Poor, poor teen pop princess. You may be rich, but at least I got to be stupid.

So there’s this girl who’s been around a lot lately. All the time, I turn around and she’s there. People are always talking about her and though I try to ignore her, it’s all in vain, as she is apparently unbeatable and ubiquitous.

Her name is Miley Cyrus. Spawn of the infamous Billy Ray Cyrus. We all remember him, don’t we? Now, I’m a girl who loves her country music, but never EVER was Achey Breaky Heart a good song. Who sings about their own heart blowing up in their tragic death??? And that dance that went along with it? I was like, less than 10 when it came out, but I still remember and shudder at it.

Well, somebody slept with Mr. Cyrus and poof, they popped out baby Cyrus. I have no idea if Miley is her real name. Her paternal unit is named Billy Ray, so I guess Miley isn’t totally out there. I find that white trash likes names that end in ‘ey’. Bethany, Destiny, Tiffany, Bailey, Britney, Candi, Bambi, you get the idea. Miley mixes right in there, all comfy-like.

Anyways, who IS this chick? I hear her name everywhere and only yesterday realized that a song on my internet radio was being sung by this girl. I listened to the words. I gasped and cringed. This BABY is a WHORE. She’s fifteen (15!) years old.

She sings like she knows shit, like she can decipher her hormone-controlled emotions and like she’s had time to reflect on things, make sense of them and grow from them already. At the ripe old age of fifteen. She sings about looking into some guys eyes, and then drops her voice into a sultry-esque tone (or rather, the computer she’s pretending to be is programmed to a lower note……there’s no way that’s an actual voice) and proclaims, “I can’t wait to see you again”

When you are fifteen, you should only be saying that with such intensity to your puppy dog. You’ll really miss your puppy when you go over to your friend’s house for a sleepover. She’s 15!!!! What was she doing that requires such a sultry voice? I find it conflicts nicely with her squeaky clean little image. Didn’t she flash her boobies recently? Well, not that she HAS boobs, but you know…..her nipples?

At 15, you should be wearing ill fitting bras, venturing to the mall with your friends and giggling as you go to buy underwear, wearing poorly coordinated makeup, changing your braces colours to match the seasons, cheering on your grade 9 teams and only just starting to venture into the middle of the gym at the school dances……a drastic change from the dances a few years earlier where the two genders ignored each other.

I feel sorry for this girl.

I feel sorry for all child singers/actors. They’re so fucking weird (Dakota Fanning anybody??) but when they talk, you can tell that they actually think they’re adults. They take themselves so seriously. I recently read Miss Cyrus saying that she’s just too darned busy for a relationship! No guy would want to put up with her fame and she doesn’t have time to drag him around with her anyways. What?! You’re not supposed to be in relationships at 15!! Why are you thinking about this? You’re supposed to have experienced spin the bottle, and a couple of awkward makeout sessions on your friends basement couch which were quickly interrupted by their suspecting parents.

Little Miley won’t ever have that. Every move she makes will be tracked. All awkward first dates will be documented. Her trip to the drugstore to buy her first confusing box of pads or tampons will be all over the papers. She’ll be over by 22. She’ll probably be pregnant by 22 too, if she follows in the footsteps of her female pop star predecessors. Her life is a game of pretend and she may not know it.

She pretends to have a female body. She pretends to have life experience. She pretends that she doesn’t have the unavoidable complexion of a 15 year old. She pretends not to be a depressed, confused, angry, up and down teenager. She pretends her life is the ideal.

Imagine what she’s doing to 8 year olds? Especially since she does have this squeaky clean image and parents probably aren’t limiting their children’s exposure to her. These girls grow up thinking zits don’t exist…Miley doesn’t have any (Miley has an army of makeup artists). They see that the only hair you should have is freakishly straight…..no famous singers or pretty girls have curly hair, that’s absurd (Miley has an army of hair stylists). They think clothes have to be perfect, expensive and figure hugging (Miley has several personal shoppers and stylists, no doubt). They should look at boys as things they are trying to impress at all times (Miley sings about how she’ll make it up to the guy for being so shy last time, you know, when she sees him again). They learn that you should always be upbeat and full of energy (ever seen a frowning Miley? ever seen a tired Miley? ever seen a Miley who didn’t see the silver lining?). These girls are being told that they should be someone that isn’t real.

I understand I”m not the first one to make this shocking observation. But for some reason, she really gets to me. It’s her age. 15. She can’t drive, she can’t drink, she can’t buy smokes, she can’t vote….she’s a minor! Why do we glorify this? Why do we sexy this up?

Why does she go along with it? Why is she allowing herself to be a brand? A commodity? A puppet? A robot with no real life save for an overbloated schedule? A marionette singing about things she couldn’t possibly know of or fully understand?

Who’s to blame here? Who’s to laugh at? Is she being used or is she using the people managing her? Who’s coming out on top here? Is she smarter than all of us or can she really not see what she looks like from outside to anybody over the age of 16? Where’s ol’ Billy Ray?

