The Skater Tsunami, The Dining Wrestler, A Well-Combed 'Stache and Silly Bus Riders

Last Wednesday:

Passing through Simcoe Park (near Front Street, just outside my building), I almost walked smack-dab into either a skate camp or impromptu skaters' convention. Could've been guys making a skating video. There were, like, 50 of them. Skateboarders landing tricks, a couple of them filming the stunts on cameras.

One of them apparently landed a really good trick when I wasn't looking, 'cause there was a cheer and scattered clapping from the skating comrades seated around the outer edge of where the action was happening.

I started making my way west towards Blue Jays Way. That's when I heard it: the sound of 200 little wheels bolted to boards, whirring, grating and scraping against the concrete. I turned around to see the legion of skaters making their way west on the sidewalk, lead by their fearless commander, who was kicking, pushing and coasting his way in between cars in the middle of the street.

Almost like a swarm of hornets, most of them jumped the curb onto the street, diagonally crossed over to the other side, and just as deftly got up on the sidewalk on the other side and did an almost simultaneous group dismount, jogging up the far-western stairs of the Metro Convention Centre complex - in the direction of the CN Tower and Rogers Centre, from my guess.

An urban symphony, if I ever heard or saw one.


Last Thursday:

Met Shakespeare for dinner (begrudgingly). After he called the first time to say he wouldn't make it until 8:30, I made my way to the Chinese restaurant we were meeting at. As I was being seated by the window, I noticed this white guy with long hair, sitting with this young woman. It didn't take me any time to figure out it was Bret Hart, a.k.a. "The Hitman". I think I did a pretty good job of not gawking or staring, but I was thinking, "Dude! I watched you when I was, like, 11 !"

I kept sneaking glances at him eating with his lady friend, even when I got hungrier, wearier and more annoyed as Shakespeare took longer and longer to arrive (finally making his grand entrance at 9:24 p.m.). The funny thing? Even though I was having my own disagreement and drama at dinner, a couple of brain cells still managed to detach themselves and scream with delight, "Dude! I CAN'T believe Bret "The Hitman" Hart is EATING at the same restaurant!" To which a couple other brain cells replied, "Relax, man. He's just a dude in town, eating dinner with his girlfriend. He puts on his shorts one leg at a time like everyone else. Stop looking." I still kept glancing over the divider at the other table. I couldn't help it.

And he was there a long time. He and his friend stayed just as long as we did. They left before us, though.

Today:

Waiting for the bus to arrive - I was just glancing around and spacing out to pass the time, when I glanced to my right, just in time to see this middle-aged man in the midst of combing his moustache, and then whipping his little banana-yellow comb back into his pocket.

This isn't a judgement against someone keeping a neat appearance in public. I don't think I've ever seen someone combing his moustache before. I'm sure men do that sort of thing every so often, right? I mean, there are probably some dudes out there whose 'staches are begging and pleading for a combing. I just thought it interesting.

*****************************************************

After running an errand, I caught a second bus home. As the second bus pulled up and the doors opened, all I could hear was the driver yelling, "Don't push the door! DON'T push!" And there was this dude, pushing at the back door. And it wasn't one of the newer buses that requires you to push the bar to open the door. And I could hear the little bell going off, and the driver yelling, "You want to push?!" and I didn't hear the rest of it - he was probably telling him off.

So the guy pushed his way off the bus, I got on, and by the time I got to the back, the driver was on the speaker, giving bus riders a Lecture about NOT pushing the door when they get off the bus.

Fair instruction, right?

About five or seven minutes later, this passenger makes her way (from her seat in the front half of the bus) to the back, where - when the bus had slowed down to her stop -- she proceeded to push at the door. Several people, including this middle-aged dude sitting closest to the back door, proceeded to say, "Don't push! Just wait!" I even heard myself saying aloud not to push (but not loud enough).

But apparently she knew better than everyone else, because she stubbornly (or stupidly) continued to push on the door. The middle-aged guy, probably a bit exasperated at her stubbornness/stupidity, said, "Hey, don't push! Just stand on the step and the door will open." The annoying little dinging bell rang. The doors eventually opened, and she got off. I looked at the passenger directly across from me, and we both smiled and shook our heads.

And despite all that, there were still a couple other "pushers" on following stops.

People. Sigh.

Fooled by Best Buy ... again.

So it turns out Best Buy led me on. Again.

I called this afternoon, hoping to hear the magic words, "Why yes, your camera is ready for pickup."

Last week, they said it was "in transit". Today the guy on the phone tells me it hasn't even made it into the delivery truck from the depot yet.

It's been almost 7 weeks. If I wasn't sane, I'd swear they were waiting until my original warranty runs out to get it back to me (and it happens to expire three weeks from now). That way, when I drop it the next time, they can shrug and say, "Well, nothing we can do".

