Dude Looks Like a Lady

This week has been abnormally busy.  And by busy, I mean douchey.

Work is testing my patience and this morning I came pretty close to hitting half a dozen people in the face with my umbrella… intentionally… because I hate the rain/snow and it turns me into a raging beast of fury.

Yesterday was no picnic either. Tuesdays are worst than Mondays, guys. They sneak in and pretend to be friendly with all of their “Cheap Tuesday!” promises, but don’t be fooled. They’re the devil, wrapped in discounts- much like Walmart… with fewer underwear faux-pas…maybe... depending on how your day goes.

People of Walmart.

All of this is to say that I’m probably not overly amusing today. I did, however, have a pretty incredible interaction the other day in the subway.

It was after midnight, I was far from home and the only other person in sight was a girl in neon tights that would put Bowie to shame.

I was minding my own business, trying not to fall asleep before the train arrived, when, from around the corner, walks a man.  He was in his late-sixties to early-seventies and he was sporting a tilley hat.

One of these...

 

Beneath the tilley hat, he wore large headphones, equipped with a microphone that extended a few inches away from his face. He wore cargo pants and an old, teal, zip-up jacket. He took one look at me and stopped in his tracks. We made eye contact. (Oh, the dreaded eye contact.)  He took a few steps towards me, now standing a few feet away, and muttered something under his breath.  Not wanting to instigate a conversation, I shot him a look that said ‘huh?’ and shifted my gaze in another direction.

Tilley man piped up and said: “Playing the video games, I see.”

I looked down, remembering that I had been playing some Hangman on my phone to kill time, and offered a silent nod, acknowledging his observation.

Tilley man: “Wait one second while I take this off.”

Alarmed by such a statement, I looked up, silently praying this be a nudity-free interaction. Thankfully, he reached for his hat. Whilst leaving his headphones and microphone in tact, he raised his hat above his head, and leaned down a little bit.

Tilley man: “Do I look like Mrs. Doubtfire?”

I stared blankly at him, taking a second to register the question, and trying to determine if this was a joke.  He took my silence as a cue to continue.

Tilley man: “I’m related to Mrs. Doubtfire, you know.  I was just going through my family tree…”  (He fires up his Scottish accent) “…turns out, I’m a Williams!  Also! I had family in Liverpool! That’s English!”  (His accent quickly changing from Scottish to English) “You know who was from Liverpool, don’t you? The Beatles! It’s true!”

I smiled reluctantly and said “Oh, that’s great”, attempting to sound as genuine and enthused as possible.

He placed his hat back on his head and in a tone that screamed ‘I’m pretty much famous’, he said “You’ll see me around”, as he sauntered off to a nearby bench.

… Still waiting for our next run-in.

The thing that pleases me most out of this interaction?  Out of all of the Robin William characters to choose from, he likened himself to Mrs. Doubtfire.

What a lady, she is.

I'm Probably Watching You

Fall has definitely arrived. It’s time for padded bras, hot toddies and butt warmers. But, as it were, Fall happens to be my favourite season because of the glorious smell, the crunchy leaves and the promise of Halloween. However, the cold weather also means that I’m probably getting lazy and my overall enthusiasm for getting places using my body (ie: walking and biking) has greatly diminished.  This unfortunately means that I am frequenting the Toronto subway more than I’d like.

I know I’ve touched upon this before, and those of you who know me have likely heard me lose my shit on more than one occasion when I recount my latest subway encounters.  Lucky for you, today is not just about me complaining about Mr. Standonyourfeetandtrytograbyourass or Mrs. Imighthavejustpoopedmyself, for yesterday I got to experience one of my favourite subway occurrences.

If you are at all familiar with the Toronto subway system (or any subway system, for that matter), you’ll know that the rate at which they open and close the train doors is completely random.  Sometimes they stay open for 6 seconds, and other times for 10 minutes. This has proven to make the population batshit crazy when operating in the godforsaken underground.  There’s a constant look of anger, panic and irritability smeared across everyone’s face. This is where I get the most pleasure out of walking with a smile. It’s a sneaky way to piss people off and I’ll admit it, sometimes I get pleasure out other people’s misery. (I don’t mean that I laugh at homeless people and play monkey-in-the-middle with heroin addicts’ needles…just a little harmless ‘ha. ha. ha. that bitch looks miserable and it’s probs because her iphone doesn’t get reception here.’)

Similar to that general sentiment, yesterday I was fortunate enough to sit in an unairconditioned, shitty, old subway car that decided to stay parked in the station for, let’s say, approximately 8 minutes. During these 8 minutes, I was lucky enough to be stuck next to a man with a stench too foul to describe. Let’s just say it was a disconcerting combination of sour, sweat and poop. Hungry yet? Me too.  This gentleman was also gracious enough to lend me some insight into his brain. This consisted largely of the word “fuck”, something that could have probably been mistaken for a dog throwing up and a string of words with no distinguishable association. What a dreamboat.

After deciding he was the man of my lesbian dreams, I took a few moments to glance around. Everyone was fucking miserable; I was as giddy as a schoolgirl.  Suddenly, this man flew through the open doors with a leap that would make a gazelle blush. I kept my eyes on him, because this, my friends, is the favourite experience I was talking about ^^ up there.

There is a moment, upon successfully landing in the train, where you will see the door-rusher congratulate themselves for making it through the doors. It may be subtle, it may be drastic, but I promise that it’s there.  On that glorious evening, with the 8 minutes of wait time, you can imagine how many of these self-congratulations I witnessed.  I can hear you asking ‘What do these people look like when they congratulate themselves? Do I do that?’ Please, let me enlighten you.

• There’s the Sly-Smiler.  As soon as they clear the doors, a small, often one-sided smirk washes over their face. They feel pretty cool, and break into a casual swagger as they look for a seat. You can tell they’re thinking “Way to go, rockstar. You totally nailed it.”   

• There’s the Over-Grinner.  Once these cheerful asshats clear the door, they look around the train to catch the eye of other travelers, to try and share the victory in this transcendent moment.  You can tell they’re thinking “Did you guys see that? Gee that was a close call! Typical Monday, AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”
  
• There’s the Cool-Shit-Nodder. These cocky sons of bitches act like they own those doors; like the subway conductor was their own personal chauffeur and they just like to “live life on the edge” by barely clearing the doors. But they knew they’d make it. You can tell they’re thinking “Fucking duh, bro.”

• There’s the Awkward-Winner. This last one is the toughest to spot and identify. Differing in many ways from the previous characters, the Awkward-Winner is weary of its triumph. As a result, you will often see them gazing down at some form of electronic device to appear distracted, aiming to divert the attention they just attracted through soaring through those doors. Keep watch, because a faint congratulatory smile will tickle the corners of their mouths in due course. You can tell they’ll be tweeting, “Almost got squished in the subway doors today… FML.”

Now that you’re aware of these classifications, and potentially reconsidering your general demeanor when entering a subway, let’s continue with my story.

As I sat in the stagnant subway car, a train coming from another direction must have pulled up. Herds of cattle people flooded from the staircase. Please take a moment to imagine my enjoyment and elation when, for approximately 8 minutes, I got to see people running for those doors like Jesus was having a book signing. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes in groups. Each of them sporting one of the above fuckle-puff reactions, only to realize that we were not going anywhere.

Celebrate that, easyrider.

And while it’s only going to continue to get colder, effectively guaranteeing that my subway time is going to increase immensely, it doesn’t seem so bad, so long as I’m keeping my eyes out for the door-rushers, and smiling at the miserable fucks as I reapply my lipgloss.

It’s strawberry, sunshine.