Enter Wildlife

Today was another pleasant winter day. If this keeps up, I may have to change my stance on the season.

In any case, after shovelling the sidewalk in front of the house, I decided to to on a wee walk, following my usual postbox route despite not having any mail to post.

A couple of blocks from my house, I was passed by a coyote running in the opposite direction. A coyote. A couple of blocks from my house. In the middle of the city.

No sooner had it passed me and turned down a side street, a van pulled up to the side of the road. I turned to it, expecting it to be someone I knew, but it was a couple of complete strangers.

"Did you just see that coyote run by?" they asked.

I was a bit amused that strangers stopped me just because they wanted to talk to someone who had seen the coyote. I think that, after our brief conversation, they drove off to see if they could find where it had gone.

About a year and a half ago, I looked out my back door window to see a deer behind my house.

Next stop? Gentle Ben.

3 Open Letters

#1: Counter Culture:

Dear Teenaged Girl,

The counter at a restaurant, even a crappy little place at Wonderland, is not the place for your backside. I don't even like it when people sit their toddlers on the counter, believing it to be a bit disrespectful of food service in general as well as of everyone else who is eating at the place. But teenaged girls who perch themselves on the counter so they can hang off their boyfriends and flirt while acting like a sexed-up preteen? Inappropriate on a multitude of levels. Get your butt off the counter and act your age.

Adamantly yours,

Me

#2: The Gloves Come Off

Dear Blond Adolescent Boy,

When you stand at the hand dryer in a public washroom and dry your hands with fingerless gloves on, I not only know that you're trying to dry your gloves, but that you haven't washed your hands anyway. I know that they're wet because it's a rainy day (and in regards to that, they would dry a lot more quickly if you took them off, allowing air to pass through them), but you've still been to the washroom and they should have come off in any case. Give your head a shake. Just don't shake my hand.

Grippingly yours,

Me

#3: Mind your Ps and Qs

Dear Every Male Who Can't Pee Responsibly,

Don't use public washrooms. If you are completely unable to aim, if you are unable to clean up after yourself, if you are not able to take any responsibility for yourself or to respect anyone else, hold it in until you're at home so I will not have to enter a facility which makes me want to puke. Urine belongs in a urinal and/or in a toilet. For the very young it belongs in a diaper. It does not belong on the floor. It does not belong on a wall. If you can't follow these simple rules, you do not belong in a public restroom.

A little pee-d off,

Me

Hey, Wheezie!

This evening, while standing in line at the cashier, a woman joined the line behind me.

Close behind me.

Now, under normal circumstances, the distance at which she stood wouldn't have been close enough to make me uncomfortable, but this woman was breathing rather heavily. Gaspingly. Raspily. And having a heavily gasping, raspy breather behind you doubles the "acceptable distance" requirements. The heavily gasping, raspy breather was therefore uncomfortably close to me.

Then she spoke. She spoke and said something head-shaking.

"Do you know where I can buy cigarettes around here?"

She asked for smokes.

The heavily gasping, raspy breather asked for smokes.

Now there's a good idea.

She even followed up by saying, "I just can't catch my breath!"

Do you have any idea how difficult it was to keep from saying, "Oh yeah. When you can't breathe, it's usually a good idea to smoke some more."

At this point, she started dropping all of her purchases, into a pile on the floor and grabbing a few more impulse purchases to add to the pile.

I made my getaway while I was still keeping silent on the whole thing.

Puppy Love: Deadly Edition

You know what drives me nuts? (Stop! Stop listing things! It was a rhetorical question!)

People who choose to drive around with their dogs on their laps. That's right. People in the driver's seat who think it's somehow acceptable to have a living creature sitting on top of them while they're operating a motorized vehicle. Add to that the fact that they're doing so these days on roads covered with ice, slush, and snow, and I'm significantly more irritated.

Then I see the ShePound today and I get really steamed.

