good-in-this-shithole-please-just-30-minutes-more way of life.  But I have to get back to the bus routine.  Maybe you haven't noticed, but gas is kinda pricey.  And today I did it!  And I arrived relatively early.  Good for me. 

But the bad news?  "Relatively early" still means 15 - okay 20 - minutes late.  So SUE me.

Good news:  I did some work today.  Real work.  And I wasn't in an asshole mood about it either. 

Bad news: I'm still putting off some stuff.  Procrastinator extraordinaire.  Some things never change.

Good news:  I am very nearly done my first book since this whole shit-show began.  It's taken me a long while, but I am three mere chapters from completion.  Concentration is an issue, so getting back to reading is a huge accomplishment.  Believe it.

Bad news:  I read blogs more than I read books.  Actually, that's not bad news, is it?

Good news:  I've been eating better this week.  Lots of veggies and less crap. 

Bad news: "Less crap" excludes pizza and Oreos. 

And here comes the big one.  Drumroll please....

Good news:  I WENT TO THE GYM.  Yes.  Yes I did.  Thanks to my dear friend V's encouragement and company, I managed to handle an hour of high-impact cardio kickboxing.  Without dying.  AND WHILE WEARING MY NEW FUCHSIA X-TRAINERS.  Uh huh.  You heard me. 

Bad news? I won't be able to move tomorrow.  Somebody get me a fucking wheelchair.

_

I'm basically your personal GPS device.

Hubby and I have been living in this city for almost 3 years a very short time, and as I've said before, it isn't always easy to navigate.  Sometimes the streets move around or change direction over night and the next day I just can't find my way. 

But Friday my mom and quasi-stepdad came ot visit and when I started driving us all downtown for lunch and window shopping Mom mentioned how impressive it was that I knew where to go.  Yes, I said.  I am very impressive. 

So I decided to draw a very advanced colour-coded map so if you ever decide to hang out here for a day you'll know how to get around.  You're welcome. 

I know you want to click on this so you can see it better. You don't want to miss anything.

Canada Day is a MUST

Tomorrow is Canada Day.  And Hubby and I happen live in the national capital, so venturing downtown to witness (and maybe take part) in some festive antics is necessary.  

On top of the regular fun to be had, William and Kate are here, which is expected to result in as many as 400,000 people meandering around town. And in the words of my very pregnant friend, going downtown (despite having TWO  babies busting out of her belly) is, quote: "NON-NEGOTIABLE".   

So Hubby and I will have stories for y'all upon our return.  But in the meantime, here is last year's Canada Day post.  Enjoy!

Oh, and make sure you check out the first picture.  It is undeniably the. best. photo. I. have. EVER. taken. 

* * *

Commuter Chronicles - Canada Day

Where: Downtown in the Nation’s Capital
When: Canada Day
Why: It’s unclear

Riding the bus is the best option for Canada Day celebrations in O-town. Driving is a real pain, and parking isn’t cheap, nor convenient.

The ride downtown was something else. Keep in mind, I’m used to commuting with other commuters – people in suits and dresses, with briefcases and blackberries, who mind their own business with their books and music. I am not used to commuting with high-flying hoot-in-anies wearing bikinis and carrying beers. (Yes, one particular older “lady” was wearing nothing but her red and white barely-underwear bathing suit… glorious.)

We eventually arrived, met up with friends, and had a ball. Music and buskers and beer – oh my! There were even barenaked ladies – the band, as well as topless body-painted women strolling down la promenade, garnering whatever attention they could.

News reports said there were over 100,000 people in attendance. And after the fireworks, there must have been a million people waiting for a goddam bus.

Hoards of people flooded the streets, spilling over from the sidewalks. Hubby tried to follow me as I quickly deeked through the crowds.

And then there was nowhere left to deek.

We were all pathetic cows being herded. Standing on the curb, pissed off and pitying ourselves. Just waiting for a bus – any damn bus – to open its doors. Every single bus that passed was packed beyond capacity.

Hoards of people – Hubby and I included – we so… defenseless.

We finally got on a bus. Not even the right one. We’d have to switch later. But we’d do anything not to have to stand there like idiots one minute longer.

