City Walk #482

Yesterday I ducked out to buy a few groceries, having been away at the Surrey International Writers' Conference for five days.

What, you thought my husband would have replenished the fridge? He lives on salad and whatever he can find in the fridge that is ready made (jars of pickles, cheese, cold cuts, maple syrup, beer...) When I met him, the only thing in his kitchen was a stack of empty pizza boxes as tall as me. I? As tall as I? It was a 5'4" stack of empty pizza boxes.  And in his fridge were a couple of boxes of alfalfa sprouts and a container of cream cheese. What did he concoct with these ingredients, I can hear you asking. Peanut butter, cream cheese and alfalfa sprout sandwiches on a bagel. I know this because he offered me one during our first night together. It's a credit to his other qualities that I decided to marry him. As I recall, that night we ordered pizza around 3 a.m. and watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but that's a whole other post.

And I digress.

(However, I might add he comes by the weird food honestly. His father, now in his late 80s, once offered me a peanut butter and onion sandwich, the onions sliced thick like chunks of apple. The alternative, besides starving to death, was peanut butter and relish or peanut butter and onions sandwiched between leftover pancakes.)

Okay, no more digressing. Scout's Honour.

I love this grocery store which caters to downtown tenants, so it's a mix of ethnic (pretty much every country represented) and health food (due to the number of students and artists) all crammed into a tiny space. I love it because there is nothing worse to me than wandering around a giant grocery store down aisles carrying thousands of varieties of cereals or cookies when all I want to do is buy some veggies and nuts and schlep them home.

Damn, I just digressed again. (However, from the news reports, Scout's Honour doesn't carry much weight these days.)

Outside the grocery store, I noticed a pile of seeds all along the outside of the building. Some stupid tenant in the apartment building next door had clearly laid these out for the birds. I suspect there was some stiff competition from the city rats, pigeons and squirrels (or as I like to call them, ugly rats, flying rats and city rats with fancy clothes) but I thought no more of it until I got to the checkout and pulled my wallet out of my leather backpack.

As I struggled to put away my credit card quickly and fill my portable grocery cart for the walk home (Do Not Judge Me. In the city, these portable grocery carts are used by everyone, not just little old ladies. How else are we city dwellers supposed to lug home heavy stuff like milk, potatoes, and MacCallan 12?* And I bought my cart in an artist's store, for carrying art supplies, and what is cooler than an artist? Never mind that I bought it for my daughter who looked at me like I'd suggested she wear panties on her head and dance Gangnam style down Sherbrooke Street.)

Where was I?

Being glared at by the lineup at the cashier, casually bumped in the ankles by the cart behind me, which is code for move your ass and fiddle with your bag outside.

This is when I noticed my hand covered with what looked like, but did not smell like, chocolate.

Upon closer examination, I saw that a bird, most likely a Flying City Rat, had shat on my bag. If shitting on handbags were an Olympic event, this pigeon would have a gold medal. It managed, even though flying by at 30 mph (they have been clocked at 58 mph, though average speed is around 30) to accurately hit not only my bag, but INSIDE the pocket, a gap less than 1/2 inch wide. It splattered my lovely satin lining, my comb, my fan (Menopausal 101 - carry a fan at all times) and my brand new SiWC pen!  I wiped up as best I could, because it also splattered my one and only Kleenex.

By the time I got home, I was calmer until I pulled my keys out of my bag, conveniently clipped to a lanyard, and tossed them over my hair and around my neck, as a matter of habit.

I remembered, too late, that the keys had also been stored in the Outside Pocket of Bird Shite.

There are many things I love about living in the city. Pigeons are not one of them.

*While the MacCallan 12 is a lovely, everyday go-to single malt, the MacCallan 18 is to die for, or at least, killing your best friend with a skillet to the head and running off with her bottle.

Tales From The Dental Chair or Just Another Poo Story

Yes, I know. Some of you have commented there seems to be a plethora* of poo stories on this blog. But what about a poo story that involves dentistry? How many of those have you seen?

*Note: The word plethora comes from the Greek word for "fullness" or "excess of body fluid" which works nicely with this story.

A woman called to say her three-unit bridge suddenly fell off and she asked what she should do next. This was a bridge which had been cemented temporarily, with instructions to come back within a couple of weeks and have it cemented permanently. As sometimes (often) happens, this woman put off her appointment and waited longer than she should have.

Okay, we said. It happens. Just bring it in and we'll put it back.

Not so fast. There was a slight problem with that plan. She had it, it just wasn't immediately accessible.

Seems she was having dinner in a restaurant with her boyfriend, and it was at some point during the meal that the unit came loose. She then swallowed the entire thing without realizing it. It wasn't until her boyfriend noticed the gap in her teeth and she checked herself out that she'd even realized what she had done.