She's driving around, grinning like the Cheshire Cat (seriously, folks, she was about as crazy-jolly as they come) and was attempting to manoeuver her minivan around a corner with not one, but two dogs on her lap. And, though we're not talking great danes here, we're also not talking about tiny pipsqueak dogs (which would also bug me, so don't drive around with chihuahuas on your lap either). Definite mid-sized breeds. One is sitting on her lap, face pressed to the window while the other is somehow being clutched to her chest with one arm while she turns the wheel with the other.

You, my dear, are a raging idiot worthy of the accident you will someday have.

Head-Shaking Hunt

So, have you ever had one of those experiences which say to you, "Slow down, my friend, or you're going to wind up in a home before your time"?

Today I had cooked up some tasty chicken with a sauce and, while it was finishing its grilling, searched the kitchen counter for the lid from the sauce bottle. I looked around the stove. I checked over by the dishes in the drying rack. I hunted by and in the sink. I even resorted to scanning the living room as I'd taken a drink in there while cooking. I peeked in the refrigerator, just in case I'd absentmindedly put it on a shelf. Not to be found.

So I did it all again.

Stove. Dishes. Sink. Living room. Fridge.

Not to be found.

Then I realized where it was.

It was on the bottle.

In my hand.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Dear Woman with a Starbucks Cup,

Do you really need to carry your Starbucks cup with you in Wal-Mart?

Is it that you are desperately thirsty or, more plausible, hopped up on caffeine and needing to maintain your buzz so that you don't crash, take a look at your life, and end up drooling in a ditch?

Or is it that you are hoping that the act of walking around, browing with coffee in hand, will give you the feeling of being in a high-end, by-appointment-only boutique where they serve coffee and champagne while tightly wound ladies show you dresses or jewelry? Because that's not going to happen.

And will you really stretch that drink out until you return to your car, sure to dispose of it suitably? More likely you will become one of those egocentric individuals who leave their garbage on shelves randomly throughout the store. It may surprise you to learn that the entire world, contrary to your understanding, is not your garbage bin.

Dearest woman with a Starbucks cup, it's quite likely that I've overwhelmed your tiny brain by badgering you with so many questions. Allow me to say, in short, that I shake my head at you and your ill-timed and misplaced beverage-drinking schedule.

Sincerely,

Me.

P.S. Do you also take chocolate bars from the shelf and eat them while walking around, only to present the cashier with an empty wrapper? I'll be sure to come to your house, sit on your couch, and watch your television, asking permission to do so only as I leave.

Observations

In the many, many days since I last posted both much has happened and little has happened. I've been very busy, but little is particularly post-worthy.

I have, however, encountered some interesting individuals in my travels.

Encounter #1: Chatty O'Chatterson

Whist in a fine dining establishment known by the initials A and W, I found myself in line beside a fine fellow whom I have dubbed Chatty O'Chatterson. He found it necessary to expound upon the trials that the young woman behind the counter must be enduring having two trainees working under her tutelage. Of course, this sympathetic observation of his was truly a segue to mentioning that he'd been training individuals at work and that he was "looking forward to getting back to regular work at the computer". In truth, given how often and how intensely he persisted in discussing how "it's hard being the boss and in charge sometimes", methinks he was really quite taken with being asked to train others. My response: courteous levels of mild interest and periodic pleasant but non-committal responses.

Encounter #2: Divulging Donna

Shortly thereafter I found myself -- following yet another incident involving a non-dinging door, headlights, and the CAA -- I was patronizing a patriotic tire (and more) store, and found myself in line after a couple of young people (yes, I'm old enough to talk about being in line behind young peopl), shortly to be served by a young woman who clearly knew those before me. When I did work my way up to the aforementioned cashier with my booster cables, she proceeded -- without prompting, might I add -- to tell me about the awkward experience she had just had serving those youngsters since she used to date one of their member's brothers. My response: pay for the booster cables and supply courteous levels of mild interest and periodic pleasant but non-committal responses.

[Maybe I just have one of those faces that says, "Go ahead. Tell me all about it."]