I swear, next time, I'm going to Henry's to buy my camera. My friend's Nikon stopped working properly; she tried to get it fixed and ended up getting a newer model replacement. No charge.

That's the way you treat a customer, Best Buy. If he or she drops a few hundred dollars to buy an expensive product AND the good-for-nothing extended warranty package you hawk on them, the LEAST you could do is offer a little expeditious service.

Just a suggestion.

Geek Magnetism

If you thought I was being overreactive and shallow with my ranting about Shakespeare last month, here's further proof I attract plain men I don't mutually find attractive:

Walking along Front Street yesterday afternoon to meet a friend at our office building, I was waiting for the traffic light to change, when I made the mistake of looking over to my left into the eyes of a stranger. A mousy, thin-haired, bespectacled office-type with thin hair.

I tried to look quickly away, but not before he said, "Hi," smiling at me wanly.

"Hi," I said to be polite, quickly looking away. But the mistake had already been made.

"How do you do that to your hair?" he asked, orthodontic elastics stretching in his mouth as he spoke.

"I don't do it myself. Someone does it for me," I replied. C'mon green light, I thought.

"So it must take hours, then?" he asked.

"No, three hours. Not too bad, " I said back, reaching my limit.

The light finally changed and we crossed the street. I started to stride a little bit, but apparently Mr. Mouth-Elastics wasn't finished talking to me.

Mr. Mouth-Elastics: So, which team are you rooting for in World Cup?

Me: Um, none, really. I don't really watch soccer.

MME: Oh. So, you're probably more into hockey, then?

Me: I don't really watch sports.

MME: Ohh ... Well, you're into arts, then. You look like an artsy person.

Me: (For the LOVE of ...) Um, well, I don't really do anything artistic ... I'm more appreciative of other artists.

MME: Oh.

Thank GOD we were nearing my building when I spotted my boss leaving. I did a quick, "Gotta go, bye," and the torture was over.

Karma, if you're reading this: I give up. No mas! Uncle!! I'm not asking to run into models on the street. But couldn't you just give me a little more Wentworth Miller and a little less Barney Miller?

I'm good with an iota of Ryan Reynolds. Taye Diggs? Gimme somethin' to work with here. For serious. Help a sista out. I'm open and willing to negotiations. Just make the geek parade STOP.

Almost whole again!

I called Best Buy on Thursday afternoon to find out the status of my camera, which I'd dropped at my cousin's wedding in Florida in April.

After more than a miserable month, I'm FINALLY getting it back next week. Woot! No more lame Google Images! (Well, not as many.)

You'll hopefully see some original pictures here soon, kids. All in good time.

Subway Pet Peeves (or, how to keep from getting stabbed)

I have been wanting, nay, waiting to write this post. I almost didn't 'cause it's not exactly original. But in light of the stabbings in New York (two were subway-related) and the long trek home today (damn police investigation at St. George), it seemed almost fitting.

As an increasingly-seasoned commuter, I'm used to the subway and most of its quirks. But as someone who's admittedly neurotic, there are just some things that, on top of delays and suddenly out-of-service trains, can turn the TTC into the Crankypants Express.

So if you don't fancy getting attacked by a crazy commuter at her wit's end, wielding a nail file or Swiss Army knife she stole from a fellow passenger, then I suggest maybe NOT doing any of the following:

1 - Mouth noises. The sub-categories:

a) Loudly smacking, cracking and/or popping gum.
My biggest pet peeve. Ever. It's the ultimate aural assault. I'm not sure who exactly thought it was a cool idea to use chewing gum to demonstrate their impression of a Christmas cracker, but it needs to stop. Okay, okay. Hearing you chew your gum when I'm four metres away or less? Almost understood. Hearing you half a subway car away? Oh, hell no. Why do I have to listen to the oral percussion? Do you know how many 15-minute naps I've missed out on 'cause of you guys? Oh, if there was a way to put all the gum-poppers in designated cars so the rest of us could have some relative peace, man, I would. But since I don't have that power ... I. Don't. Want. To. HEAR. You.

b) Open-mouthed gum chewing.
Sometimes accompanies a), but just as annoying as hell on its own. Maybe you think you're just chewing gum. But in actuality, you look like a COW. It's. NOT. Attractive. I saw a young woman early the other morning on the subway doing this. She's probably quite pretty, but you wouldn't have known, since she looked like she was preparing her cud for her second stomach. I don't care if you think smacking your lips together and rolling the wad around inside your mouth gives you more attitude or whatever. It doesn't. And I'm sure it gives you premature age lines 'round your mouth.

c) Open-mouthed food chewing.
Like b), only worse. Also saw - or rather, heard - this on the subway the other morning, and was glad I only had to endure it for a few stops. But MAN was it painful. I didn't know this man two seats away had just unwrapped his morning meat sandwich until he started eating it. Smack-mack-smackety-smack ... gaaaaah! Makes me want to smackety-smack you! Listen, I understand the life of a commuter. If the trip is long, we all need to eat, whether on the way down to work, or to tide us over until we get home. But you don't need to let me know! Quit it with the slack-jawed mastication.

d) Phlegm-fighting (a.k.a. guttural noises, horking, etc.).
It's disgusting. If it's in your nasal passages, use a tissue and blow it out.