Maybe I’ve proven my own damned point. I’ve given her attention. I’ve driven her google hits. I’ve upped her stock. She’s still rich and doesn’t give a damn about me.

Maybe I’m the idiot, who knows. But at least I’m the idiot who did dumb embarassing 15 year old stuff, along with dumb embarassing 16 and 17 year old stuff. I think I’m the one with the last laugh for that. I don’t buy that whole ‘money can’t buy happiness’……..I think it could make a decent shot at it. However, all the fame and fortune in the world can’t buy you your teenage years back. Or your dignity.

Regurgitation……but it’s funny!

So I was looking at my stats this morning and saw that someone read a post that I wrote back in September titled, ‘The Art of the “You’re Invisible to Me” Act’. I had forgotten I’d even written it, but I remembered it was a favorite of mine.

Since nobody even read my blog all the way back in September, I thought I’d be super fucking lame and repost it.

Personally, I find it to be comedic gold. You may differ in your opinion, but you’d be wrong.

This isn’t something I’m going to do all the time, don’t fret, I won’t just repost old crap……..but as I read this, I realized I was seriously on my game that day and this needed to be shared, now that people actually read this thing.

I present to you…….”The Art of the ‘You’re Invisible To Me’ Act”

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Yes, we’ve all done it. More than once. I did it twice in just 24 hours, prompting me to write about it. Where you see that person, but go to extreme lengths to pretend they aren’t there.

Last night at 11, and this morning around 8ish, I saw people I knew on the subway. Now, I use the term ‘knew’ quite loosely, cuz that’s pretty much as far as the relationship goes. Two of them, I probably can’t even name (maybe it has something to do with their names being 18 letters long, while only containing one vowel, but that’s beside the point), and the other I simply don’t care about either way.

Now, it seems that most people I know fall into this category. The ‘I know you, but really couldn’t care less about your existence, let alone your thoughts on the latest happenings with the local sports team, or what grade your niece/nephew is in’ category.

I have a serious contempt towards small talk. It’s actually gotten me in trouble more times than I can count. I’ve been informed that my attitude is not welcome in a certain establishment, I’ve been told I make terrible first impressions, I’ve been told I wasn’t the first choice for hiring because I come off as cold, the boyfriend’s dad actually refused to let me into his house for a short while, because I refused to play the ‘Hiiiiiiiiiii!’ game every time I saw him, no matter if this was 63 times in an hour. This would be easy enough to change all of this, no? Just say hello, Talea; comment on the weather; pretend to smile when people talk about the new kind of trail mix they found at the grocery store this weekend, how hard is that?? It’s TOO HARD. I simply CANNOT do it. It makes me want to punch people in the face, or inflict violence upon myself with rusty implements. I seem to have been overlooked when they were handing out the ‘care about others mundane lives’ gene. Ha, the irony is, I write a blog about my own mundane life and expect others to read it with religious regularity. Oh well. I’ve never claimed I wasn’t a hypocrite.

What the hell was I talking about? Sorry, it’s just that my blind hatred for small talk runs so very deep I just get worked up a bit.

So anywho…..the art of pretending to not see somebody that you know is there is actually fairly tricky. There are several things to consider when trying to make yourself appear invisible to the other person, so that they don’t come up and bore you to tears with their stupid conversations.

1) To pull off this tricky social anti-interaction, try to always leave the house with some sort of emergy diversion feature. This could be a book, your iPod, your dayplanner, a bottle of nail polish, a snack, unfinished knitting, a stack of envelopes that need to be paired up with a stack of stamps……..the possibilities are truly endless. Try to always have ‘busy work’ on your person. This will make it much easier to fool the other person into thinking that you don’t see them. Once you see them, immediately launch into full blown occupied mode. Read your book, close your eyes and sway to your iPod a la Ray Charles, throw yourself in eating, whatever. You will be so damned engrossed in whatever it is you’re doing, you’ll appear to be simply too ‘in the zone’ to notice them. You cannot be blamed for being focused. It’s a highly admirable trait.

2) Okay, so you’ve failed to follow rule number one. Here’s where it gets a little sticky. Now, presumably you’ve noticed this person out of the corner of your eye, very quickly. You probably then snapped your head back to facing forward, to avoid them seeing YOU, but by doing this, you’ve lost the chance to find out where they’ve wound up. For example, if you’re on the subway, did they go to the back of the car? Are they sitting facing you? Are they pretending to be busy also? YOU DON’T KNOW. So, your best bet is to become enamored with somebody else. There’s almost always some kind of freak nearby. Locate them and start staring.

3.) Okay, so there’s no freak. Don’t panic. For the moment, pretend that you have just discovered your fingernails for the first time. Use this temporary diversion to think things through. Note your surroundings. Are there ads that you can pretend are amazing? Can you pretend to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations? Is there a discarded newspaper nearby that you can grab? A window you can gaze out of? You must be discreet about looking for these things. It is vital. Whipping your head around will only draw attention to you. Remember, mammals are attracted to movement. Make small movements and utilize your eyeball movement range as much as you can, to remain undetected.

