The Seeing-Eye Dog

The section of Bank Street where my work is located seems to generate its own special brand of oddities. I have a few stories stockpiled, the following being the most recent.

Dude comes in with a young dog on a "leash" (in this case, a rope tied around the dog's chest). My co-worker kindly informs the man that he cannot bring a dog into the coffee shop. To which he replies, in a possibly-affected British accent, "It's my seeing-eye dog."

Allison and I look at each other and shrug, 'cause it's not even 6pm and the evening's already been kind of weird. The place is packed, except for a single seat in the front window. Our man saunters the vacant table and starts yelling at the dog -- whose name is Whiskey -- to lie down.
At top volume.
"Whiskey, lie down!! Lie down, Whiskey! I said, lie down!!!" and so on.

Allison brings him his tea and quietly tells him he can stay with the dog, but he really has to keep his voice down. The reply:

"I have to yell; it's my seeing-eye dog."

***

After he finished his tea, he strolled up to where I was at the cash sans Whiskey and thanked me for what was the finest cup of tea he'd had in ages.

You Can't Honk Your Bus Every Time I'm Doing Something Stupid.

To the bus driver who took it upon himself to honk at me and stop in the middle of Bank Street as I carefully walked across the cement blocks at the corner of Sommerset:

At no point did I think my behavior was either a good or particularly safe idea. Thus, your ever-so artful "use your brain" tapping of finger-to-head achieved zero percent of its intended shaming and succeeded only in making you look like a doofus.

You are not Superman. Your little display doesn't even qualify for Green Hornet status. Sorry.
Better luck next time.

Outfitting the Military

There are always plenty of military types making their way around the city, many dressed in their camouflage finest. Green camouflage. Which, in a city isn't exactly effective, even considering that Ottawa's a relatively green place. But now with all this white snow, they really stand out at quite a distance.
I passed one gentleman the other day and was terribly, terribly tempted to whisper loudly, "I can see you."
Come on! It's Canada. Can't they have some sort of winter outfit? I mean, uniform. Even slush-colored camouflage would be a step in the right direction. I imagine all this beautiful snow will be gross and slate-hued in a few days.

***

Seeing all these military guys wandering around all done up like leprechauns makes me think of relatively non-snow related uniform story. An anecdote, if you will.
In Korea, all the kids wear uniforms; private and public schools alike. They have one uniform for warm weather, one for cold (no camouflage that I saw, however). And all the kids at all the schools switch on the same day. So one day, all my students showed up wearing clothes that I was totally unaccustomed to [the seasonal uniforms look very different, most without even colors in common].
And it was kind of overwhelming.

So maybe, just maybe the military sticks with the green to avoid shocking the civilians.

The Snow

It started about a week and a half ago. I woke up early and thought, "Huh, funny. It looks like there's snow on the tree..." After a few seconds of eye-focusing, "Oh man, that IS snow!!" And plenty of it. The most beautiful first snowfall I've seen in a long time.

As a city, Ottawa isn't too keen on the whole snow removal thing. Oh, it gets done eventually. But that first day, I wasn't so sure it was going to happen at all. When I asked someone about it (around 1pm), the response was, "They're waiting for it to die down." Uh, that's really not how it works. Moncton, congratulations! Your public works snow removal system makes the capital city look like freakin' amateurs. Bravo.

***

Without winter boots, my choices for those first few mornings were a) arrive at class with frozen cold feet or b) renegade biking (which is way fun and really doesn't need the excuse of inappropriate footwear). I was fully ready to officially declare it my winter sport of choice until 45 more centimeters today + salted roads = probably no more snow-biking for a little while. Boo!

***

Today's footwear solution: plastic grocery bags in sneakers. Laugh all you like; it was fantastically effective. If only it were remotely socially and/or fashionably acceptable. Alas, it is neither. I guess it's time for this grasshopper to get some boots.
Double boo!

Double Thumbs-Up

I had great intentions of writing a whole bunch today. Didn't happen. But how 'bout just one, before bed?

This isn't exactly a work-related story, but it's somewhat inspired by my place of work. And part of the story is attributed to my co-worker, Alanna. But, where do I work? I've been so slack in keeping this blog current, I've yet to broach the subject of the joe-job I've been holding down with glee for well over a month: serving up hot beverages and other tasty items at Bridgehead, a local chain of coffee shops. I'll go into more detail another time, when my warm bed isn't beckoning me from the other room. For now, all that's necessary is the setting.

Last week, upon receiving her very fine mocha with exquisite whipped-cream and chocolate-sauce detailing, I was given a double thumbs-up by the exuberant patron. A double thumbs-up! So I thanked her for it, because how often in your day-to-day work do you get such a boon?! I commented that I tend to dish out a good DTU at the most awkward and socially embarrassing times and was perplexed by this bizarre reflex. Alanna smiled and assured me that her DTU story could trump them all.