2 - Nosepicking.

How old are you, six? What's next, eating school paste? How is it possible that grown adults are digging for gold while sitting or standing in what's essentially a public venue, and they don't for a minute think they're being watched? And then the same folks will hold on to the subway poles as they're standing to leave the train. It's like SARS never happened. Psst ... hey. People are watching. No, I'm for serious. They're watching, and then going to work or home and talking about you and how disgusting you are. If you do it 'cause you fidget, then find a hobby for those idle digits! Learn to knit! Do a puzzle! Finger yoga? I'm sure they have some special exercises for that. Scratch your nose if you must. But please don't pick.

3 - Loud talking/cellphone conversations. It's a given - everyone's gotta talk. Sometimes, you need to communicate on your phone. But hello?! Why the hell do I need to hear you on the other side of the subway car? Or bus? Or streetcar? What you have to say to your friend(s) or girlfriend or boyfriend or spouse is none of my business. And I'm sure if I was turned your way, attentively listening to your conversation, you'd either give me cut-eye or ask me what the hell my problem is. Bottom line: if you can't have a conversation without shouting, you shouldn't be having it. Either wait for a period of peace and quiet when you can hear - and talk - properly or take it elsewhere.

4 - Rushing subway doors as they're closing. I admit, I've done this. But I'm reformed. I've learned that rushing the doors slows the train down. Worse: if you get a Crankypants Conductor, you get The Lecture. Translation: 30 extra seconds of your life is wasted, because you have to listen to someone who dislikes his job, telling you that you're wasting his time. It's so counterproductive. Sometimes, it's kinda dangerous. I once saw this dude rush the doors at Kennedy Station. He almost made it. He was stuck in the straps of his teal knapsack, which was wedged between the doors, and had to wait until the train reached Warden for him to free himself. He looked like an ass. (Man, I wish I had a camera.) Just wait for the next train.

Honourable mentions:

Singing/Whistling/Loud music listening. These are my personal neuroses. But somedays I don't want to hear any of it. In the case of loud music listening: I shouldn't be able to know exactly what you're listening to. Either get earphones that don't leak or get your hearing checked. There's nothing that's going to be sadder than a generation of 30-somethings who can't hear 'cause they punished their eardrums.

Farting. I know. Disgusting. But if you don't want someone pulling the emergency alarm, either fart in your seat when you're sitting down, or lean up against something. Don't be holding a pole near bucket seats and think no one's going to notice if you let one rip.

All that aside: I'm not actually saying that any of this will get you stabbed like the two poor dudes did in New York. But they literally were stabbed for no reason at all. They were minding their own business. I can't think of what would be a good reason to stab someone. Can you?

So here's my public service announcement: If someone asks you for your money, cellphone, whatever. Don't fight them. Just give them what they want.

Unless you're bigger than your attacker and think you can take him no problem. In that case ... I don't advise dudes high on machismo. You're on your own, sucka.

An Ode to Calvin

As a suburban commuter who doesn't let the subway schedule dictate my own, I rely on cabs to get me home.

Sometimes, I find it's the cab driver who dictates whether the ride will be pleasant, or if I'll be resigning myself to taking a nap in the back seat.

Commuting home from downtown the other night, I decided to catch a cab at the end of the subway line because the rapid transit I usually take home had finished its run for the night.

I plodded up the escalator and made my way along the queue of taxis to the one in front.

Usually, I never expect to get a particularly talkative cabbie. That night, I was in luck.

Calvin had to be one of the nicest cab drivers I've ever met. A 38-year-veteran, he's a lot of things in his time. He even owned a part of the cab company he drives for, but decided to get rid of his share.

As I'm sure is the case with a lot of professions, some people at that stage would just tire of the same job and look forward to getting out. Not Calvin. I think he said he was semi-retired, but he still loves to drive, which is why he's still in the business.

Even as his line of work seems to be getting more dangerous, he seems to take it in stride. He told me a story about this one passenger he picked up at a police station in the east end.

He was a young guy, Calvin said, whose parents own a popular West Indian restaurant. And the man seemed pretty cordial, very nice. He took him where he needed to go, but then the passenger asked him to wait as he stopped off somewhere, then got back in the cab and told him he needed to go to another destination.

He asked Calvin if he could have a smoke. Normally in a cab that wouldn't be allowed, but Calvin obliged. It was only a short while before he noticed a change in the passenger's behaviour. He started getting increasingly agitated, and just started giving Calvin all sorts of erratic directions. Turns out he'd been smoking crack and he was high and crazy.