And then it was packed. PACKED. And damn hot. And so rank that I thought I might puke. I buried my face in Hubby’s arm just to avoid smelling the air.

We made our way at a snaaaiilll’s pace through downtown. Every time the driver had to open the doors, people tried to cram in. Mob mentality. Cops were restraining people. Crowds of drunk, tired, and trapped people – all just staring at us through the bus windows with pleading faces. It reminded me of Rose and Jack floating in the North Atlantic in “Titanic” (but with less death/melodrama).

Eventually we got moving. Amen. But that was only moderately more tolerable.

At one point there was a young drunk girl standing behind Hubby. She was texting, and had totally abandoned all concern for holding herself up. Hubby became the brace to fully lean against, and, at one sharp turn, his shirt became her lifeline as she nearly fell to the floor.

We were pretty much laughing by then. It was all so ridiculous.

Next year, I will read this posting and reevaluate, making an informed decision about whether or not to attend. Probably will though. It was still a shit ton of fun.

For your enjoyment, some photos:

First, a clown escorting our friend out of the driver's seat of his little cart. And there, on the right, is Hubby, sitting in the back.  

Second, the red and white view from a high bar balcony.

And the crowds on Rue Rideau. And there, in the middle, my dear friend with her arm raised in a celebratory cheer.

And finally, the fireworks behind the Peace Tower.

_

I need a chauffeur. And maybe a gun.

I HATE driving.  It pisses me off and I'd rather let someone else take care of it for me.  Like putting out the garbage and unloading the dishwasher.  It's a pesky effing chore that I could very easily do without.  

Except I could not actually do without it.  I need to drive places.  Not only do I live in a  suburb, but I am DAMN lazy - so walking is OUT.  

Now.  Let me just say this.  We have only lived in this city for two and a half years a short time.  And it's possible that I don't know my way around very well.  Probably. 

I mean, I generally know where I am, but finding a particular highway on-ramp, just for argument's sake, might be slightly challenging.  Maybe. 

So when I left Hubby's concert at midnight last night I guess it's a possibility that I drove back and forth underneath the highway, criss-crossing the city at least half-way home before I found an on-ramp. 

Which, had that happened, may have pissed me RIGHT OFF.  Which would not bode well for the douche bag that almost killed me in our traffic circle. 

Beyond all that, what should have been a 20 minute drive to work this morning took over an hour because the highway (that I was, in fact, able to locate, thankyouverymuch) was reduced to ONE. EFFING. LANE. 

So then I blew that popsicle stand to take a main road into town.  But of course everyone else had that same damn thought.  So then I switched roads again and got stuck behind some asshole GOING THE EFFING SPEED LIMIT. 

My only redemption was when I drove through downtown.  (Get ready to be jealous.) 

I, in driving past our country's federal buildings, glanced up and got a peak at my adorable crush, the famous dreamboat Parliamentarian Mr Justin Trudeau himself. 

Oh so cute.

And even better, I got to see him casually jogging to catch the Parliament Hill House of Commons mini bus.

I need one of these to drive me to work.

And THEN at work I got the best. email. ever. from Hubby, which made me laugh so hard that people thought I had really lost my marbles.  For sure this time. 

(Don't get all sensitive though.  He means well.)

Whats wrong with Americans

Family feud question was, Name something you would give a nickname.

Some answers were spouse, dog, teddy bear, and the last one i was thinking was maybe an instrument but i doubted it.

It turned out that it was a gun. They give their guns a nickname.

Wtf

Seriously guys. What's up with that?

_

Unmitigated randomness

The other night I got up in the dark and SMASHED the top of my foot into my open bottom drawer.  And I now have a bruise, cut, and sore spot on the top of my left foot.  This afternoon I put on my cute little thong sandals to walk home from the bus stop and the top of my sandal was JAMMING into my injured foot.  EFFER.  So I took it off.  And I marched my ass home with one shoe on my right foot, and the other shoe in my left hand.  Classy.