4.) Okay, you’re shit out of luck. There’s nothing around. Don’t worry. Launch into depression mode. Here’s how: Pick a spot on the floor just ahead of you, and slightly away from the person you’re trying to avoid. Now, stare. Get lost in your terribly dark thoughts. Be sure to display a full, but not overblown, range of sad/upset/preoccupied emotions. Furrow your brow, bite your lip, sigh, rest your head on your hand. You might be being watched. You’re not sure, and you can’t check, cuz checking might lead to eye contact, which might encourage them to come over. Reminder: This Is Bad. Don’t flip through the emotions too quickly, then you’ll blow your cover. But if you do this right, they’ll leave you be. Nobody wants to disturb a potentially suicidal person. It’s like waking up a sleepwalker. It’s a stupid bet.

5.) Above all else, do NOT turn to face them. This is the stupidest thing you can do. Breaking out into song would be wiser, as it would intimidate them. Obviously it’s unnatural to only turn your head one way, so you have to be sure to look their way at least once or twice. Only a bit though! If you’re feeling brave and in control, then you can turn your head completely…..but overshoot a bit. And look beyond them. This will give you an out if they call you on the ‘you’re not there’ act. ‘Oh! I must have looked RIGHT at you and not even SEEN you! I don’t know where my head is some days! Tsk tsk tsk!’ Laugh on the inside a bit at this point.

6.) Despite my guidance, they might be super eager and not take the hint that you are clearly trying to ignore them. They might come over to see you. If they do, don’t jump up or turn around as soon as they say the first syllable of your name. This will give you away. Wait until they say it completely, then casually turn around, give it a millisecond and put on that fake surprised humbleness!  ‘Oh, Joan! Heeeeey! How ARE you? I didn’t even see you, were you there that whole time?’

Obviously, I don’t have to follow any of these. At least, not consciously. I’m a fucking superstar at ignoring people. Plus, I look angry a lot, so they tend to not be inclined to bug me. This morning I stood right in front of two of them on the way to work and totally didn’t get roped into even a stilted hello. Don’t attempt this yet. That’s just brazen rudeness and it probably isn’t what you’re going for.

Feel free to print out the instructions. And remember, ignoring somebody isn’t rude. Not ignoring them, getting into a useless conversation and screaming at them while threatening bodily harm is rude. Really, you have the good of humankind in mind while doing it. If only they’d understand….

Keeping my priorities straight.

Some days, you just have to stop and think, ‘Damn I’ve got it good.’

This afternoon was one of those moments. Nobody yelled at me at work. I left work at a normal, human time.

On the subway, I got the best seat on the train. The loner seat. It’s a seat that’s not even in existence in all trains….only the trains with the yellow doors. The red door trains have no loner seat. The loner seat is highly coveted….it is only on every second car, at the back, and it coccoons you in. There’s a wall on one side and a glass panel on the other. Nobody can sit beside you and it is fantastic. There’s even enough room for your purse to sit beside you. It’s as marvellous as things can be on public transit.

So I managed to snag the loner seat and therefore was able to knit contentedly without having to worry about stabbing the person beside me, or having them grunt and shuffle each time I moved my arms to purl or something. It was great, and I have a sock-in-progress to prove it.

There was no idiots on the train, no bums begging for change, no crazy ladies screaming about Jesus and throwing bibles, no stinky people and it was gloriously baby-free. There weren’t even any inane conversations about made-up sexual conquests that I was forced to listen to, just because I was the vicinity of a couple of loud-mouthed liars. There weren’t any unexplained 20 minute waits between stations. Nobody was blaring their music out of their headphones. It was a perfect subway ride home.

I came up out of the station and walked onto University Avenue to the most beautiful music being played on an instrument I can’t even name by a guy on the sidewalk. He was playing in front of a garden, just blooming. I looked up at a redbud in bloom and while listening to this gorgeous music, saw the sun lighting the tiny pink petals. The air was cool, but not cold. Nobody was walking slowly in front of me, and I meandered at my own pace. The scent of the nearby Starbucks lingered in the air and still the guy played on with his wacky, yet amazing instrument.

It was a beautiful moment. My heart was full of happiness and spring was certainly here. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, I had nothing in the world to complain about.

Obviously, I chose this moment to count my blessings.

Staring at the glowing petals of the tree above me, I thought, ‘Damn I’ve got it good………it’s Friday night and I can get all sorts of messy drunk, with no worries about tomorrow morning.’

I smiled at this lovely, serene afternoon and continued on my way.

I may as well drive an SUV

This weekend, I did something I normally vow never to do. Something I take desperate measures to avoid, at nearly any cost. By doing what I did, I seriously broke one of my ethical/moral stances. I betrayed my university education and many things that I both believe in and preach to others.