Things came to a head when the guy lunged over the front seat and grabbed the steering wheel. Calvin managed to regain control of the car, and from what I can remember him telling me, he safely stopped the car and tossed the guy out.

As startled as he was, Calvin took a day off and was back on the road again. He even found the guy again and went to speak to him. For peace of mind, I think he said, and to make sure the guy was all right.

Despite that incident - and all the attacks on cabbies that have happened in recent months -Calvin says he'd never get a protective shield for his taxi. If that's not unyielding faith in the goodness of complete strangers, I don't know what is.

So one of these days or nights, if you ever take an East End taxi and happen to get a nice Trinidadian man who wears fingerless driving gloves, don't ignore him. Have a chat with him - it'll make your ride that much more worthwhile.

Well, dang.

So this morning, I'm on the University-Spadina subway to work, and I sleepily gaze over at someone reading one of the commuter dailies, when through my blurred vision, I see a really familiar face.

I wasn't sure I was seeing it properly, so I grabbed a copy lying nearby and got a really good look.

Guess who's staring back at me?

Well, dang, Wentworth.

You mean to tell me you rolled up into my hometown yesterday to promote my favourite show, and you couldn't even holla at a sista? What's THAT all about?

No, I'm serious. If you're going to be my pretend TV boyfriend, the least you could do is dial a couple of digits. And NOT 9-1-1, neither. I don't think I'm asking a whole lot and last time I checked, your fingers weren't broken.

When you were up in your frou-frou VIP tent downtown and listening to the adoring throngs of squealing girls and women over at Massey Hall, know what I was doing? Just guess. No, go ahead. Guess. Don't know? No? Give up?

Here's an image for you, sweetie: Me. In my workout gear. Slumped over my HUGE knapsack. Sleeping on my long, lonely subway ride home. Slobbering on my own arm.

For someone my age, that's neither attractive, nor funny. At ALL.

Do you know where I could've been? Down. TOWN. You could've prevented the aforementioned image of pity. The outcome could've been different. You let me down, dude.

Stop smirking! Stop it! You really have some nerve! I'm really beginning to think you're playin' games. You say you're too busy to call, you can't come and see me 'cause of your hectic schedule, and then next thing you know, you whisk through town.

Like I WASN'T going to notice. You didn't think someone wasn't going to take a picture? Seriously? You're all over Just-friggin'-Jared-dot-com!

Oh n-no. Don't you start gazing at me with that Blue Steel! Not this time. You're not getting off that easy. The sleepy eyes and hint of a slow smile may work with all the other women, but not me. Nuh-uh. You know what you are? You're a cad, a scoundrel who uses his good looks like a sexual weapon. You, sir are a ... a ... Ooooh!

You make me so mad I could just ... I ... I ... I ...

Sigh.

Okay, fine. FINE. I give up. I'm letting you off this time, mister. But next time, call.

Crazy people LOVE me

I've always believed I attract crazy people. Case in point:

While standing at my desk this morning, the phone rings.

It's one of the security guards downstairs.

Not just any guard - it's Dan. We're on first-name relations. Why? 'Cause the one person we both dread seeing has dropped by the building. For the fourth time. In three weeks.

It's this middle-aged Korean lady who wanted me to find someone to do a story. She's somehow here in the country illegally, because she tried to get from her native South Korea to the United States, but she says her immigration attempts were foiled by her country's government.

What else? Ummm ... she came up with this medicine, which she tried to get patented, but to no avail, because the Korean government interfered with that, too. And her secret serum somehow ended up in the hands of last year's Nobel Peace Prize winners for Chemistry. (I barely know how to spell "chemistry" on my best days, let alone understand it.)

I'm sure some of you have sympathy for her. I did, too. At first. That was mainly because her English - spoken or written - wasn't the best.

Then I found a colleague who speaks Korean - and has better judgement than me - to talk to her and translate.

She thinks everyone is conspiring against her. I'm not just talking about her homeland's government. I mean, the U.S. Patent Office, and even her own family, who's tried to put her in a mental institution. Twice. And disowned her.

She even gave me one week to get back to her and decide whether we can interview her. And I called her back earlier in the week and left a message at the place she was staying and said, "No interview."

Apparently to her that translates to, "No interview today. Try again tomorrow."

I even said to her face, "We can't do this story. No interview. None." I explained to her why. Or, at least I tried.

I'm waiting for the phone calls to start.

THAT was close.

Ever had someone threaten to storm or destroy your place of work?

No. I don't mean in a crank-call-the-school-principal's-office way. I mean, in an-Al-Qaeda-kill-lots-of-people way.

Well, it happened to me and my fellow employees yesterday.

The Coles Notes version (if you don't want to read it here): Authorities arrested up 17 people last weekend, suspected of being part of a homegrown terrorist cell that was concocting an attack on the country. Over the next few days, they were corralled into court.

On Tuesday, during such proceedings, a lawyer for one of the suspects rattled off a litany of allegations by the Crown, including beheading the prime minister, and storming and/or destroying various buildings, ours included.

