yuppy: a young, ambitious, and well-educated city-dweller who has a professional career and an affluent lifestyle.
yorkville: where the toronto yuppies dwell.
2004-2005: the year i, as well, dwelled in yorkville.
one cheerful winter morning, i left my condo on the hunt for saturday's globe and mail (or as my friend likes to dub it: the G n M) and a hearty cup of double double brew. i rounded one of yorkville's finest corners and immediately noticed that people in-passing were exhibiting facial expressions consisting of shock and somewhat (mild) disgust; many of these passer-byers even wore expressions of (bold) awe! Immediately i was intrigued: what was the root of everyone's explicit interest? it was a good thing i hadn't yet purchased my cup of brew because, in turning around, i almost fell over.
walking (or waddling) behind me was a female yuppy carrying her female puppy. normally, this situation wouldn't elicit such grave concern as people carry pocket dogs around all the time (either in Louis Vuitton bags or under fur-lined jacketed arms); but this scenario was vastly different; for two reasons. One, and most importantly, this was no pocket dog. it couldn't have been carried in either a LV bag or under an over-invested arm simply because it was at least the size of a medium-sized toddler. And two, because of its rather large size, this yuppy puppy was being carried in one of those 'front pouches' that mothers (or fathers) carry their babies in. let me re-emphasis this point: a pouch that parents carry their CHILDREN in.
the puppy was carried face-forward with its thick limbs sticking out at (rather) awkward angles from its torso. The head of the pup sat so high on the yuppy that it blocked her view of the street; she was forced to walk with her head slanted to one side. The bottom of the pup fell so far below the yuppy's hips that it made walking almost impossible; she was forced to adapt a rather cumbersome waddle. And for what? Last i checked dogs liked to be walked.
as i rudely stared, i couldn't help but notice the poor pup's expression: it was the look of a defeated soul who had lost all dignity as a respectful and contributing member of society. And if you were extra observant (which i was) you could even see all surrounding (walking) dogs subtly shaking their heads in disapproving unison. the yuppy puppy was a hit to the animal kingdom as a whole: 4 legs bad; no legs good.
the yuppy waddled past me as the stares and expressions of disgust (and awe!) spread like a domino effect down the street. she awkwardly rounded yorkville's next corner, no doubt, on her oblivious way to purchase sweaters, diapers and fudge at one of those yuppy puppy "pet" stores.
shaking my head, i decided i needed to 'accentuate' my intended double double brew; the past events called for an extra strong espresso. i opened saturday's G n M to the rental section and immediately started circling more dignified neighborhoods.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Sunday, October 08, 2006
a mesmerizing pick-up
i'll admit it: in the same way i am completely and utterly mesmerized by the fire, i am as equally enthralled by the dryer. When i say 'fire', i am referring to a controlled and safe, surrounded-by-a-wet-circle-of-stones-type of fire. The kind of fire girl guides and boy scouts sing and roast marshmallows around. And when i say 'dryer' i mean the washing machine's better half. The kind of dryer you find at the local laundromat; the kind of dryer with the all encompassing peeping window.
There is something vigorously hynotizing about fabric gyrating in a rhymic but haphazardly-shaped circle. Each turn of the dryer envelops its viewer with a unique wave of cascading colour (the 'colours' cycle is much more spectator than the 'whites' cycle. If you are one of those laisser faire individuals who refuse to separate laundry, i must politely inform you: you're missing out).
But where was i? Ah yes, the dryer; and the pick-up.
It began as a ho-hum nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-type of evening at the laundromat: i dumped my change, (powder) detergent and coloured clothes into the washing machine's respective compartments; i browsed through a tattered and week-old (sticky) 'NOW' magazine; i read all the rental and "have you seen my [insert dog name here]?" postings; i even feigned interest as the Leafs' power-play fizzled to another uneventful end.
Ding! Finally; the washing machine signaled its cessation.
I eagerly popped my also-sticky quarters into the dryer (ever notice how normally non-adhesive items acquire a sticky residue at the laundromat? i'm hoping it's the liquid detergent), bade my wet clothes an impressive 'run' and secured an unobstructed view of my chosen dryer's window in a no-doubt-purchased-at-the-
dollar-store (also-sticky) plastic chair.
