I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter!

Archive for January, 2009

Those I have lived with and……tolerated

I live alone. I love it. Growing up, I always thought that the boogey man would come and eat me if I was the only one in the house at night. Fortunately it turns out that I was just a neurotic child and that being the only one in a dwelling at night does not equate instant death by ingestion.

What a relief.

Toronto is an expensive city to live in. I pay out the ass for my awesome one bedroom, mid-town apartment. I worry about money a lot, mostly cuz half of my money goes straight to rent. I could easily save hundreds of dollars a month if I would get a roommate or share a house with a few people.

The problem with that is, I’ve done it and I don’t like it. I’ve lived with some seriously interesting people. I would rather bankrupt myself than share my space with people. I’m sure this opinion was shaped by those who I’ve lived with, as will be outlined below:

First Year Uni: For the first half of my first year, I lived with the boyfriend and his family and drove an hour and some each way to go to class. So, that was weird, but I won’t go into it. It’s a long story.
My second half of first year, I lived in a weird situation. I had a room on the top floor of a three storey house. The two other rooms on that floor were inhabited by a husband and wife and their 13 year old daughter. They were weird. I wasn’t allowed on the second floor, except to walk into the house. The basement was where my living space and ‘kitchen’ were. You could hardly call it a kitchen. Our sink was a laundry basin, where the washing machine emptied out into, and our counter was the top of a freezer. We had no stove, only a microwave and shared the space with the family’s abandoned possessions, the washer and dryer and hidden crawlspace where the husband played steel drums. Yeah.
The husband loved to talk to me about how he thought his cat could see ghosts. He was weird. The wife ate bacon like it was going out of style and received all of her affections from her strange strange cat.
There was a second room in the basement, inhabited by my roommate. We’ll call her….Jane. Jane was a paranoid gal. She sat in her room all the time, with the door locked. She ocassionally scurried out to go get fast food of some type and then scurried back in. She was addicted to Australian soap operas and drove an old auctioned off police car.

In second year, a friend from high school moved out to Ontario and lived with me for the year. It was some sweet times. We lived in a townhouse my dad bought, in a shady neighbourhood, too far away from campus. Whatevs.

Third year, first semester….we’ll call her Martha. Martha was a nice girl. With some serious emotional problems. She was also very convinced for some unknown reason that she was going to develop Multiple Sclerosis in her lifetime. Now, in no way, shape or form am I going to joke about MS. But her paranoia consumed her and drove her to drink the broth of boiled Chinese herbs, twice a day.
You have NEVER smelled anything SO FUCKING GROSS. It stunk up my entire house. Seriously. I don’t know how she drank that shit, but she did so in the belief that it was insurance against her impending health issues.
Martha cried a lot. It was weird. She had an all-encompassing hatred of commercials and a serious serious obsession with her chihuahua that lived with her parents. She screamed into the phone in Polish with her mom and then always wound up……crying. But she introduced me to blueberry perogies, a Polish specialty apparently, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Third year, second semester……let’s call this girl Freakazoid. Freakazoid seemed so nice, so normal at first. I was really excited to have her renting out the top bedroom.
First off, she was a total slob. Her crap was everywhere. She was obsessed with running, and we all know, that automatically means something is very very wrong with her brain. I’m pretty sure she was bulimic. She threw spontaneous dinner parties for her pretentious friends, also going for their Masters degrees in French literature, featuring fun ingredients like asparagus! She was honestly the most plain, vanilla, boring person on earth who bought herself a stick shift car without knowing how to drive it. She always went out of her way to step on the horribly squeaky spot just outside my bedroom door. I hated her. Lots. She boiled water for tea in a pot…..not a kettle, she didn’t even heat the water in a microwave…..but she boiled it on the stove in a pot. My pots were always scaly. I hated it.
Oh, and and AND…….she stomped. Like a fucking overweight elephant. I HATE stomp-walkers. Grrrrrrrrrr.
She also stole my wine and had a very endearing habit of going into my room to steal my cordless phone instead of buying her own. Stupid Freakazoid.

Fourth year, both semesters.

This girl? Was a winner. I’m not even making a name up for her. She was named Erin. Erin was a stripper who thought she was the chick from Legally Blonde. She was bleach blond, made up to the nines at all times, obsessed with pink, had a fund for her fake boobs that she wanted when she turned 21 and was a vegan who ate four foods: Cool Ranch Doritos, fake cheese grilled cheese sandwiches, some weird noodles from a chinese restaurant and tofu dogs. She tanned like there was no tomorrow, smoked like a chimney and refused to let me wash her dishes, cuz my sponge touched my meat-contaminated dishes.

She claimed to work at ‘bars’ as a ‘bartender’. Though she’d never say which bar, she’d only give me a city. The city changed each night. She took a huge duffel bag with her to work all the time. She came home with wads of cash each night. WADS. There was no way she was making that money by serving beers, my friends. She was making that money doing ‘other things’.

She was obsessed with this scary gangster guy who wasn’t really her boyfriend, but wasn’t really wasn’t her boyfriend. He broke up with her, but she didn’t really buy into it. She was purposefully trying to get herself pregnant with his baby, so he’d have to marry her. Yeah. She was special. Most of her phone calls ended in tears. It was sad. She liked to pretend she wasn’t banging strangers in her room by turning on the incredibly noisy bathroom fan.

Her and I had the strangest relationship ever. We both hated each other, cuz we were total opposites and didn’t particularly care for the other’s opinions. But we were never outright about it. We faked liking each other. I’d go with her while she ran errands, she’d listen to me bitch about my days, I’d hang out in her room and watch tv on her big screen with her mini fridge (yeah, hello, WADS of cash……..stripper!!), I think I ever borrowed her clothes once or twice. It was so fucking weird.