Most of this would have just left people shocked, speechless and just plain scared.

My response when I heard?

"Whoa! Our building was a target?!"

Imagine the above phrase inflected with a mix of incredulousness ... and something closely resembling awe.

Even when I reached home, my parents asked me about it. And I still kinda brushed it aside.

My dad relayed what he'd heard. I was a bit nonplussed about it.

I repeated what I'd said earlier in the day to my mom.

"Target? Um, you could have been a hostage," she replied.

So what's shocking? What almost happened? Or how I reacted?

I mean, some of us at work were half-joking about it. To an outsider, I'm sure we'd be labelled a bunch of insensitive clods. But working where I do, I think being exposed to countless hours of radio and television desensitizes a person with time (at least, a little bit).

Pair that with the fact the plan was foiled before it was executed. Had someone actually made it to the front lobby of our building and some scuffle or takedown had ensued, perhaps it would have been different.

Frankly, I can't speak for anyone else, but any attack since 9/11 has seemed completely surreal to me. Like some sort of a prolonged sort of shock or denial. Despite reading about it, or watching it, it's like part of my brain thinks it's some big elaborate ... I don't know, global play?

It's not that I don't think people attacking other innocent people is a horrible thing. It's dastardly and the most gruesome, dispicable form of hate and cowardice imaginable.

Perhaps part of me is still holding on to tiny threads of the past, from The Time Before Everything Changed.

Or perhaps despite all this horrible stuff, I'm still optimistic about life and people.

Because for the life of me, I can't figure out why I'm not more worried.

Someone please call 6-6-6 ...

(Apologies to Wyclef and Mary J for the above title)

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia (courtesy of Wikipedia):

A fear which originates in the belief that the Biblical verse, Revelation 13:18, indicates that the number 666 is linked to Satan or the Anti-Christ. Outside the Christian faith, the phobia has been further popularized as a leitmotif in various horror films.

Number one on my "To Do" list today is done.

Now all I have to do is walk under an open ladder while holding a black cat, open an umbrella indoors and break a mirror with the handle, and spill a shitload of salt without tossing any over my shoulder.

Cue the hail, frogs and locusts.

June Jigglies

June. Sweet June.

You're only three days old, and I'm already crushin' on you.

Ah, the warmer weather. More hours of daylight. And fewer hours of sleep -- you can't engage in any summer shenanigans if you're napping.

My mind is already on imagination overload, daydreaming about the fun I'm about to have: Drinks on patios. Barbeques. Vacation. Hot nights out on the town, eating hot dogs or something greasy early in the morning. The annual camping trip ...

And then my mind stops abruptly at the two two-piece bathing suits stuffed in my drawer. Which reminds me of my June Jigglies.

I don't think I'm fat. I've actually had someone tell me I should really put on a few more pounds. (And he needs the weight more than I do.)

What I dread is what shape my package is in after being bundled up for about six months. And what gelatinous surpises I might find.

I just know that looking at myself in the mirror in a bathing suit will wake up the inner Shallow Gal. I'll start hearing the voice -- and she'll say the one thing I loathe: "Girl, you need to get to a gym. Like, YESTERDAY."

Bicep curls. Dead-leg lifts. Crunches. Squats. Tricep and calf exercises that sear with pain.

Sexy, no?

When it comes to exercise, I think there are three camps. There's the camp that says, "Suck it up and go", and they find a gym or some activity and do it. There's the other camp that doesn't see exercise as all that purposeful and says, "Sweat? Ew! Why?" and just doesn't go.

Then ... there's the camp I'm in. You join a gym, start off slowly at first. You get into a routine. You gain confidence. Then you start showing up at the gym more often. It used to be twice a week. Then it becomes three times a week. Then maybe four or five.

Before you know it, you're jauntily jogging on the treadmill, and you're like, "After I finish my 60-minute run, I think I'll hang myself from that chin-up bar upstairs and do some upside-down crunches. Maybe bench-press 250 after that. Summer, I will OWN you."

Then in a surprise attack, the Inner Slob jumps the Inner Gym Rat, covering her mouth with chloroform and putting her in a sleeper hold. The Slob then drags her into a room in the basement, locks the door, and attempts to laugh maniacally, but laughs so hard she starts coughing.

You've just fallen off the wagon.

That's what happened to me. I'd actually been going to the gym since November or December. But starting in March, and continuing in April with my cousin's wedding, and the most manic work schedule I can remember, my inner lemming took over -- seriously, she's such an unmotivated little douche -- and I stopped going to the gym and started stuffing my pie-hole with junk food.

I've now almost back to going twice a week, but not without its consequences. Due to my infrequent schedule, my trainer saw fit to open the can of whoop-ass on Tuesday and Thursday. On Wednesday, my physiotherapist took up the slack. It's the weekend and I still feel like I was shaken down and beaten for my lunch money.