I walked into my apartment after work on Friday, looked around and realized I had reached a point where I really had forced myself into it. I had no choice.

I had to. I had to buy…paper towel.

Paper towel, in my mind, represents all that is wrong with this world. Dispose of everything, advertisers say. Reusing is for old people, who still wait for the next Great Depression to roll around. If you reuse stuff, you’ll have germs, and god knows we’re not equpped as a species to handle germs. I hate paper towels. They kill trees, they use chlorine, bleach and are often partners in crime with Lysol or some such shit, and we package them up oh so nicely in plastic, wrapped in more plastic. Awesome.  We’re so fucking terrified of specks of dirt in our home, we destroy trees, forests and pollute our way to the ends of the earth to clean it up. God forbid we use cloths or rags, and just wash them. The sheer amount of research and development that goes into these things is ridiculous. Fancy patterns, liquid pockets, suckupability, different sized sheets…ugh. Not to mention the fact that they totally SUCK. They can’t soak up anything and only last about 3.2 seconds. Why wouldn’t you use a cloth that can actually scrub and absorb?

Uh….yeah…..totally sustainable, right? Don’t worry, they’ll plant a whole new monoculture of perfectly aligned trees with no ability to ever become a functioning ecosystem and call it a ‘forest’. It’s called ‘greenwashing’. Trust me, I went to school with a bunch of hippies. Ahem.

But getting back to why I broke down and bought some….I walked into my place on Friday and looked around. Remember I was talking about how much I hate myself for being such a lazy bastard? Well it had reached a peak that night. My apartment was a full-blown, disgusting, indisputable hell-hole of a mess, due to my inability to get off my ass and maintain a house that wasn’t about to condemned by the Department of Health.

I picked up my cell, called the boyfriend immediately and vowed to clean the apartment this weekend. “I vow it!” I yelled. “It HAS been vowed, it SHALL be done!”

Problem was, it had reached such a level of disgust, that it was totally beyond any cloths. All the cloths I have knitted were not going to be able to tackle this. I had to admit to myself that it had progressed to ‘paper towel’ level. My army of well-crafted, cutely coloured cloths weren’t equipped to handle the sheer volume of grossness that needed to be tackled. I needed something that could be covered in dirt, hair and dust and be disposed of and never mentioned ever again.

So far, I’ve cleaned half of the house. I’ve cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom (yeesh), the computer desk and half of the floor. I have dusting and vaccuuming the rest of the floor left to do.

Then I shall continue my paper towel boycott. And I will be sure to whip up some more cloths….or more likely, rip up shirts that I’ve grown too fat for and use them as washable rags.

 I should probably plant some trees or something for environmental penance. I’m sorry Earth.

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In a completely non-related random thought that shall never have an entire post devoted to it, let’s talk about batteries. Cell phone and digital camera batteries. Why can nobody create a proper battery indicator? I will have three bars on my phone, take a 20 second call and suddenly, the damn thing is beeping at me, begging for a power source. Same thing with car gas tanks. I remember my car would have a full tank for like, 300 kilometres. Then one day, I’d drive for 5 minutes and I would driving on “P for Pray” and need gas immediately. What is that?? 

Grow up!

For a girl, I guess I’m pretty tall. That statement is fairly relative, since when I’m back home, I’m not that much taller than most girls. In my immediate family, I’m damn short. In pictures, my brother and cousins tower over me. However, in Toronto, which is filled with Asians and Italians, Jews and Indians, I am tall. They are short and I do indeed tower over them.

I’m taller than the boyfriend. Which was weird at first, but now it isn’t even an issue. Sure, I like tall guys, but I like personalities more, and his happens to come in a short body. He made out pretty well considering his mom is 5 foot nothing and his dad might be 5′6 and a bit on a good day.

My friends have always been shorter than me, but never really short. Like, most of them I guess would have been over 5′4. I was always the kid in the back row on school picture day. Ah, school pictures, good times. I was always the centre back in my ballet classes. I’m always the one who has to reach stuff for people. I scoff at the requirement of ladders. On the subway, I can reach the top ceiling bar and stabilize myself instead of falling all over hell’s acre and smashing into some stinky ass monkey. If I put on 5 pounds, it isn’t as noticeable as it would be if I was short.

How tall am I? I’m 5′10. Which isn’t outrageous. But I always freak myself out when I”m walking down the sidewalk and see some giant girl walking towards me. I’m all, ‘whoah, she’s a freak dude, no guy wants a girl that tall’ and then when I pass her, I realize she’s about 1/4 inch taller than I am. Super.

I used to refuse to buy heels. No way was I going to be 6 foot tall, thank you very much. Now I don’t care. Fuck it, bring on the heels. I’m taller than you bitch, deal with it. There’s something inherently powerful about being taller than someone. Reversed, it’s inherently intimidating and nerve-wracking to have someone stand over you. At least, in my mind it is.

So where am I going with all of this?