Encounter #3: Dashing Donald and Smitten Sue

While awaiting service at yet another posh restaurant where they serve food -- though not burgers, mind you; they're very clear that they don't sell burgers -- in paper bags, I observed a funny little exchange between a fellow I've dubbed "Dashing Donald" and the server, "Smitten Sue" (though, to be fair, at the beginning of the exchange, she was merely "Soon-to-be-Smitten Sue"). It started when Donald kicked off the conversation with, "This is my first time here." WHAT? Who says that? "This is my first time here?" Maybe if you're visiting another country, a groovy and fashionable new nightclub, perhaps, but when visiting a fast-food restaurant? Well, have no fear, dear reader, for Sue quickly responded with a flashing smile and, "Then welcome to ****'s!" Then, just to show everyone else in the place up, Donald, whose Dashing qualities were quickly to reveal themselves, proceeded to order and inquire about the healthier options for his meal, right down to the low-fat dressings on the salad and milk to drink. Sue, who was approaching Smitten at the speed of light, was thrilled to engage in the conversation a little longer with the tall, wavy-haired stranger, listing options and *oops!* suggesting balsamic vinaigrette dressing which they don't actually have. "I guess I said it because it's my favourite! Teehee!" Subtext: "Wouldn't you like to get together sometime and enjoy a salad with balsamic vinaigrette with me? Maybe Friday night?" Much cuteness ensued until his meal was served ("Oh, I should have told you you could have also had your sandwich on a whole-wheat wrap!"). My response: I went and ordered my 5000 calorie, fat-filled lunch maybe just to spite them.

Oh, I also went and visited John and Ted, and it was lovely. They make me laugh, because they seem to be on "best bahaviour" when I'm visiting. I was very mellow and really quite dull, so I think they felt a lot of pressure to keep me entertained, but they surely should know that just hanging out and chatting with them is swell indeed.

IN OTHER NEWS, Keltie has inspired me... Watch for new developments starting January 1.

F is for Fauna, and also for Frustration

This evening I was in my kitchen, putting some rice into the steamer (as I was planning to enjoy steamed rice -- duh -- with Paneer Darbari) and talking on the telephone when I looked out my back door and noticed that there was a visitor in the neighbourhood. Yes, just beyond my driveway was a lovely deer. Yes, a deer in the middle of the city. It wandered around, not terribly interested in the mini-park that exists in the centre of the cul-de-sac back there. A moment later, the neighbours started appearing, cameras in hand ... I didn't have one handy ... and the deer wandered around and into a back yard where it was followed by the budding amateur paparazzi. I know not what happened to it from that point on, but it was an encounter both lovely and disturbing. Lovely because, hey, having a deer in ones backyard is a nice thing to observe, but disturbing because it's a testament to the continuing encroachment of humans on natural habitats. I won't preach beyond that.

Years ago, I almost hit a rather large deer driving downtown here. It jumped over the hood of my car and disappeared down a hill.

Then, later tonight, I was working on paperwork for work tomorrow (I'm away at a meeting) and, upon preparing to e-mail the paperwork in, discovered that my internet was being uncooperative. An hour later, after a lengthy conversation with Customer Service -- yes, the problem appears to have been with my computer -- I'm back online, though not wireless at the moment. Thanks to the lengthy problem-solving session, I now do not have all of my work prepared for the meeting. Too bad, I say, I really need to go to bed. I'll try to whip up some last-minute things before going to the meeting and, beyond that, I'll just have to send things in later, as needed. Heck. It's not my fault. Really!

Open to Interpretation

Not long ago, I wrote about a curious motif I've often encountered in my dreaming life.

Last night, I had a dream which was downright disturbing.

In the dream, I'm standing on a city block doing goodness knows what, when suddenly a dog runs past being chased by a horse. The two animals race by me and around behind a brick building. A moment later, they appear out the other side, in a small parking lot between the buildings.

The horse catches up with the dog -- some brown and white mid-sized breed -- and bends down, picking it up by the back of the neck like a mother dog with her puppy. The dog is dangling there, presumably happy as a lark, while the horse carries it a few paces. The horse then lowers the dog and lifts it again, this time by putting the dog's head itself in the horse's mouth.