I actually managed to get the eff out of bed this morning.  I tried something new.  For weeks (since I went back to work - part time, but still!) it takes me a good two hours to get up.  If not more.  Call me crazy.  Seriously, you can call me that, 'cause it's true.  Anyway, this morning I out-smarted myself (it isn't hard) and I took my damn time.  I sat on the deck with my friends Twitter, Toast, and Tea.  I still delayed work until the last. possible. moment.  But I embraced my denial about that fact, which overall I felt better about. 

My friend and I watched Gnomeo and Juliet last night.  Stupid little cartoon about gnomes.  I guess it had some cute parts, and I laughed a few times, but there is something DAMN CREEPY about gnomes.  DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON GNOMES. In high school we used to steal them and place them on our friends' front porches with threatening notes attached.  Creepy. And when gnomes are sacrificing themselves in the name of Shakespearean love?  Even creepier.  

A young guy got on the bus today and sat next to me.  He looked like a construction worker or landscaper or something.  Dirty and sweaty and lacking sleeves.  I ignored him like I do everyone else.  But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him do something so awful that I just HAD to share it with y'all.  He slid his fingers into his armpit, and then, yes, he SMELLED THEM. He tried to be all stealth about it... FAIL.  For chrissakes I thought that was a bit on SNL. 

_

Mornings give me panic attacks

I asked Hubby if he would drive me to work tomorrow.  Not just for any reason, but because I have French class tomorrow morning - tomorrow morning at 8:00. 

Eff it, 8:00 effing SUCKS.

I normally start work at 9:00.  And by 9:00, I mean anywhere between 9:15 and 9:30 - depending entirely on what time I crawl my lazy ass out of bed, and make my way to the bus station, and outrun the security guards, and chase the goddam bus, and hop on for my ride into work. 

Which, by the way, is the only time in the morning I can actually tolerate, since it's the only time I'm not rushing.  Sitting on the bus is the most freeing experience.  I have no control over it.  If that driver is as late as all get out, there is nothing I can do.  If he wants to drive like an effing turtle, there's nothing I can do.  If he wants to stop and let every lazy I-want-the-bus-to-wait-but-I-don't-want-to-run loser, there is NOTHING I can do.

And so, I just sit and zone-out and enjoy the view of the blurring traffic-jammed cars as I speed by in my happy little blue bus seat.   

But Thursday mornings I have French.  At 8:00.  Which means I have to leave the house by 6:45 in order to get there in plenty of time. 

Bull shit. 

So I asked Hubby if he would drive me tomorrow.

"But then I'll have to pick you up at the bus station after work" he said.  "Will you be home in time for me to go to the gym?"

"Hmmm.  I'll think about it."

"Ok."

"It's just that 6:45 is sooo much worse than 7:30"  I added.  "It's not the 45 minutes.  I can live with the 45 minutes."  [speed talking now]  "It's that 7:30 is bad enough, but 6:45?  6:45 is a whole other world of pain."  {Short shaky breaths]  "6:45 gives me anxiety."

And so, thank you Hubby for driving me to French class tomorrow.  And for nurturing my commuter anxiety disorder.  Without you, I'd be a very panicky - and very tired - emotional mess. 
_

The Elusive 82

Every morning the bus drops me off at the station near work, and then I walk 7 minutes to the office. 

Rain or shine, sleet or snow, I walk that damn 7 minute mile.  Even when I'm really late and it's a walk of shame.  Even when it's really dark and it's a sleep walk.  Even yesterday morning when I waited for my own damn bus for almost 30 minutes, (instead of the regular 3 to 6 minutes), when it was minus 73 with the windchill, and when I was already way too late for work. 

And no matter what, every morning I emerge from the station and pathetically scan all the nearby streets for The Elusive 82.   

The Elusive 82 travels among the office buildings every day, and conveniently stops directly in front of my building.  A mere seven seconds from the front door. 

But the 82 is elusive.  It only comes every so often.  No one actually knows when.  Like most bus schedules, its arrival time is totally dependent on everything other than the actual timetable.

Sometimes you catch a glimpse of it up ahead. 

Sometimes it's nowhere in sight, so you start walking, and then it appears from thin air in front of your office, just as you're walking up. 

Sometimes you think you see it, and you get a gleeful smile across your face, and then you curse yourself because you're not wearing your glasses, and that's the 86, not The Elusive 82.  Foiled again.  