Well, I’m laying the groundwork for my shocking statement. The statement in question?

I don’t like short people.

I don’t.

I know I have no idea how tall any of my readers are. With my luck, half of you are 5′1 and the rest of you are legal dwarts/midgets/small people/whatever the political term is for them today. But I don’t care. You can hate on tall people if you like. With our smugness and ability to reach shit. But in general, short people get on my fucking nerves.

When I’m walking down the sidewalk, their short stride makes them slow. This pisses me off. Get out of my way. When I’m on the subway and they bump into me, their heads literally hit me in the boobs. This is inappropriate and annoying. They just seem to meander and weave more than the average heighted person (is heighted a word? probably not). They’re just….down there doing their thing. And I look at them and just want to push them.

It’s like children. They’re short and can’t notice everything, so they’re unpredictable because they’re caught off guard by upcoming obstacles in their pathway. I expect this from kids. But adults? I know it isn’t their fault that they live in a world where they can’t see over anyone’s head, but I don’t care. Move! Go!  I think it must be scary to look around and not be able to see the sky, for all the tall people blocking out the sun, but this doesn’t give you a reason to wander around like perma-tourists on the sidewalks.

Short people seem to gawk more. They seem to be in awe more often than their taller counterparts. I don’t know why this is, but it bugs me. And their pants are always rolled up, cuz they’re too long. Go to a tailor! And when I”m behind them in line at a convenience store and they’re trying to lean over the counter to see the selection of cigarettes, I want to scream, ‘Look! Look at what those smokes did to you! They made you so short that you can’t even see them! Ironic, eh shorty?! Hurry up!’ Or maybe that’s coffee that stunts your growth. I don’t know, smokes still suck. If you’re not tall enough to see them, you shouldn’t be able to buy them.

I know this is bad of me. But sometimes if there’s a conglomeration of short people, I just want to smash my way through. They just huddle around and speak in their higher-pitched voices, oblivious to what’s happening in the upper stratum of the population.  

It’s like this: I’m expected to watch out for them while doing my thing. I can’t walk into them or smash my way through their gatherings. I’m expected to look down as well as looking at my own level. But for some reason, they don’t look up while going along. They smash into you. They do. Maybe it’s only the Torontonian shorties who do this, I don’t know.

I realize I might get reamed out in the comments section by those who are vertically challenged. I dont’ care. I could beat you up. Haha, I’m kidding (well, I mean, I COULD, but I won’t). I’m sure tall people are annoying too. You’re always having to look at our armpits and such. We walk too fast with our long gaits and you have to jog to keep up. I know. It goes both ways.

But for now, just please put on a pair of heels so you can see where the fuck you’re going. And maybe one of those little flags on the grocery carts that kids push around, so I can see you coming.

Fuck you too, TTC

I think the title gives the general impression of where this post is going.

For those of you who don’t live in the Centre of the Universe (Toronto), I’ll give you some background info. Toronto is a city that has managed to avoid downtown blight. Toronto’s downtown is thriving. The midtown is thriving. Hell, even the uptown is doing not so terribly. With any large, bustling city, we have to have a great transit system. Which we do…the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission).

I love the TTC. People from Toronto bitch about it all the time, but clearly these are native Torontonians and have never gone north of Steeles, let alone tried to ride a transit system in any other city. I have. And trust me, Torontonians have no idea how good they have it. I’ve almost forgotten that things like bus schedules exist……..I just go to the subway platform, streetcar stop or bus shelter and stand there. I don’t have to worry about timing it, cuz I know there’s going to be one in like, 3 minutes. Unless I’m on Bathurst. Don’t get me started about the Bathurst streetcar. Overall, the TTC is amazing, I love it, I use it every day. They chauffer me around, while I don’t have to worry about traffic, but get free time to read, knit or ponder the meaning of life.

The TTC is V I T A L to this city. Over 1.5 million people ride it every day. Every single day. Anybody with a brain uses the TTC when downtown rather than drive. Driving makes no sense in Toronto. It’s not like other cities, where only losers take transit. It’s sort of the reverse here. Pedestrians and transit riders have the holier-than-thou attitude, usually assigned to drivers in other cities.

So anyways, TTC is good. It’s important. It’s big. I believe they employ over 10,000 people and have 3 unions in total. And all of them Suck. Capital S.

The TTC employees have shitty jobs, granted. But they know when they sign up to drive a bus, they’ll be driving a bus all day. That driving busses includes dealing with people; good, bad, drunk, crazy, chatty or otherwise. It’s allllll part of the job. It’s how jobs work……they have ups and downs, drawbacks and benefits. I’ve not yet heard of a job that is only puppies and rainbows.

But since the TTC is so huge and has been unionized since 1899, they are FULL of themselves. Every time their contract goes up, they whine and cry. These people have such a sense of entitlement, it’s ridiculous. Their union saps this city dry every three years and then they bitch and moan that they don’t have enough money to run the system.

