501 Queen Street Westbound

501 Queen Street Westbound

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The streetcar was swaying back and forth.

It’s close to midnight and most of the seats are filled.

The only empty seats are at the back of the second car.

He finds a seat, facing south. He is sitting across from her. He can’t believe his luck. This will be a second encounter with this creature, this femme fatale.

Her nails are painted black and decorated with little sparkling gems. Her hair is jet black with peek-a-boo red highlights. Legs crossed. She is absorbed in her music blaring from her ear buds. She is madly texting on her phone. Her face expressionless, eyes outlined in black, lips coloured deep red. Her stockings are fishnet, ending just below the hemline of her tight short mini-skirt. There are 2 inches of bare thigh, exposed and he notices.

She is a mystery, that is precisely her allure.

She doesn’t notice him sit down across from her. The man-boy, holding a take-out bag and jug of milk, wearing nondescript grey jogging pants with a dark blue jacket. His mouth is gapping.

He stares intently at this woman. She isn’t noticing him.

He reaches across the streetcar aisle and taps her on the knee. She looks up from her phone, her music still blaring.

He sweetly tilts his head, smiles and manages a mock-surprised, “Wow, we meet again, how are you doing?”

She is polite and responds with “It’s good to see you, I am doing well,” and brings her eyes back down to her phone, dismissing him.

He isn’t sure what to do. He wants more. He wants a conversation. He wants to let her know how much he’s been thinking about her since the last time they met.

“I’ve tried calling you a few times but I never got an answer from your calls.”

Pause. She pretends not to hear him.

“I hope you are doing alright. I’ve thought about you an awful lot.”

Pause. This time there was a slight kick of her foot in acknowledgement. This gives him wings to fly.

“You look really hot tonight.”

Pause. There is no response. Not even a kick of the foot. He sits in silence. Watching her. He can’t take his eyes off her.

She ignores his presence and continues texting and turns up her music.

He fumbles with the pocket of his jacket and after a few moments produces a notebook. It’s a small, softcover notebook with an elastic band to keep the pages in place. He reaches back in his pocket to retrieve his pen. He keeps his eyes on her the entire time. He organizes himself, with one hand on his book, the other holding his pen. He opens up his notebook and for the first time, he looks down.

The page before him is blank.

He panics. What has he done. He has nothing to write. All he wants to do is talk to the woman, the creature who is tantalizing him from across the aisle of the streetcar.

He realizes his error in judgement, closes his book, caps his pen and puts them back in his coat pocket.

He sits a few moments longer contemplating his next move.

He stands up. His body swaying with the streetcar. The weight of his milk jug sending him twisting from side to side, back and forth. It’s hard for him to stand but he holds the hand rail above his head to steady himself.

He isn’t sure what to do. Maybe he should get off the streetcar at the next stop.

Instead he sits back down.

If she’s noticed any of this, she isn’t letting on. She keeps on texting with those long black, gem encrusted finger nails. And those stockings, riding down her thigh. He can’t keep his eyes off of her. His mouth is gaping slightly. If only he could get closer to her, perhaps touch her with his finger tips.

Then as if his prayers were answered, the couple sitting between him and his prize stood up to leave.

If his baggage was hindering him with his standing earlier while the streetcar lumbered along, it didn’t hinder him from gathering his belongings and snatching up the newly vacated, prime seating.

Within seconds he was beside her. His prayers answered. Her nightmare just beginning.

MINI at the Border

I am getting pretty good at crossing borders. I’ve done it enough times and I’ve come to the conclusion that the car you drive … matters. It matters to the conversations that take place and the decision to either let me through or search my car.

The MINI is a hassling kind of car, but not in the same type of hassling that one might imagine.

After escaping the toll-taker, I happily crossed the bridge and made my way to the first available border crossing booth.

I pulled up, rolled my window down, removed my sunglasses and handed over my passport.

It started the same as usual, “Where are you from, where are you going, why are you going, when are you coming back, what are you taking with you, where do you work.”

Standard questions right?

I wasn’t prepared for, “What major road does your residential street run parallel too?” and was only slightly more prepared for, “What is the major North/South road that runs perpendicular to your residential street?” I was tempted to break out google maps, but instead I smiled and rhymed off all the streets starting with the one he seemed to know and had blurted out.

Where was this going? I didn’t know. I just knew I had to participate.

I was quizzed on area bakeries, pubs and eateries. With all the talk of Pasta I asked him if he happened to be Italian. There should be a section in every border crossing where the traveller is allowed to ask questions, right?

He handed back my passport. A sure sign we were wrapping up our “get-to-know-each-other” session and I was awaiting his decision on what my next steps were to be.

I pulled my chilled elbow back into my car and the minute I appeared the least bit interested in getting on my way, he sternly decided to ask more questions about my place of employ and soon we were off on another topic – Golf.