It didn't take long for the dryer to achieve a hefty mesmerizing speed. Subsequently, I was not let down: dress-shirts and T-shirts tag-teamed panties;jeans tactfully swallowed socks; over-priced long-sleeve sweaters danced with other equally over-priced long-sleeved sweaters; and in fine form, the duvet cover trampled all. And throughout, i sat mesmerized by the orchestrated pinwheel of colour.
Like all dazzling conductors, the dryer followed its colouful performance with a climatic finale. And then-- there was silence.
The buzzer sounded and my spell was broken.
I lifted dazed and red-rimmed eyes from my heap of warm and static-full clothes straight into the gallant eyes of a stranger. He was a comfortable distance away (no need for alarm) but i continued feeling his blistering presence as i set down my clothes and began dutifully folding. I folded and i folded (like an unfortunate game of poker), hoping my competitor would cash out and leave. I cautiously looked up. Nope; he most certainly had not left. His static eyes and now fervent smile's innuendos gripped my shoulders and stroked my slightly-greasy hair. I consciously shuttered.
Now don't get me wrong, by no standard was this stranger creepy. Or rude. Or threatening. He was simply-- there; staring and smiling away.
Just as i contemplated picking my nose while simultaneously drooling and barking (in a vain effort to avert his gaze), he picked up his laundry bag (disguised as a glad garbage bag), walked towards me and then around me, leaned close and whispered,
"if you let me get your panties dirty, i'll get them clean again."
I had to smile at his metaphoric effort. We WERE in a laundromat after all - an atmosphere obstinately known for getting dirty things clean.
Did his epidemic pick-up line work? Well, if you had been there that night, you would know the (sticky) answer.
There is something vigorously hynotizing about fabric gyrating in a rhymic but haphazardly-shaped circle. Each turn of the dryer envelops its viewer with a unique wave of cascading colour (the 'colours' cycle is much more spectator than the 'whites' cycle. If you are one of those laisser faire individuals who refuse to separate laundry, i must politely inform you: you're missing out).
But where was i? Ah yes, the dryer; and the pick-up.
It began as a ho-hum nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-type of evening at the laundromat: i dumped my change, (powder) detergent and coloured clothes into the washing machine's respective compartments; i browsed through a tattered and week-old (sticky) 'NOW' magazine; i read all the rental and "have you seen my [insert dog name here]?" postings; i even feigned interest as the Leafs' power-play fizzled to another uneventful end.
Ding! Finally; the washing machine signaled its cessation.
I eagerly popped my also-sticky quarters into the dryer (ever notice how normally non-adhesive items acquire a sticky residue at the laundromat? i'm hoping it's the liquid detergent), bade my wet clothes an impressive 'run' and secured an unobstructed view of my chosen dryer's window in a no-doubt-purchased-at-the-
dollar-store (also-sticky) plastic chair.
It didn't take long for the dryer to achieve a hefty mesmerizing speed. Subsequently, I was not let down: dress-shirts and T-shirts tag-teamed panties;jeans tactfully swallowed socks; over-priced long-sleeve sweaters danced with other equally over-priced long-sleeved sweaters; and in fine form, the duvet cover trampled all. And throughout, i sat mesmerized by the orchestrated pinwheel of colour.
Like all dazzling conductors, the dryer followed its colouful performance with a climatic finale. And then-- there was silence.
The buzzer sounded and my spell was broken.
I lifted dazed and red-rimmed eyes from my heap of warm and static-full clothes straight into the gallant eyes of a stranger. He was a comfortable distance away (no need for alarm) but i continued feeling his blistering presence as i set down my clothes and began dutifully folding. I folded and i folded (like an unfortunate game of poker), hoping my competitor would cash out and leave. I cautiously looked up. Nope; he most certainly had not left. His static eyes and now fervent smile's innuendos gripped my shoulders and stroked my slightly-greasy hair. I consciously shuttered.
Now don't get me wrong, by no standard was this stranger creepy. Or rude. Or threatening. He was simply-- there; staring and smiling away.