Anyways…….

After that fun group of gals, I decided to never ever live with a roommate ever again. The fiance has been the only exception to that. Well, him and my ghost from a few posts back.

Sticking to that decision hasn’t always been easy. It involved me living in a semi-shady building on my own (complete with a Vietnamese brothel at the end of the hall!), moving home for three months and now paying an atrocious amount of money for an apartment that I love in a location that I don’t love.

My rent? Stupidly high. My peace of mind, silence and the ability to stay up at all hours and listen to terrible music or watch Gilmore Girls for 10 hours straight without annoying anybody and being able to go the bathroom with the door open? Priceless.

You might want to re-think that coffee before you get on the subway…

The TTC. Toronto Transit Commission. I spend a good chunk of my life on the TTC. Aboard the subway, the streetcars and yes, sometimes even the buses (though I try to avoid those). I love the TTC.  It’s the lifeblood of the city.I rarely balk about the TTC. Torontonians make a habit out of badmouthing the system, but I know exactly how good I’ve got it.

For a mere $109 a month, I have people who are willing to take me anywhere, 24/7. Sometimes they even give me attitude! For no extra charge!

I love the subway. It’s found time. I read, I knit, I daydream, I plot. I can’t do that if I was to drive. No traffic underground, my friends, and someone else is worrying about paying attention while driving.

Sure, sometimes I wonder what in God’s name could be keeping the damned streetcar from showing up or why the crazy guy had to sit beside ME, but all in all, I love it. If it’s a snowstorm, I don’t care. I don’t have to worry about traffic,  slipping to and fro on black ice, I don’t have to scrape ice off my car or promise it things I can’t deliver in exchange for it to just turn on.

All in all, I love the TTC and it loves me.

BUT.

BUT.

There’s this thing, you see. This TTC thing…..that I can’t accept. It’s common knowledge among commuters, though it is never spoken out loud. Never. It is a deep dark secret and I thought about it the other day and thought, ‘Well shit! That could be a funny blog post!’

So in the spirit of my never ending search for blog posts, I’m heaving the secret out into the light, so that I can then write funny things about it.

Folks, the TTC has the Worst. Bathrooms. EVER.

I have been known to say on many occasions that I would rather pee myself than use a TTC washroom.  And I mean it. I really do mean it….I would rather pee my pants than use a TTC washroom. In almost 9 years, I have broken down 3 times. That is amazing for a girl with a bladder as teeny tiny as mine.  So on those three occasions, I really WAS about to pee myself.

Picture the most disgusting, decrepid, unloved, slimy, dirty, grimy, bacteria-infested shithole that you can. Then put weird non-reflective mirrors, broken doors and clogged floor drains and the occassional hobo. Now multiply that grossness by 60. You’re almost there. Ever seen the original Saw movie? You know the bathroom/room that it takes place in? That place is the freaking Taj Mahal in comparison.

Seriously classy digs in comparison.

Don’t believe me?

Yeah. They know what I’m talking about.

And they even know what I mean about the weird non-reflective mirrors!

Here’s the thing I don’t get. Every single other establishment in this city manages to keep their washrooms relatively clean. Some almost don’t make it, but NONE come close to the filth and vomit-inducing aroma that the TTC manages to pull off.

I’ve worked in gross places before. Seriously. At the wastewater treatment plant. Where the poo goes AFTER you flush. And we kept it clean. I dont know why it’s so difficult to employ a few people and have them clean the washrooms every hour or so. Restaurants do it, airports do it, bloody Tim Horton’s manages to pull it off. There’s very few stations that even HAVE washrooms in them. It shouldn’t be that fucking difficult.

Bleach, meet bathroom. Bathroom, be prepared to have yourself bleached to death. Mop, meet floor. Floor, you are about to become unstickyfied and we might even determine your original colour. Scrubbling Bubbles, do your thang. Get Mr. Clean up in that joint, yo. Haha, sometimes I like to talk like a gangster from the 90s. I think it’s funny.

Anyhow. This post is pointless, other than letting you know they’re disgusting and you should avoid them at all costs. I’d probably rather lick the ground outside of Union Station……home to discarded street meat, pigeon shit and the remnants of the thousands of tourists and commuters who walk there each and every day. Mmmmm, Union Station sidewalk.

If you MUST use these washrooms, for the love of sweet baby Jebus……squat. Do NOT sit down. Do NOT touch ANYTHING. You will be much cleaner if you don’t wash your hands than if you do. Chances are, you won’t pee on yourself when you do your thing. But chances are, if you touch the taps to wash your hands, a wholllllllle bunch of other people essentially will pee on you. Because they don’t wipe down the taps. And the people who do use those washrooms? They probably do urinate on themselves. I’m just warning you.

Yeah. So my next post will be less gross, I promise.

And P to the S………in the spirit of balancing out the gross-ass TTC bathrooms, you must check out the bathrooms at The Keg on York Street, in downtown Toronto. Now THOSE are sexy fucking bathrooms. Seriously. I’d move in if I could.

He likes me! He really likes me!

So earlier today while on the phone with the bf/fiance (I can’t jump right into fiance, it’s been the bf for 9 years……..it’s taking a bit of time to make the change), we somehow got onto how people would describe me.

Yeah.  I love myself like that.

After progressively insulting (read: truer) statements about me, he comes out with this:

“Slightly aggressive, bordering on rude.”

I DIED LAUGHING.

Yep. He wants to marry me. No, I dont know what’s wrong with his brain. But clearly, he knows me quite well.

Tag Cloud