Ok, so maybe I took ‘Casual Friday’ a bit too far…

December 3, 2010

In my mad rush this morning, I completely forgot to reset the alarm for dear hubby. I changed the time for him, even put the clock up on the mattress so he would hear it when it went off, but never flicked the switch to ‘on’. Thankfully, while I was bustling about, he regained just enough consciousness to catch the slip. But there was something else I forgot to do…

I raced out into the hallway to grab my winter jacket, complaining, “Man, it’s cold this morning,” to the still cozy, still comatose thing in the bedroom. It was cold… too cold. As I reached for my jacket, I looked down… I’d remembered my socks – impressive any day of the week – but had totally forgotten to put on pants!

Sigh… mornings.

(image source)


‘Kinky’ morning bus rides

April 22, 2010

Scene One: He was sitting a few rows ahead of me, legs splayed, owning his corner of the bus seat with the unchallenged authority of a business suit among jeans. The man fairly oozed masculine pride. His newspaper was spread as wide as his knees on the packed rush-hour bus. He turned the page, and I watched him try to shake a kink out of the main article. But in such a tight space, he only worsened the puckering.

Then it happened… Right in front of everyone, the man abandoned all pride (masculine or otherwise), ducked down his head, and poked out the kink with the tip of his nose. What can I say? My day was made~

Scene Two: The jam-packed bus pulled away from the curb. I grabbed hold of the only support within reach, a dangling, flimsy rubber hand-loop. As the blocks lurched by, I did my best to stay vertical. Putting the ol’ brain to work, I improved my stability by twisting/tangling my wrist up into the strap to limit slack, thereby reducing the egregious strains on my musculature. In theory, quite logical. In practice? Nothing like starting the day off hanging like some half-frozen pig carcass in an overloaded butcher’s trailer, swaying gently back and forth…

All well and good till you have to untangle yourself. “Excuse me,” I called out at my stop. The crowd pushed back to let me pass. Or rather, they pushed back to clear a stage for me to completely mortify myself! It took a full five agonizing seconds for me to extricate my arm. Go ahead, count five Mississippis. It’s a loooooong time. And you can bet it’s an infinity to any poor girl caught in an inadvertent S&M scene before breakfast! What can I say? Their day was made~

OK, so it was a bit of a rough morning…

February 18, 2010

When was the last time you had one of these mornings? You know, the kind where someone else sets the alarm for 5:30am when this is the one morning you don’t have to be up till 7:00am – the kind where that someone sleeps through 6 snooze alarms, then somehow expects to be cajoled gently into wakefulness by a sweetly saccharine wife.

Yes, t’was the kind of morning where you take the bus – rather than walking – to work because you know it would be cruel and inhumane to force anyone to spend 45 minutes trapped alone with such unabashed hostility, let alone your own self! T’was the kind where you make yourself even later by waiting in the lobby for the coast to clear, so you don’t have to share an elevator and risk an awful reaction to some poor hapless coworker’s “Good Morning.”

I thought I was doing quite a good job handling the situation in a mature and dignified manner. We all get into Grumps sometimes – no need to spread the toxicity. On the crowded bus, I kept my Klingon Death Stare fixed on a piece of black lint stuck to the fellow in front of me’s jacket, rather than on the twerp beside me – one of those lovely souls bereft of any concept of personal space. I didn’t avert my eyes from the (exactly 3.4mm diameter) fluff even when the bus lurched round a corner and I (lacking any extra footspace) had the uniquely excruciating experience of feeling my wrist bruising in real-time as one square inch of skin was crushed between my full weight and a metal pole.

I covered the few short blocks between the bus stop and my office with my brim pulled low down over my eyes. It was a public service, really, preventing my Medusa glare from laying waste to any number of unsuspecting commuters on the streets of downtown Calgary. But, on the last street corner, my conscientiousness backfired.