You know what? Maybe if you didn’t pay toll booth monkeys $27 fucking dollars an hour to sit on their ass, doing crossword, Sudoku and looking at you like they want to shoot flaming spears through your head when you ask them to DO THEIR JOBS by making change, you wouldn’t have such a financial problem. Seriously, these people are overpaid. You know why? Unions.

Every time, they whine. Every time, they get raises. This time they had threatened to strike about a week back, but PROMISED the people of Toronto that they would give 48 hours notice if they did so. They didn’t strike. They reached a deal of 3% pay increase a year and blah blah blah. Uh….I do NOT get a 3% raise each year. I don’t know anybody who does. You’re getting a 3% raise on top of your already astronomical wages.

Then, Friday night rolls around. All of a sudden…..at about 10:30 PM, they tell us they’re striking. At midnight. What happened to the 48 hours? Oh, they had a temper tantrum and changed their minds. Now, it didn’t affect me, but this was HIGHLY retarded.

Think about it. Friday night, tens of thousands of people flood into the Entertainment District (my neighbourhood). They get liquored up and stumble to the subway stations and take themselves home responsibly. They were in the clubs when the TTC announced it’s fun little prank. By the time they got out at 2:00 AM, the city was shut down. They’d spent their money on booze, cuz they knew they could just hop on the train to get home. But wait! There IS no train service, there ARE no streetcars!! Hope you kept $60 in your pocket in case of a TTC strike! Oh, you didn’t? Well, weren’t you dumb to believe them that they would keep their 48 hour promise.

Now you have ANGRY drunks roaming the streets. Super. Fighting over cabs. Brilliant.

Let’s also think about the single women, elderly, disabled, anyone else who went out that night thinking they could get home. They couldn’t.

Fuck you, TTC. Fuck you and your overprivileged, shitty work ethic attitude.

What they were TRYING to do was screw the city over. What they FAILED to remember is that every time they pull this, they get legislated back to work almost immediately. This isn’t a small town transit system. This is a necessity.  If it would have been a weekday, they would have been smart. When the TTC goes down, people can’t get to work, school, medical appointments, grocery stores, dentist visits, hospitals, anything. I can’t get to work if they strike, I live way too far away.

So, all they did was piss off the public AGAIN. They pull this shit way too often (let’s think back two years ago to their wildcat strike….they just decided one day to stop working! Fun!!) They irresponsibly stranded people all over the city and didn’t really get any impact. If they would have pulled that shit on a weekday, they probably could have gotten whatever they wanted. Instead, they gave people a nice, slow Saturday off and wasted their two-day strike allowance.

They claim they work in horrid conditions, don’t make enough, are worried about being contracted out, don’t get enough benefits, have bad schedules, blah blah blah wah wah wahhhhh. Cry me a river. You chose that job. There’s plenty of other ones you could get out there. But you took this one BECAUSE it pays so well, and has such amazing benefits. Plus you have a union that is retardedly powerful and know that you can’t get fired even if you do nothing…….which coincidentally is what most TTC employees do.

They’re worried about the rising violence against their front-line workers. Well, NO SHIT brainiacs. Every time we turn around, YOU get a raise and WE get a fare hike. Every time we turn around, YOU’RE on strike and WE’RE the ones not able to get to work. You know what happens if I don’t go to work? I GET FIRED!! My boss doesn’t give a rats ass if you’re on strike, I need to get myself to work. Every time we turn around, you’re breaking promises about strike notice. Every time we turn around, you’re threatening to cut another line. Remember the time you threatened to shut down the entire, brand new Sheppard subway line? Who the fuck shuts down subway lines???

It’s no fucking wonder you’re scared about rising violence. We’re pissed. And it’s YOUR fault. Stop your moaning and do your job, assholes.

Now I know, not everyone driving the bus is making the decisions. It’s the union heads. But still, the workers vote on the contracts that the union deems acceptable. The public knows this, they know that the union is full of shit when they try to bargain for raises, this that and the other thing.

I HATE UNIONS.

They served their purpose back in the day, no doubt. But nowadays, there are labour laws and all unions do is suck money out of employers and governments. There’s no need for them. We now have laws that make working fair.

Way to go TTC. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And despite the city’s speech, begging commuters not to beat the shit out of employees when they see them tomorrow, because at this point we have had E-NOUGH, I hope you get what you deserve.

Your latest strike has only pissed off the public, taken away your right to pick your own mediator, taken away your striking power for this round of negotiations and you’ve possibly set the wheels in motion to render you an essential service. This will take away  your right to strike and bitch and moan altogether.

Ah, right. Also, due to your little Friday night prank, if you try and pull that again, you get to pay the city $2,000 per employee, plus $25,000 per union each day. That’s $20,000 plus $75,000. Hell, make it an even $100K. You can make the cheque out to T-A-L…… Way to go.