The dog starts kicking a little as the horse carries it a few more steps. Again the horse lowers its head, placing the dog on on the ground. With its hoof, the horse tips pulls the dog over onto its side, and holds it gently in place. The dog's tongue is lolling about and it just lies there, not scrambling or trying to get up.

That's when things go horribly wrong.

The horse bends down, opens its mouth, and bites the top off of the dog's head. It backs away a step, and the dog starts running around frantically, with nothing but a neck and lower jaw. The top half of the head is gone entirely, save for a ragged, bloody mess where it should be. The horse chews absently, gore and blood falling loosely from its mouth.

The dog's body goes around in frantic circles a few times. Its front legs buckle and it collapses in a heap.

A moment later, as happens in dreams, the dog is suddenly no longer a dog, but a teenaged girl, about 14 or so. She gets to her feet and wanders confusedly around the parking lot for a moment. She is clearly in a daze when she puts a hand to the back of her head, and discovers that there's a bloody hole where the crown of her head should be. She doesn't scream. She doesn't ask for help. She just looks around at the people gathered, wondering what on earth she should do.

That's when I woke up.

Visitations

If you have already read Keltie's Weblog (or if you wrote it) then you already know that the two of us got together yesterday for a smashing visit and dinner. She is not kidding about Useless Waiter.

Still, the food was pleasant and the company delicious, so I was very pleased with the evening. Not only did I chat with my dear friend and see her new home, but I also met (at long last) the cats. Both were charming and inviting hosts who welcomed me into their home and spent a little time getting to know me. My only complaint would be the stress of parallel parking in a small space on a dark street.

Tomorrow morning I have a production meeting (yeeha) and the first rehearsal with the director, so that should be a joy and a treat. It'll be a busy week of reahearsals as we start to take the choreography we've been working on and start building it into the scenes as they're developed. By next weekend, I should be aching again.

On an unrelated but dreadfully unpleasant note, Book the Thirteenth of A Series of Unfortunate Event has finally been released and I picked it up today. Though I am horrifically anxious to learn the final, and surely miserable, outcome of the Beaudelaire's misadventures, I am also somewhat disheartened by the knowledge that The End marks the end of this Series of Events of the Unfortunate variety.

A Day at the Races, A Night at the Opera

After a long and reasonably productive day at work, I was off to Shaw for a rousing musical performance of High Society.

Have you ever noticed that the senior members of our community (whom I love, adore, and duly respect both as a whole and, where merited, as individuals) can be ever-so-very disquieting in large groups? Oh, the mass of humanity!

On this evening, a significant portion of the audience was of the aged (and, presumably, honourable and beloved) set. Upon the end of the performance, however, I very nearly feared for my life. In large numbers, their group movements become unpredictable unless, like a flock of birds, you happen to be one of them, in which case you seem to instinctively react and respond to modifications in the group's bearing. On this occasion, while being funneled out of the theatre through a much-too-narrow set of doors (much like sheep exiting a fold), I was bounced around between two disorienting movement patterns.

The first was what I call "On A Mission" in which the aforementioned seniors (whom, as I've said before, I love and respect regardless of their exiting behaviours) pick a goal -- such as the door, their car, or one of several large tour buses -- and head there, ready to bodycheck anyone who should stand in between them and their goal. Now, that's not quite right. They didn't even seem to register that their could be someone between them and their goal.

The second was the "Stick the Landing" in which someone walking in front of you stops without a nanosecond's notice, going from sixty to a standstill with no apparent slowing. Then you're left dodging, a precarious endeavour thanks to everyone else being On A Mission to both the left and right, as well as behind you. You're left doing a sort of athletic Pick and Turn to swing past them and back into the flow. Yeesh!

I'm thinking of proposing that the esteemed aged equip themselves with a set of indicator lights which will alert us to such things. Or maybe at least a brake light on the backs of their hats.