Out of nowhere, a trio of thin blue ribbons caught me around the neck. I was doing so well too, but when something tries to strangle you on the way to work (with or without warning!), some fine line of universal decency is crossed. I broke – my stride, my composure, at least one of the ribbons…

There I was, at 8am on a busy Calgary street corner, thrashing madly at three innocent helium balloons tethered to a “don’t you wish you lived here” folding sign. “AAAAAAARGH!” I let it all out. It was a brief, all too public, display of what it really means to be human. That, or just some crazy chick going psycho on modern marketing. I’m not proud of my little spectacle, and I can assure you there isn’t the least bit of satisfaction in railing on anything that’s essentially lighter than air, but I don’t regret it. Better three balloons than one alarm clock setter’s nose~wink.

Why I don’t ride the bus to work…

July 9, 2009

I woke up to a grey morning today. The sky was grey, my sweater was grey, and my threadbare brown ‘cozy’ hoodie (because when the weather won’t make the effort, why should I?) has been verging on grey for years. I stepped out the door, already late, into a grey drizzle. It was a bus morning.

The rush hour bus is a grim way to start any day, stopping and starting and stopping and starting, all through downtown gridlock. But today, there was no way around it. I rolled up my torn cuffs as discreetly as I could in a bus full of business suits and shiny shoes, and stood by the back doors to wait for my stop.

I was well on my way to daydreaming myself out of my funk when the bus slowed and settled by the curb. I pushed the doors, but they didn’t budge. I pushed again, and jiggled the long handles… nothing. The bus hissed and I felt the jolt of the flyweel kicking in. Great, just great.

“Back doors,” I called out. The bus jerked forward. “Back doors, please!” I shouted over the crowd, who had all turned their heads to watch.

The bus driver glared at me in his mirror. I shook the doors again and glared back.

His answer came back biting: “Could you at least let me get to the bus stop first.”

This is why I walk to work ~ sigh.

A short note on the injustice of other people eating bacon at 7:10AM

May 21, 2009

My walk to work takes me through one of Calgary’s swankiest neighbourhoods. Wandering through The Better Homes and Gardens Theme Park so early in the morning can be pretty demoralizing to those of us not booked on a flight to Cannes this week. I can deal with picturesque window treatments and carefully landscaped lawns. Current model BMWs cutting me off on the sidewalk? No problem. But…

A line was crossed today. There is one house on the route so magnificent, so architecturally breathtaking in all its cedar shingled glory, that even its Home Depot outdoor potters transend our reality to honour the sublime. Anyways, that house, that family, was cooking bacon at 7:10 this morning! Is it really so much to ask that there be just a little pinch of justice for those of us with empty stomachs trudging by in beat-up sneaks? 

But then again, what a wonderful way to find out, at 7:10am, that yes, it is possible to have everything.

All’s fair in love and… mornings (~wink)

April 28, 2009

The snooze alarm cut into my shower with a beeping so loud it set my teeth humming in my jawbone.


I must have reset the clock by our bed on the as-if-waking-up-at-6am-isn’t-torture-enough setting rather than the kinder and oh-so-much gentler radio option. The teeth rattlin’ sound from the next room was so piercing I couldn’t concentrate – did I just double shampoo instead of condition?  I could feel the tiny hairs of my inner ears shivering as the high vibrato resonated behind my eyeballs.

Why wasn’t the hubby turning it off? It was right beside his pillow! I tried yelling at him from the shower, but there was no way he could hear me over the alarm. I finally had to take matters into my own hands, and ran towel-bound into the bedroom to turn it off. Finger to button – oh sweet relief!

I ‘politely’ inquired, with hands clamped on terry-towel hips, into the condition of dear hubby’s eardrums. “Dunno,” he said, claiming to have “not really” heard the Philip Glassian cacophony, “Just tuned it out, I guess.”

“What if the smoke alarm goes off?” I asked, suddenly concerned.

As he quieted my fears with tender reassurances about volume and urgency, a strange thought began to form in my mind. If this man can will himself to sleep through an amped up Moby concert gone wrong, what else can he “tune out”? What else has he “tuned out”?

Hmmmm… better make sure I’m all set to blast on “max” next time dear hubby triggers my alarm bells! I’m not taking any chances lol. After all, all’s fair in love and mornings ~wink.