Hope you’re proud of yourselves, guys. Next time you pull this crap, I hope you all get fired. I GUARANTEE there’s 10,000 people in this city who would walk away from their jobs to take yours, no increased wages or benefits. I would. You have no idea how lucky and overvalued you are; you’re too busy whining to notice.

Finally the stars align for me!

So for those of you who follow my blog, you’ll remember that my parents had a 5 hour layover at Toronto’s Pearson Airport.

Due to me and my stupid big mouth, I was expected to show up and visit. If you don’t remember how this came about, want a refresher or have never read my blog but are already so intrigued by my life you want to know every boring detail, click here.

Now that you know that I really didn’t want to go and that I have virtually no relationship with my parents, I will tell you that that visit is scheduled to occur today.

Last week I sent a very faint-hearted, half-assed email telling them that I’d probably not be coming, due to blah blah blah, lame excuse, dumb reason, etc. They didn’t answer.

I know they got the email, so I assumed that they didn’t answer out of anger or denial. I fully expect a call from my mom, in her best rage-act, demanding to know why I’m not there and then informing me that I’m a worse being than Satan himself and blah blah blah.

Well Mom, bring it on.

You know why? Because the stars aligned last night and I have a GREAT reason why I can’t get my ass out there.

The TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) who runs our streetcars, subways and buses in my fair city of Toronto went on strike last night at midnight. With 1.5 million people riding the TTC every day, myself included, this city is paralyzed at the moment.

Their timing couldn’t be better. I can’t take a $50 cab ride out there and back to see them! I’ll plead poverty. I certainly don’t have a car, I’m a typical snobby urbanite Torontonian who wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car around being stuck in traffic. Give me a cute pair of shoes and a metropass any day.

TTC, I really hate you and your pansy ass whining about contracts blah blah blah. But that is a whole other post.

Today TTC, I LOVE YOU, for giving me a marvellous alibi. Sorry Mom! Can’t get out to the airport! Can you BELIEVE that they went on strike just last night?! Shucks. Whatever, enjoy your stale $7 muffins and $4 bottles of airport water.

See you in a few years! Mwah!

Next stop: expensive clothing store.

This week has been a rough one for my wardrobe.

On Monday, while riding the subway, I looked down at my feet and noticed one pant leg was longer than the other. The hem on one had just let go. So the ugly serged seam was hanging down to the floor, while the nicely folded and hemmed leg was behaving and sitting where it was supposed to. Since I do not sew and neither does anyone I work with, I had to hold up one leg of the pants whenever I walked anywhere. I looked like a moron.

Tuesday, I was standing in the work kitchen when someone comes in and goes, ‘you have a hole in your pants’. I informed said person they were crazy. Then they pointed to just under the pocket of her own pants, on the side of the upper thigh. I looked down at the same spot on me……to see my leg. Through my pants. Which was super, obviously. It was made even more super being that my regional bigwig director guy was coming in that morning and going over stuff with me.

I was forced to sneak a stapler into the bathroom, yank off the pants and staple the inside seams of my pant leg together. The rest of the day there was a silver glint coming off of one leg, from one staple that went through the fabric. Hot. I also jammed the stapler. Niiiiice.

On Wednesday, I went to put a vest on that was ribbed along the bottom, and the seam between the non-ribbed and ribbed areas had just ripped…….a big ol’ hole near the small of my back. Well. Find something else to wear. Later Wednesday night, my dog also gnawed on a pair of my work shoes, so I’ve been wearing shoes with fucking bite marks on the heel for half a week, but luckily nobody has noticed. Or they haven’t said anything about it at least.

This morning I put on a super cute, short sleeved little black sweater I have, cuz again, Mr. bigwig director guy was coming back in. I noticed that half of the sleeve wasn’t attached to the torso of the sweater. Fanfuckingtastic. So I threw a little blazer over it and just wasn’t able to take the blazer off at all during the day.

AND, during this week of fashion milestones, my face decided to accesorize with a nice ol’ zit. Mmmmmm, nice!

Moral that I’ve learned this week?

Pony up and buy clothes worth more than $20. Twenty dollar pants are bad. They just suck. Flashing upper thigh in meeting with bigwigs is looked down on and perhaps worth buying pants not from the ghetto clothes stores.

Also, perhaps consider carrying around thread and needle in all purses, at all times.

Uh, and also, learn to use needle and thread….and keep shoes away from dog.

My name is Talea, and I am a lazy bastard.

I am lazy. This isn’t something I hide, or find myself ashamed of, it just is what it is.

I’ve always been lazy, though it may not be apparent to those who encounter me on a daily basis, it’s an undeniable fact. Though I was super crazy smart in school, balanced work, dance and my part time job, got through university with only minimal bumps and now carry on quite well in a full time, somewhat stressful job, I am one lazy fucker.

This never ever bothered me until recently. Only in the last few weeks has it really started to piss me off. But I’m too damned apathetic to do anything about it.

When I get home, I’m tired. Taking a nap occurs probably 50% of the time. I come home, decide I’m over being conscious, take a nap that will undoubtedly last 2 or 3 hours, wake up, maybe go for a walk with the dog and then come back and go to bed.