Alanna spent some time in London when she was 19. She was living her hip, 19 year-old Canadian-in-London life to the fullest, right down to the jet-black dyed hair and Swedish indie-rocker boyfriend, Bjorn. One evening, she and a friend, determined to see The Von Bondies, finagled their way onto the guest list essentially by yelling, "Hey, can you put us on your guest list!" at one of the band members (I was thoroughly impressed by this point, and felt the story could have ended here, but it continues). Drinks were consumed in average 19 year-old quantities -- meaning, large -- and Alanna's companion disappeared for the washroom. At this point, Alanna got out a smoke, but realized the lighter was with her friend. Not wanting to wait, she taps the guy standing in front of her. Repeatedly. And, in her drunken 19 year-old voice loudly asks, "Excuse me! Do you have a light?!" Who should turn around but Jack White, producer of The Von Bondies's debut album and overall rock-god. And he lights her smoke. Again, the story could stop here, but then what would it have to do with DTUs? Yes, you guessed correctly. After her smoke was lit by none-other-than Mr. White Himself, she dished out a Double Thumbs-Up.

After the show, they went out for kabobs with the band.

As far as I'm concerned, that's how 19 is supposed to be done. And I do believe that anyone would be hard-pressed to top that DTU story. However, I'm thoroughly willing to accept submissions.
Please present any and all Double Thumbs-Up adventures on the comment portion of this post.

Are you saying these words?!

Biking along Gladstone to class the other morning, a previously parked car pulls out, nearly hitting me.

Mirror check? Signal light? Not for this guy.

Then, just as suddenly and almost as quickly, he backs up. Another near miss.
Out comes the Biker Rage.
"Hey, watch out!"
The be-capped grandpa rolls down his window and yells, "Don't be so stupid! I was in front of you!"
To which I reply, as I bike past, "That doesn't count if you're parked!"
The answer, which is gloriously accompanied by -- I'm not even kidding -- a fist-shake:
"Mind your own business!"

Oh. Em. Gee.
Perhaps you'll disagree, but I'm fairly positive that almost getting hit twice fully qualifies as "my business."

Overheard

Overheard at Manx while enjoying the best brunch in town:

Guy-Sitting-in-Booth With Girl waves to Guy-Behind-Bar.

Girl-Behind-Bar to Guy-Behind-Bar: "Are they boyfriend/girlfriend?"
Guy-B-B: "Yes, unfortunately."
Girl: "Why 'unfortunately'?"
Guy: "'Cause I hate her."
Girl: 'Wha...?"
Guy: "I just hate her."

***

Simple. Straightforward. Honest. And goddamn hilarious as far I was concerned yesterday, enjoying my Good Peep breakfast while sitting at the very-same bar, reading the paper. And I thought about posting it here, for no other reason than I thought it was funny.

And then I came home today after work. And it suddenly occurs to me that this very snippet of overheard conversation ties neatly into my own life.

***

One of my darling roommates is dating this... woman. I met her as they embarked on their second date, shortly after I arrived at McLeod Street. Upon meeting this... woman, I had an intense visceral reaction. I disliked her. For no apparent reason. Strongly.

It's an uncomfortable feeling because there are very few instances in my entire life when I've felt this way. Sure, you can get to know someone and legitimately think, "Man, this person is pretty stinky." Or even still, you can glean an impression about someone through their encounters with others and reasonably think, "Seriously, that person sucks balls." But when gut-reaction results in strong dislike, it feels just plain old mean.

No biggie, right? I was doing well, behaving nicely, keeping it in check, and posturing enough pleasantries to get by. But a few weeks ago, after listening to Roommate-In-Question go on about "issues" with this... woman and that he was going to have to have "the talk" with ...her, a moment of weakness took over and I proclaimed my instinctive aversion. I know!! Thankfully R-I-Q is very understanding and appreciated the frankness. Phew!

But, for some reason -- reason being R-I-Q is the Ultimate Nice Guy -- R-I-Q can't fully bring himself to giving this... woman the boots. And so I'm stuck feeling this retched animosity (wait, is it still animosity if it's one-sided?) every time she's in the house. She's just so... rotten. The only thing I don't actively dislike about her is that she looks like a porcelain doll. Right down to the mouth. It's kind of cool, in a weird sort of way.
See? I have actually been trying to find positive traits. What does it say that the porcelain-doll-thing was the best I could come up with?!

This... woman had just arrived as I came home from work. I decided that tonight, not tomorrow, would be the ideal time to do laundry. All of it. Plus an extra cycle in the dryer to ensure that my socks were fully dry. Stupid Gladstone and your stupid 30-minutes-for-a-dollar dryer cycles! What can a 25 year-old Harvest Gold dryer possibly dry in thirty minutes? Nothing. But oh! tonight my disdain for the lackluster quality of my local laundromat was like cotton candy and chillin' there with the surly Asian laundress -- who, clad in slippers, feels it necessary to physically nudge me out of her way as frequently as possible no matter where I situate myself -- was welcome relief to remaining in the presence of...her. Her, of The No-Personality. Her of The Condescension. Her, The ultra-Suburbanite (and Ottawa Suburbanite is on a whole different plane than your run-of the mill variety), Car-Driving, Make-up While-Wearing-Sweats, What-Do-You-Mean-"No-Meat-&-Potatoes" ...woman.

So much venom, huh? And you're thinking, "Ali! The cattiness!!"
Pfft. Yeah. So?
"Is it really necessary?"
Yeah-huh.
"Really...?"
Yup.
"Oh my."
Believe it.

***

K, new rule for the blog: no more posts immediately after reading David Sedaris. He's allowed to bring out the bitch 'cause he's funny and, you know, David Sedaris.

Repeat three times:
I am not David Sedaris.
I am not David Sedaris.
I am not David Sedaris.