Well, lately we've even been trying to convince our friend at work, who is new to the building, of The Elusive 82's existence. 

Needless to say, he's never believed us. 

"It just went by, right here, past these cubicles" we'd say. 

"Right here, eh?  Past my desk?"

"You mean you didn't see it?"

"No, I guess not."

"Bummer."

So tonight he and I were leaving the office at the same time, and started out into the snowy night on our 7 minute trek to the bus station. 

As we were crossing the street, he said to me "Ya know, I saw The Elusive 82 today."

"No!  Really?!"

"Yes, well, yeah, but it was parked.  For all I know you guys just paid the driver to sit there and put '82' on the screen."

And then...

before we knew it...

across the street, emerging from the snowy mist...

The Elusive 82 appeared. 

I think my friend just froze.  I don't think he knew what to do with himself. 

Luckily, I had the presence of mind to run into the snowy street in front of the moving bus.  And when the bus driver stopped, we ran over and jumped on. 

I think my friend now thinks I'm some sort of mythical creature.  Will it, and it will.  He said I was like Harry Potter, waving my wand for the magic bus to Never Never Land... or wherever it is that Harry Potter is going.

_

Is having a car really worth this?

Hubby’s mom recently pointed out – and I wholeheartedly agree – that vehicles are nothing but an utter and complete nuisance.  SUCH a pain in the ass.

Allow me to demonstrate. 

For more than a year, to change from floor heater to window defroster on Hubby’s truck, he has been required to manually click the switch located beneath the dashboard, by his feet. 

Troublesome.

On top of that, for a few weeks, Hubby has been driving around without signals or reverse lights.  He can simulate signals with a complicated brake-pumping, signal-flicking method, but I think we can all agree that's not a feasible long-term solution. 

Troublesome and frustrating.   

And kinda dangerous, actually. 

And so, a few weeks ago, I drove Hubby around the neighbourhood to find a mechanic to fix the lights.  The dirty guy had no idea what the problem was, and ended up avoiding Hubby’s call. 

Ok... let’s try someone else. 

So Monday morning we drove our two vehicles to my regular mechanic to fix the truck lights and heater.  Hubby drove me to work in my car, after which we planned to switch-er-oo the vehicles to get my oil and tires changed. 

Well, in the end, they had no idea how to fix the truck heater, and never even got to my car, BUT, apparently fixed the truck lights – for $300.

So Tuesday we both drove again – this time to Canadian Tire – to fix the truck heater (and to hopefully pull the previously planned switch-er-oo to get my oil and tires changed). 

Well, on the way to Crappy Tire, the truck taillight fuse blew again. 

So… not fixed, then.  Fine.   

And, to top it off, the idiots at Crappy Tire couldn’t fix the heater either.  Apparently, a $500 part is needed.  And when Hubby didn’t want to pay for a problem that wasn’t solved, he had to argue with the Canadian Tire “Service Manager” to get some of his money back. 

Dirty. 

And of course, they never got to my oil and tires. 

So, this morning, my car was the priority.  Again, we followed each other to my mechanic.  Hubby drove me to work in his truck, after which he planned to go argue with my mechanic about the $300 for his un-fixed lights.

Well, there’s not much the mechanic can do about the $300, he says, and they’re still troubleshooting the damn light problem. 

And we can’t really afford to fix the heater right now.    

And although my car’s oil and tires are taken care of, my muffler is apparently hanging by a thread.

Goddam it, you have to be kidding me. 

_   

When life gives you lemons...

Hubby called me at work this morning with some apparently traumatic news.

“I forgot to tell you!” he exclaimed.  “A bus hit my truck yesterday!”

Huh. I gotta say – I’m not surprised.

Apparently Hubby was at a red light waiting to turn left, when a city bus tried to squeeze by him in the right turning lane.  And all of a sudden, his truck jolted.

It took him only a few seconds to realize what had happened, and even fewer to get damned pissed about it.

“So I kinda chased after him for a bit.”

Ok, a little more surprising.

Hubby in his pickup truck, pulling out of the left turning lane and turning right, weaving around traffic, blaring on his horn, racing behind the city bus.

What did he intend on doing about it?