No, my life is NOT this carefree. I can’t afford to be this damned lazy. I have shit to do just like everyone else. I just….don’t do it.

I literally paralyze myself. I will be lying on the couch and be STARVING, but I’m too lazy to wash the dishes and make some food, so I just sit there and starve. The floor really really needs to be vaccuumed, it’s grossing me out to walk on it cuz of the dog hair. But I’ll just stare at it, then fall asleep. My phone bill needs to be paid to avoid late fees, but I’m too lazy to go over to the computer and click a button a few times, so I get late fees.

I need to shower, but fuck I hate showering and I’m too lazy to get up, so greasy hair it is. Even fun things get pushed to the wayside……I want to knit, I want to read, I want to blog, but I’m already on the couch so none of those things happen. It’s a gorgeous day out after the WORST WINTER EVER, and I want to go out and see what’s happening. But that means getting dressed. It’s easier just to watch TV.

My close friend whom I seriously regard as a guardian angel in my life, recently moved out of Toronto to a small town about an hour away. I was going to go and say bye, see her before she goes. I didn’t. I kept putting it off and putting it off and before I knew it, she was in a different area code.

It’s starting to get to be a problem.

I’ll be sitting there, truly wanting to go do something. Knowing that I am wasting my days, my hours, my life. But I CAN’T get up. I will literally sit and stare at the wall, while the boyfriend does his best to convince me to get my ass off the couch or out of the bed. It often doesn’t work.

I’d like to change this awful habit, but I don’t know how. How do you motivate yourselves? Seriously? I don’t understand how people just get up and do things. My grandma is a doer. She just finds out that something needs doing and it’s done. She finishes it. Takes care of it, doesn’t complain, gets it out of the way with no muss or fuss and moves on with her day. My mom is like that too. Clearly, this trait skipped me. I’ve never been in posession of a ‘get up and go’ kind of attitude.

But as I get older and the strains on my time multiply everytime I turn around, I’m starting to think that I should seriously attempt to change this.

If you have any suggestions, um, please help. I might not reply to your comment quickly, I’m too busy doing nothing. But I’ll appreciate it, I promise.

I didn’t think I was old enough for this yet….

Yesterday at work, I was washing my hands in the potty and noticed something glinting off of my gorgeous hair (seriously, go to Emerald’s blog, there’s pics of ME and my cute new ‘do!). I leaned in, cuz I’m super vain and wanted a closer inspection. I thought it was a very light brown/almost blonde hair. Since I have a strange obsession with pulling out hair that isn’t uniform (too dark, too thin, curly, too thick, blonde), I yanked it.

It. Was. Grey.

I clamped it between my thumb and index finger and promptly marched up to Emerald’s desk and held it in front of her black monitor to confirm what I already knew. It. Was. Grey. A grey hair.

That’s it. It’s over. Emerald had some witty line that I unfortunately can’t remember, but I’m sure she’ll put it in the comments.

I’m 25. I have grey hair. It’s over. I thought I would be like, 40 before that happened.

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My second odd story that I thought only happened to older, overweight or possibly pregnant women begins with our extraordinarly transparent attempt to make up to our clients about what had happened at work this work that inconvenienced them all (see previous post). We made a lovely breakfast for everyone.

This included fresh pineapples for our very pretty fruit platter. I cut the pineapple. I’m not sure if you’re all aware, but pineapple is a meat tenderizer. I was covered in it. I washed my hands and went on about my day. My hands started to get a bit itchy throughout the day, but I didn’t pay attention to it.

Last night, while we were out with the dog, my hand started killing me. It was throbbing and SO itchy. As we were walking, it started to swell up like nobody’s business. I guess my hands had been tenderized by the fucking pineapple. Oh, fuck you pineapple and your tropical goodness!!

By the time we got home, it really felt like my skin was going to burst and whatever’s inside my hand was going to explode out like those new Pizza Pop commercials. Unfortunately, my ring was on my finger.

I tried running cold water over my hand. Didn’t work. I tried icing my finger. Didn’t work. I tried water again. Didn’t work. I tried holding my hand above my head for a while. Didn’t work. I tried jumping up and down and flapping my hands uselessly like an overweight pigeon, in hopes that the ring would fly off. Didn’t work. It HURT.

I resorted to spraying my finger down with Pam. Like, cooking spray Pam. The fucking ring was STILL stuck on my finger as my hand continued to swell like a fat kid at a buffet. I doused my finger with Pam, then froze it, then pulled like there was no fucking tomorrow and finally the thing came off! I smelt like butter and couldn’t feel my finger, but it was off and free to expand as it wanted to.

The only time I’ve heard this happening is to people who break out in hives, fatty mcfats who eat too many fries, and pregnant women who are in their third trimester and falling apart anyways. I felt so old.

Next thing you know, I’ll pee a little when I sneeze.