My only consolation in this is that my friend Kristy -- who just recently acquired a trainer at her local gym -- and I commiserate about our aches and pains. So I know I'm not the only one trying to fight this uphill battle.

I'm not looking to drop the equivalent of a small toddler (although Shallow Gal would love nothing more). But a little more motivation and a little less jiggle wouldn't hurt.

NOW can I start the petition ?

So there's this story I read this morning, which says that Canadians work a lot.

"So what?" you're sniffing. "Lots of people work A LOT. Duh."

No. Seriously. We do. A few numerical examples, courtesy of the Canadian HR Reporter:

1,751: the number of hours Canadians worked in 2004.

43: when translating the above number of hours into days, how many more of those days we worked in one year than the Dutch, French, Danes and Germans.

6 (per cent): Using an example, how much less the Irish worked than us in a year.

14 (per cent): Using the same example, how much more the Irish contributed - because of their work - to their country in dollars and cents than we did in a year.

1956: The last time Canada got its last big cut in working hours.

6: the number of days per week Canadians used to work 50 years ago.

24: the number of vacation and statutory days Canadians get. (We lost one between 1980 and 2000.)

36: the number of vacation days Europeans get. (Between 1980 and 2000, they gained six days. Six.)

What's that? Still think Europeans are a bunch of lazy suckers? I beg to differ, especially when dealing with these numbers:

32 million: the number of vacation days we Canadians fail to take ANNUALLY.

$5.2 billion: the amount of money we give away to our employers because we decide to suck it up and NOT take aforesaid vacation days.

19: the average number of vacation days we're entitled to in 2006. We're better than the U.S. (they only get 14) and Australia (17 days). But we're among the lowest in the developed world.

Don't believe me? Here's the link to the story which boasts this figure. Do you STILL think you're just tired 'cause you're not getting en0ugh sleep?

Yes, there are jobs out there which don't afford the luxury of a nice work week. I understand that. It comes with the territory. But there are people out there who are genuine workaholics. And guess what? You're kinda ruining it for everyone else.

Honestly? Someone needs to find a way to not only shorten the work week for a LOT of people, ESPECIALLY those burned-out people with families to support, working jobs with crappy hours (and crappy jobs with crappy hours) - and to compensate them accordingly.

Give them more money, and some more time off, for crying out loud. The jobs they commute to aren't the ONLY jobs they do once they leave their places of business for the day. They've got other people to answer to at the end of the day: their families. How on earth are they supposed to do a good job at work when they're cranky, walking zombies all the time? And how are they supposed to be a good members and pillars of their communities when they're too dead to stand on their feet at the end of the day?

Here's one last observation from the Canadian HR Reporter piece to leave you with (not a number):

The expert was paraphrased as saying "that working long hours might also increase the likelihood of people making mistakes."

Duh.

(Postscript: Perhaps I shouldn't be kvetching, given the millions, nay, billions of people worldwide that have it a millon times crappier than we do, with horrendous wages and horrific conditions, just skim the tip of the tip of the iceberg ... but that's a subject which deserves a post all its own. One of these days.)

Happy remainder of Victoria Day!

I know it's late in the day, but I was doing what I do best on long weekends: nothing.

But for those that had today off, enjoy the rest of your day off.

For those that had to work - seriously, I feel your pain. Thanks for your hard work and service. Your day off is coming.

Enjoy the fireworks, BBQs in the cold and cheesy movies!

Shakespeare, Reconsidered (kinda)

So, I went out with Shakespeare and a friend of mine last week.

I think he may have met his match with my friend who, aside from being a co-worker, is an artist in her own right, in her spare time. It was kinda funny when Shakespeare and I went out for drinks afterwards and he said, "Your friend is pretty intense." (This coming from someone I find overwhelming.)

I asked, "You're not scared, are you?"

"No, " he replied. "She's definitely passionate about things ... she's just a bit overwhelming." (I tried not to smirk. Do you know how HARD that is for me?)

So I softened up a bit after that. So I think things may be a bit better. Or it could've been because I was tired and it was late. But who knows?

I got my friend's impression of him, later on that week. She described him as "rather cool, if a bit anal." He's a man of conviction, she concluded, but he's surprisingly set in his ways, and narrow-minded.

He apparently also exudes "total bachelor" who hides behind his fusspot personality to test people. Guess he's not someone who easily trusts people, which can be understandable. And I guess as a result of that he doesn't have many friends, and is clinging to the ones he makes.

She added we were from completely different worlds. I definitely agree with her assessment. I don't think he knows or understands that. I wonder how long it'll be before he sees that, too.

So essentially, he needs to meet more people. Then he won't rely on me so much. At least, that's what I understand.

And I must amend slightly what I said below. If the impression I gave was that I dislike poets, that's not what I meant. I just think I attract strange people. All the time.