“I don’t know!  I didn’t know what to doooo!  Maybe I’d get out of the truck and talk to the driver at the next stop, or something.”

Yeah.  Good idea.

“So then I thought ‘this isn’t gonna work’”

No, I should think not.

And when he finally pulled over to check the damage, and saw that no real damage had been inflicted, he was really at a loss for what to do next.

“So it was number 644.  I remembered so you could tell them.”

Sorry, so I could tell them?  Tell who what?

It seems that Hubby thinks the City should at least know that a stupid bus driver hit his precious truck.  And that I should be the one to enlighten them.

“I just think it’s unfair.”

Well sure, it's unfair.  But that’s the whole reality of city buses and everything about them.  Unfair.

It’s unfair that they splash people when they drive by, and that they’re never on time, and that I can get a ticket for 'parking and riding'.

And it's certainly unfair that they can hit your vehicle and totally get away with it.

But we all know what they say about fair.  That’s the kicker.  When something is totally unfair, there there is usually absolutely nothing you can do, except grit and bear it.

Or chase them.  Yes, I suppose you can always chase them. 

So when life gives you lemons - chase them.  And when the going gets tough - chase them.  And when a bus hits your pickup truck, whatever it takes and no matter how futile, for god's sake - friggin chase them.

__

Time flies, four of five - Commuter Chronicles

Commuting over the past few weeks hasn't been miserable.  Given my long hours, Hubby has been kind enough to drive me to work sometimes, and pick me up sometimes too.  But there was one "incident".  


Commuter Chronicles


I went out with some friends after work Wednesday night to celebrate the upcoming arrival of a new baby to the group.  Fun.  


To top it off, Thursday was a holiday for me, and so downing a few glasses of wine was not out of the question.  Except that I forgot that I'd parked at the mall.  


So after dinner I called Hubby to pick me up at the mall bus stop, since I wouldn't be able to drive.  


(Side bar:  there was a girl in the bus seat next to me who pulled a stick of Burt's Bees lip balm out of her bag and started to apply it to her lips.  Only she applied it for, like, at least a whole minute.  Rubbing it in big circles around her mouth over and over and over again.  I was so distracted.  I couldn't stop watching her.  Why would anyone rub that stuff on their lips for more than a few seconds?  She must have been in a trance or something.)  


When Hubby arrived and I got in the truck, I said "Thanks for picking me up Honey."  


Nothing.  No response.  


"You're not happy about it, are you Honey?"  


"Nope."  


Well, consider THIS my official public declaration of thanks.  Hubby, I really truly appreciate that you are always kind enough to pick me up.  Since high school when you had a last period spare and drove back to school to pick me up at 2:30.  And now, when you pick me up at the mall at 9:30 after I've had one too many drinks.  Thank you Hubby.  You are my saviour.   I love you. 


(Oh, and by the way, you're welcome for driving you around the whole sub-urb Thursday morning looking for a some hole-in-the-wall mechanic that you found on Google and then promptly forgot the name and address of - I don't mind.  I love you.)


_ 

Commuter Chronicles - Tickets vs Triskets

I usually buy a monthly bus pass.  It’s 91 freaking dollars.

I don’t have to buy a monthly pass - I can buy individual bus tickets instead.  The tickets don’t expire, but they'd end up being more expensive than a pass if I ride the bus every day.

Since I took vacation last month, I bought tickets instead of an August pass.

At the beginning of September I had some tickets left over, so decided that I’d just use tickets for September too.  Whatever.  No big deal.  The cost difference wouldn’t interfere with my retirement savings or anything.

There is a problem with tickets though: you have to get on at the front of the bus, which is less convenient than just hopping on through the back doors.

And when Labour Day hit, and all of a sudden there are 1000 extra people on the goddam bus every day (students, and people no longer on vacation), by the time I had submitted my ticket, there were no friggin seats left.

Pain in the ass.

So yesterday I decided I would get a September pass.  Which sucks, because now I’ve spent a bunch of money on tickets and will just re-spend that money for a pass that dates back to the beginning of September.

Whatever, it’s more convenient. 

I just “ran in” to Pharma Plus on my way home to buy my pass. 