We are talking about a three-unit bridge, people. Three teeth. Cemented together. And she hadn't realized she'd swallowed it? Now, I go crazy when a sesame seed is stuck in my teeth. Even assuming the woman doesn't chew her food, how can one not feel a THREE-UNIT BRIDGE going down one's throat? Or the big hole that's left behind?

We explained there are two options when this happens. One, you can pay for a new bridge. Two, you can wait until the item passes. She chose Number Two, no pun intended.

Several days later, she came in with a Ziploc bag, and settled herself in the dental chair. She then took out the now well-travelled unit and said in a heavy accent, "I clean this best I could but still, it smell like shit." And before he could move out of the way, she shoved the thing under my husband's nose as proof.

He concurred. "Why yes indeed, by Jiminy, it does smell like shit!" He handed it to his assistant, who promptly cleaned it, disinfected it, ran it through the various units to sterilize it, then dipped it into one last solution to remove any residual odours and promptly asked for a raise. The woman then grabbed the bridge, and smelled it with such vigour, the assistant snatched it back and admonished her. "You know, if you sniff any harder, it might end up in your nostril this time."

Satisfied, she had it permanently cemented into her mouth and off she went, another happy customer with a killer smile.

Don't pooh-pooh this story

Perhaps it's an urban legend. Most of the stories that begin with "it didn't happen to me, but it was a friend of a friend" are usually bogus. Still, I couldn't resist something called "a true poo story" because as a journalist, I seek the truth in all things. Okay, I'm not a journalist, I'm just immature and these stories crack me up.

From Celebedge:

Toronto funny woman Renée Percy is officially viral. Her sketch "Sure Lock: A True Poo Story" has already logged 4.7 million views on YouTube and is just 150,000 hits away from becoming the most watched comedy ever to grace YouTube's Canadian channel. Which means that, appropriately, it's currently number two.

The sketch by the Air Farce writer is a mortifying little cautionary tale. "The story is apparently true," Renée tells us. "It didn't happen to me but the producer knows the person it happened to." The clip was pulled for five days before YouTube decreed that "non-sexually graphic dramatized urination or fecal matter is approved." "Hurray for non-sexually graphic poo!" Renee wrote in a statement. I think we can all sort of agree on that.

So, you be the judge. Even if it is total crap (sorry) it's still pretty funny. I promise my next post will be about baking or flowers or puppies or something classy and helpful, like when to use who vs whom.

Plunging to new depths

With apologies to those with more refined tastes.

But, come on. Who among us cannot relate to this story?

In the annals of Most Embarrassing Moments, this one takes the urinal cake. I shall change the names to protect the innocent, but it's 100% true.

Eliza was on her way to do some shopping in downtown Toronto with her two oldest friends, A. and C. She has known these two since childhood, so they're like family. They parked at A.'s office building, and as they walked out of the garage, Eliza realized she needed to heed the call of nature, and it wouldn't be a quick visit either. This sent her into a minor tizzy. You see, Eliza has a phobia about using public toilets. The official name is parcopresis, the ugly twin sister of Bashful Bladder, and defined as "fear of defecation when other people are around or perceived to be around." Seeing as this was a Saturday, Eliza had a solution. She asked to use A.'s office toilet where she could do her business undisturbed.

A. and C. waited for her in the office, while Eliza used the bathroom. Now, even though Eliza had a phobia about going in a public toilet, she had absolutely no qualms about talking about it. Sitting there without a magazine or crossword to occupy her, Eliza, on a silly whim, decided to text A. on her cell phone.

"I'm going poo." Then she hit send.

You know when you're sending an email or message, there's that clarity that comes a split-second after you've pressed send when you realize your brain was actually operating on auto-pilot, and your finger was its halfwit slave? Eliza, with a sickening lurch in her gut, knew she hadn't chosen anyone from her phone list, which meant the text message went to the last person to whom she had spoken.

In Eliza's case, that lucky recipient was her building contractor. He was overseeing Eliza's major home renovation, and was currently number one on her speed dial as there were frequent calls back and forth to confirm details. Mortified, and still stuck on the toilet, she panicked and tried to think of ways to rectify this situation.

Maybe he'll ignore it. Maybe, oh please oh please, maybe he won't get it at all.

Within seconds, there was a reply. "Who is this?"

Now, Eliza could have dropped it right then and there. She could have feigned innocence, or ignorance, or even blamed it on some kid fooling around with her cell phone. But no, not our girl.

She wigged out again, and texted the first thing that came into her head.

"Never mind."

The contractor, if he ever did figure out who it was, never let on. What's the lesson here?

Friends don't let friends poo and text.