He suggested numerous times that I get in touch with his previous golf instructor to learn how to improve my swing and my game. I am sure it was after the 9th time that I clued in and offered to make a note in my cell phone of said instructor’s name. I pulled out my phone and promptly added in the name.

How did it end?

He pled with me, “You know if you learn to really swing well, you’ll be invited all the time to play golf. Men really like it when a pretty young lady…(big pause)…woman like yourself comes out to play.”

He hardly had time to catch his breath and continued, “I really like watching the ladies, you know they have a nice smooth swing, really smooth.” as he demonstrated for me inside his little booth.

Then his eyes lit up like saucers and in a deep bare whisper, he intoned “Women are so flexible!!”

Maybe it was the look of sheer shock on my face, but with his last announcement, on what I can only imagine to be his seeming desire towards flexible women, I was waved through with a simple “have a nice trip.”

The Man and his Fox

The Man and his Fox

VWFoxPhoto from BP Blogspot.com

Truth be told, I have a bad habit of gasing up my car at the very last moment. I normally pay at the pump, it is fast and efficient but today I needed washer fluid.

I was walking into the station to pay when he pulled up in a 1980’s Volkswagen. Black. Two door. Manual transmission. I admit, I took a double take.

Is that fine-boxed-machine really gas powered?

I payed, picked up my washer-fluid.

Out at my car, I popped the hood and started filling up my empty washer-fluid. Bending over the front of my car making sure that I wasn’t spilling the fluid all over my engine I noticed out of the corner of my eye a shadow approaching.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I heard a male voice.

I could only guess it was from the man who had pulled up in his Volkswagen Fox only moments earlier. I looked up at him. He had his sunglasses pulled down to his nose and had a smile on his face. He didn’t seem so interested in me, more interested in my popped hood.

“I really like small engines and I just haven’t seen under the hood of a MINI, do you mind?” he asked.

“Sure, here it is,” I offered, pointing out the obvious.

He looked it over as I stood there awkwardly giving him commentary on how I ended up with a MINI and how I hadn’t driven or sat in a MINI until the day I picked up my car from the dealership, detailing how much I loved driving my car.

In the middle of my dialogue, he rose slightly on his tippy toes, pointed with his finger and in a high pitched voice he declared, “And it has a little TURBOCHARGER!!!”

He was beside himself in excitement!!

“Make sure you keep on top of changing the oil, that will give longevity to your Turbocharger.” He could hardly contain his delight.

“It’s also manual transmission,” I lightly added.

REALLY!,” his voice going an octave even higher, “Manual transmission IS the only way to drive a 4-cylinder!!” He stated with certainty.

A man after my own heart 🙂

That Man from the 3rd floor

A few months ago one of my best friends mandated that I “get serious” about dating.

To be honest, sometime in my teens, my grand-mother scared the marriage right out of me. It was a balmy summer day, she was at the stove cooking something delicious and I was sulking at the old wooden table.

“You know DF, the guy you agree to marry is the most important decision you will ever make. It will change your life for ever. You remember that and be mighty careful who you agree to marry.”

No problem.

Single.

Crisis averted.

Friends have done their best to persuade me that at least putting some effort into being available to meet someone that will change my mind, is worth my while. And spending my weekends traipsing here and there, would be better done with a male mate that wasn’t just a best-friend from some past, failed relationship.

As a pouty 20-something, that was a great strategy and I am still on the fence if it’s still a fool-proof strategy as a 30-something but open to entertaining suggestions.

Here I am, being open minded, taking advice from the one’s who have happily passed from single-dom into dual-dom. It can’t be all that bad, they are still happy.

So when a friend of mine gleefully described a fellow neighbour she met in my elevator, I agreed to keep an eye out.

“Come on DF, what, you’re going to sit here and waste away counting cars?!”

I argued back, “It’s much too close, honestly, there is hardly a floor separating us and how do you exactly propose I bump into him? Take up residence in the elevator?”

“No silly, just keep your eye open for him and talk to him when you see him.”

Ok. Fine

Within a week I magically bumped into this creature she accurately described.

He was tall, handsome and yes, he lived on the 3rd Floor.

Did I talk to him?

Not really.

With my mouth full of apple, I opted for grunting and hand gestures while he explained to me how “tired” he was from his “many” late nights watching “professional sports”. Finishing off with a list of the teams he was cheering for.

I only managed a “Have a nice night” once his back was turned and I was sure my apple pieces were safe!

I think I made her proud 🙂

Act 3 – On Reading Material

I am happy to say, “Living History” is complete!  My only regret is that I did not pick it up sooner…9 years sooner.  Who can say how it may or may not have impacted my life, but what I do know is regardless of political allegiances, Hillary’s book was worth each minute and hour I spent reading.

With her book out of the way and after two autobiographies, I was looking for something a little more……fiction to read. 

Good thing my coffee shop acquaintance who had me demonstrating my inner clutz, spilling water and essentially tripping over myself as I tried my best to keep composed and adult about my utter childishness.