I have -- and will -- occasionally talked to people I meet on the street. All types of people. I'm sure a lot of other people have. I'm just tired of attracting the eccentric ones who think I'm a kindred spirit. (Believe me, I'm boring. Move on elsewhere.)

Boycotting Da Vinci

I'm probably going to be one of the few non-religious people NOT going to see The Da Vinci Code. Ever, if I can help it.

Yes, I actually read the book (and am not ashamed). It's not spectacular. But it's a light, Sunday afternoon page-turner.

While I don't believe the "history" of the book's storyline to be true (if it was, then it wouldn't be fiction), I like the fact there are ideas which suggest the truth might be different to what's currently out there. I love a good conspiracy theory as much as the next person.

What I really don't like is how Hollywood likes to turn most published bestsellers (or TV shows, for that matter) into movies. And we ALL know there's rarely (if EVER) been a case where a movie's stayed true to the vein of a book. It's Hollywood.

So, I'm not going for two reasons:

1. Despite what critics have said, this Hollywood schlock is going to do well anyway. It will just have to do so without my $10 to $13.

2. Tom Hanks as Prof. Langdon. Tom Hanks?? What?! I like Tom Hanks. I will more readily shuck out money to see Tom Hanks in a movie over Tom Cruise, period. But I'm sure that as soon as Ron Howard found out Dan Brown optioned the movie rights to that book, he was on that bad boy like lice on lint. And since he and Tom are buddies, I somehow don't think he even bothered auditioning anyone for this part.

I'm keeping my summer blockbuster movie quota for the summer to two or three, and I'm certainly not starting with this one. When Nacho Libre and Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest are released, then we'll talk.

Secret Punctuation Militia?

I was working out at the gym yesterday when I saw these two girls working out nearby. Probably sisters or friends who just looked alike.

The weird thing? One of them had a question mark tattooed on her left upper arm. The other girl, I could've sworn, had a semi-colon -- this thing: " ; " -- tatted on her right bicep.

You know, I also read Eats, Shoots & Leaves. I thought it was a fabulous book. But seriously? It didn't make me want to permanently etch a comma on one wrist and a full stop on the other.

Don't usually people get some kind of cool script or symbolic image? Maybe I'm not hip to the jive. Or ... maybe they're part of some sort of covert punctuation military order.

Somewhere, I'm sure there's someone with a tattoo of an exclamation point on her forearm waiting to beat me up.

Road chivalry isn't dead

Earlier today, my dad and I were sitting at a stop light when, out of my rolled-down car window, I heard a woman in the next lane over say, "Excuse me."

My dad and I turn to the right. She's a blonde woman in what looks like a Toyota Tercel. Her front-seat passenger looks like it could be her mom.

"I'm trying to get on the highway going east and I'm in the wrong lane," she explained. "Would I be able to get in front of you?"

"Sure," my dad said.

As the light changed, and she made her lane change, she said, "Thank you."

I'm 29, and I've never seen that before in my life. Not even in an educational video.

Too bad she's not from around here. I wish there were drivers like that in Toronto.

No couplets please - I'm into free verse

When it comes to relationships, everybody knows the one repeatedly-asked, often debated, cliched question: "Can men and women just be friends?"

If you asked me that question this morning - when I read that very thing in a commuter paper on the way to work - I would've stuck by my long-standing response: "Uh, yeah!" I firmly believe that ...

Or I did. Later in the day I was reminded of why I should really change my answer to: "Depends."

I have this acquaintance, who's a poet and writer-in-residence at my old university. I say "acquaintance", 'cause I believe we see our relationship differently.

For posting's sake, I'll call this dude Shakespeare. (Yes, I know he's a playwright, but he also wrote poems, thereby making him a poet. Stop splitting hairs!) From my perception, Shakespeare seems to think we're friends who were drawn together 'cause he considers me a sort of kindred spirit. Or something.

Me? I don't trust him. Which warrants a backstory (with as many details as I can remember).

Picture it - late November, 2005. I've left work, and am minding my own business. He stops me on the street because he's looking for an optical; his glasses are broken.

Being nice, I tell him where the nearest one is. As I escort him partway, he explains what he does, why he's in town, where he actually lives, etc. He mentions my alma mater, so I pipe up, "Really? I went there!"

Before I realize it, he says he wants to get to know me better; says he wants to meet up on the weekend; I decline; we end up exchanging cell numbers; and I leave him, the tiny red light flashing in my brain, and me intending never to call him.

Fast forward three weeks. I've completely forgotten. (I also intended on switching phone companies - and hence cell numbers.) He calls me while I'm on my way home. I forget the conversation that transpired, but that's probably The Point At Which I Sat On My Inituition, Smothered It And Left It For Dead.

I decide to give this weird little guy a chance at friendship. People make friends in circumstances like this, I reasoned with myself. Right?