Well, I end up in line behind a lady who, for whatever effing reason, is buying all her goddam groceries at the freaking pharmacy.  Not just a few items – but a whole cart filled to the brim with boxes of crap.

What is that about, anyway?  Who does all their household shopping at Pharma-friggin-Plus?  Ridiculous.

Whatever.  I’ll just wait and get it over with, I thought.

Well, then she starts pulling out her coupons.

Are you kidding me?

She has coupons for all her crap… which is probably why she’s buying it all in the first place.  Idiot.

And THEN, the cashier has to ring in two or three separate purchases in order to get the coupon deal on all her friggin Trisket crackers.

Oh my god.

So I’m standing there for, like, 10 minutes while she stacks a bunch of shit on the little counter and the ugly little cashier rings in her junk.  And the whole time, I’m thinking: “If I leave now, will it be faster to go to the grocery store instead…?"

The lady finally leaves - with her cart of Triskets - and I ask for a regular adult buss pass.

“We don’t have any.  Sold out.”

You are effing JOKING.

So I end up going to the grocery store smoke shop and standing behind three guys buying tobacco and one guy checking 50 lottery tickets with that damn machine singing the little “you win” song every 10 seconds.

I don’t even know what else to say.  I think the commuter gods are punishing me for chronicling my commuter hell on this blog.

_

Commuter Chronicles - Canada day

Where: Downtown in the Nation’s Capital
When: Canada Day
Why: It’s unclear

Riding the bus is the best option for Canada Day celebrations in O-town.  Driving is a real pain, and parking isn’t cheap, nor convenient.

The ride downtown was something else.  Keep in mind, I’m used to commuting with other commuters – people in suits and dresses, with briefcases and blackberries, who mind their own business with their books and music.  I am not used to commuting with high-flying hoot-in-anies wearing bikinis and carrying beers.  (Yes, one particular older “lady” was wearing nothing but her red and white barely-underwear bathing suit… glorious.)

We eventually arrived, met up with friends, and had a ball.  Music and buskers and beer – oh my!  There were even barenaked ladies – the band, as well as topless body-painted women strolling down la promenade, garnering whatever attention they could.

News reports said there were over 100,000 people in attendance.  And after the fireworks, there must have been a million people waiting for a goddam bus.

Hoards of people flooded the streets, spilling over from the sidewalks.  Hubby tried to follow me as I quickly deeked through the crowds.

And then there was nowhere left to deek.

We were all pathetic cows being herded.  Standing on the curb, pissed off and pitying ourselves.  Just waiting for a bus – any damn bus – to open its doors.  Every single bus that passed was packed beyond capacity.

Hoards of people – Hubby and I included – we so… defenseless.

We finally got on a bus.  Not even the right one.  We’d have to switch later.  But we’d do anything not to have to stand there like idiots one minute longer.

And then it was packed.  PACKED.  And damn hot.  And so rank that I thought I might puke.  I buried my face in Hubby’s arm just to avoid smelling the air.

We made our way at a snaaaiilll’s pace through downtown. Every time the driver had to open the doors, people tried to cram in.  Mob mentality.  Cops were restraining people.  Crowds of drunk, tired, and trapped people – all just staring at us through the bus windows with pleading faces.  It reminded me of Rose and Jack floating in the North Atlantic in “Titanic” (but with less death/melodrama). 

Eventually we got moving.  Amen.  But that was only moderately more tolerable.

At one point there was a young drunk girl standing behind Hubby.  She was texting, and had totally abandoned all concern for holding herself up.  Hubby became the brace to fully lean against, and, at one sharp turn, his shirt became her lifeline as she nearly fell to the floor.

We were pretty much laughing by then.  It was all so ridiculous.

Next year, I will read this posting and revaluate, making an informed decision about whether or not to attend.  Probably will though.  It was still a shit ton of fun.

For your enjoyment, some photos:

First, a clown escorting our friend out of the driver's seat of his little cart.  And there, on the right, is Hubby, sitting in the back.





Second, the red and white view from a high bar balcony. 
   

And the crowds on Rue Rideau.  And there, in the middle, my dear friend with her arm raised in a celebratory cheer.

And finally, the fireworks behind the Peace Tower.