It was the second time we’d had a verbal conversation.  He was making fun of my choice of reading material and with great fervor, kindly suggested the next book I should read.

He promised me that I was “not going to be disappointed” and if I was, “you can come slap me on the side of my face.” 

And he demonstrated on the left side of his face, “Right here, you can slap me right here,”

He stopped, tipped his head down and to the side, looking at me shyly he said “..not too hard.  Just a little bit, but not too hard.”

“I promise you, everyone I have suggested this series to has LOVED it, nobody was disappointed and so far none of them have come to slap me on the face.”

He took a breath, “But if you don’t like it,” he reiterated, “my offer stands and you can come find me and slap me on the face and you’ll be the first one to do that.”

On his suggestion, the other day I picked up “Game of Thrones”. 

Let’s see how I like it 😉

Clutz of the day award goes to…

Clutz of the day award goes to…

IMG-20130127-01053.jpgMoi!

I accept it while gracefully falling over myself as I stumble across the stage.

It’s Sunday. I love Sunday’s. I get to spend them by myself doing things I want to do without feeling guilty.

One of those things I love doing is drinking a coffee in a crowded coffee shop while reading a book.

When I arrived the shop was full. I figured I’d order my drink and hopefully by the time it was ready, I’d have a seat.

I noticed this one particular gentlemanly good looking man hovering around and caught him looking in my direction. Now believe it or not, I am super shy when it comes to men I think are remotely attractive. And even more shy and clutzy when I assume they might be watching me.

I turned my back, usual procedure for me when I don’t know what to do, am I really +30 and still acting 12 :). Yes I am.

I waited for my drink to be made and I noticed a table had emptied.

It wasn’t the usual normal two person table, it was the giant wheelchair accessible table. I had no shame, I really wanted to spend a solid hour reading my book and if that was my table, then that was my destiny for an hour.

I rushed over to secure my spot, got myself settled. Coffee to my right, glass of water to my left and my book in front of me. I was ready.

cosmo for blogEverything was going to plan when I decided a nice sip of water would be a great idea and that’s when my nervous clutz came for a visit.

My cup of water flipped on it’s side and water was all over the table, my book, the magazine that had been left by someone else, my pants, my coat and my purse.

I was so embarrassed and froze staring soaking wet at the little pond on the table in front of me. Not daring to turn around to see who might have caught my embarrassment.

I stood up and started brushing the waterfall of water off my pants.

I turned to go get some serviettes and there he stood, his arm extended holding a fist full of serviettes.

“Here you are”.

“Thank you,” I responded my face going beat red, “Not only am I hogging the biggest table here, I’ve managed to make a mess!”

He started helping me soak up the water.

“Yes well, you are at the handicap table, but that seems reasonable with your situation. Don’t worry, nobody else noticed, you’re ok.” he responded.

I lamented my wet book.

“Well you didn’t buy it yet did you?”

“Oh I bought it, it’s mine and it’s now drenched.”

“What book are you reading?”

“Hillary Clinton’s, Living History.”

“And is this your Cosmopolitan as well?”

I laughed nervously and replied truthfully, “No”

“Well I was going to say that would be pretty ironic that you’d be reading both about Hillary and The Sex He Wants…But Do You?”.

I couldn’t hold my laughter.

“You are welcome to share my giant table,” I offered

“That would be great, I am waiting for someone but in the mean time, I’ll take you up on your offer,” and he disappeared.

That was curious I thought but within minutes he was back with a replacement cup of water.

Now he was just out doing himself!

Good looking, generous, clever and hilarious all in one.

The Goat Man Proposes

The Goat Man is a fellow Canadian that the Latino’s aptly named The Goat during his public, on stage naming ceremony. The Goat nickname I can only imagine, is in reference to his odd 3 inch long, thick, chin hair.

On some vacation’s it can seem no matter how large and how vast the number of activities available, there are just some folks that you can never quite escape.

The Goat Man and his lady were just that couple.

Breakfast, the beach, the pool, the nightly entertainment, the casino, the plane ride home. After spending 7 days bumping into the Goat Man and his friend, it became a sport to guess his next move before it happened.

Like gambling all his money away at BlackJack {story}.

What we weren’t prepared for and couldn’t have guessed was his public, homeward bound, in-flight proposal to his lady with a place holder ring which was a green wire twist-tie {story}. Actually, we found out later there was nothing, no ring, no twist tie {fact}. There was a box, void of a ring {fact}, in it’s place an IOU? {story} – but a highly believable story at that 🙂

“For those who missed it at the back of the plane, she said yes.”

Round of applause

This prompted a discussion on proposals. Post-vacation?! On a discount air carrier?! No ring?! Was he so insecure she’d say no that he was hedging his bets?!

Why not on the way there, or while ON vacation? Panama is a beautiful place. Was she on vacation probation? If so, I believe she earned her worth when she successfully flagged down the bus back to the airport for her hung-over, soon-to-be fiance.