It started with e-mails, then some picture-swapping, then more phoning (on his end, not mine), and then - MSN. In January he says we should meet. Ookay, I think to myself. I'll go. I need to suss this guy out. (Maybe this eye twitch I'm involuntarily having is just an allergic reaction to dust.)

He comes into town and eventually picks a day to meet - the day before he goes home. I'm working late, it turns out. Anyone else would've rescheduled. Not him.

We meet in the coffee shop in my building. He talks. Waaay more than I do. I miss half the stuff he stays 'cause he's also a bit of an academic.

(Guys, please note: if you choose to speak uni-English and in broad academic concepts instead of plain English, women like me will have a narcoleptic episode and pass out. Big hint: glazed eyes.)

In between all that, he apparently tells me he likes me and would like to pursue something with me. (This was probably the part where I spaced out. I thought he was talking about the type of woman he wanted to pursue. Oops.)

If by now you're not reading another blog because you've figured out I'm a complete idiot, wait. There's more.

I finally figured out what he was getting at. When he broached the subject again over MSN one night, I told him I wasn't interested. Believe me, he's persistent, for lack of a better word. I said if I changed my mind I'd let him know. I was being sarcastic. MSN doesn't translate sarcasm well. (The MSN people should really work on a feature that does that.)

It was probably a couple more weeks before he started up again (didn't I say he was persistent?) and I told him I wasn't interested. Period.

Which brings me to the present. He says he's okay with being friends. Given the epic I just re-told, I don't truly believe him. I think he's holding out to see if I'll reconsider. I may also be just imagining things.

So it's almost mid-May. And he's in town again. And he wants to meet up with me. Again.

Given the fact I've pretty much bound and gagged my intuition, I'm going to do what any spineless, neurotic twenty-something would do: get an outside opinion. I'm hoping to drag him to meet a friend of mine for dinner, and I've asked her to read the vibe she gets off him.

She could very well give me a positive response, which would mean I'm overreacting and being unfair and shallow (which I won't completely deny, but still).

But if she reads something else ... he's got to go. Given that I've gone past the normal range of tolerance for strangeness, I'm not how I'm going to do that.

Note to guys: Wearing a woman down until she gives in is NOT sexy. It's stressful. It's draining. And it probably takes a couple years off her life expectancy.

Note to self: In future, trust your intuition. Distrust strange poets you meet on the street.

License plate with a story

I was walking through my neighbourhood a few hours ago, and on the way home, i passed a driveway with two cars.

One was obviously from out of town.

The other had a license plate which read: AWAY-666.

'Nuff said.

D's Phrase of the Week: Food City Chicken!

I was sitting in front of the TV at home with my mom, watching Larry King Live.

The subject: that creepy polygamist Warren Jeffs, who's just graced the FBI's Most Wanted List. (Personally, I hope they find him and string him up by his toenails.)

As Larry was talking with each of the guests, the show interspersed some visuals related to the story, including file pictures of the homely bugger himself - obviously taken at the local portrait studio at different points throughout the years.

"Ugh," I said. "What an ugly man."

My mom shuddered in agreement. "What a young mackerel," she said. "A Food City Chicken, that one."

I let out a laugh, as I hadn't heard that one in a while.

If you grew up in Ontario - in my case, suburban Toronto - in the 1980s, you'll know that Food City was a supermarket chain. (It eventually was gobbled up by a larger chain -- I think A&P, but I'd have to check that out.)

Going to the supermarket on grocery day, your mom -- if she wasn't vegetarian -- would at some point have eventually ended up in the meat section. Cuts of pork, beef and chicken, all neatly arranged in that huge cooler thing they had, divided according to types of meat.

In the chicken section, you had your packaged chicken parts, but also your whole chicken. And of that whole chicken, there were two varieties.

There was the hearty, plump, thick, juicy chicken that'd make your mouth water just thinking about what it would taste like cooked. (My mouth's watering just recalling it.) Most shoppers snapped this meat up without a second thought.

And then ... there was the Food City Chicken: the puniest, homeliest, wimpiest looking chicken around. This was obviously a piece of poultry that, when alive, was too scared to eat in the hopes it wouldn't meet its slaughter, but it did anyway -- resulting in the meatless, emaciated wonder sitting in the meat cooler before you. These were the types of chicken my mom probably looked at, picked up, looked over, and glanced at the price tag before slightly turning up her nose and tossing it back with the other sad fowl.

And it was especially bad on grocery days when this section was half-empty and the meat guys hadn't yet rolled out with the big metal tubs of the newest meats, 'cause chances are whatever was left was the oldest, about-to-expire cuts of chicken ... and The Food City Chicken. Shoppers who were picky either circled around until the meat guys laid out the newest cuts, or waited until one of them would come out from the back and ask if they had anything new. They would do ANYTHING, except take the Food City Chicken.

So if you ever hear myself or anyone like me call someone as a Food City Chicken, go ahead and laugh if you're not on the receiving end ... and be very concerned if you are.