Just as i contemplated picking my nose while simultaneously drooling and barking (in a vain effort to avert his gaze), he picked up his laundry bag (disguised as a glad garbage bag), walked towards me and then around me, leaned close and whispered,
"if you let me get your panties dirty, i'll get them clean again."
I had to smile at his metaphoric effort. We WERE in a laundromat after all - an atmosphere obstinately known for getting dirty things clean.
Did his epidemic pick-up line work? Well, if you had been there that night, you would know the (sticky) answer.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
the greatest invention
After finishing a relatively healthy bowl of soup at lunch today, i got to thinking i wanted more. Nay, not more soup, but more chocolate, chips, cheesecake and... (what else begins with "c" that is considered detrimental to the finer workings of the human body?)... cholesterol. ahhhhh, cholesterol; sweet sweet good-for-nothing cholesterol.
Alas, wanting more vs. actually getting more doesn't always elicit similar behaviour; instead it begins with a conscious battle between either crowning my discipline (and denying the urge) or satisfying my yelping taste buds (and succumbing to the urge). On my better days, discipline is crowned queen as my taste buds wistfully bow down.
Today was a good day; i drowned my cravings in a cup of cholesterol-free tasteless tea. i glanced into my transparent substitution for everything delicious beginning with "c" and could see the odd flakes of grime stuck to the bottom of the cup, (no doubt left over from a hot chocolate package that wasn't mixed enough and from which i hadn't bothered to wash away), and i became furiously frustrated. i glared at those (rotten) chocolatey flakes while imagining the boundless shelves of (fresh!) goodness that lay, only steps away, at the local 7-11. Why couldn't i achieve both? Why couldn't wanting more and actually getting more be merged without having to deny my taste buds or de-crown my discipline?
Why Eureka, it could! Through the invention of a neck-hole!
That's right, a neck-hole (or a hole in the neck in layman's terms). Picture it: if i had a neck hole, i could satisfy all my cravings without having to suffer the consequences of a bloated belly or extra caloric intake. With a neck hole, everything that went in my mouth would simply come streaming out my neck; do not pass the esophagus, do not collect 200 pounds.
A neck hole could even come with a decorative tube (flesh-coloured of course) joined to a discreetly hidden (also flesh-coloured) "baggy". Once the snack or craving had been deemed complete, the now-pleasantly-full "baggy" could be conveniently tossed and the neck tube removed.
Of course there would have to be stipulations. One, neck tubes could not be shared. If you forgot your tube while dining at a restaurant, discipline would have to kick in at high gear or you would be forced to contend with a unappealing chest stained with chewed (but not digested) food. Restaurants wouldn't tolerate such behaviour and neither would your friends. Stipulation number two: the neck hole could only be 'opened' and used for EXTRA calories - if the body detected its minimal caloric intake wasn't met, it would simply deny access to the neck hole; much the same as HAL denied David access to the pod bay door in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stipulation one would guarantee hygiene. And stipulation two would guarantee no one took advantage of their neck holes to conform to un-natural body trends.
The concept of a neck hole way seem slightly ghoulish now, but if it were always part of the human genome, then it wouldn't seem any more strange than fingers or ears or necks; it would simply be a known (and appreciated!) part of the body.
Perhaps even a sexy part of the body.
Hmmmmmmm sexy neck hole.
As my cholesterol-free tasteless tea grew cold and my daydream of the greatest invention slowly faded, i was left with the unattainable truth:
With a neck hole, i could cut my cholesterol and eat my cake too.
Alas, wanting more vs. actually getting more doesn't always elicit similar behaviour; instead it begins with a conscious battle between either crowning my discipline (and denying the urge) or satisfying my yelping taste buds (and succumbing to the urge). On my better days, discipline is crowned queen as my taste buds wistfully bow down.
Today was a good day; i drowned my cravings in a cup of cholesterol-free tasteless tea. i glanced into my transparent substitution for everything delicious beginning with "c" and could see the odd flakes of grime stuck to the bottom of the cup, (no doubt left over from a hot chocolate package that wasn't mixed enough and from which i hadn't bothered to wash away), and i became furiously frustrated. i glared at those (rotten) chocolatey flakes while imagining the boundless shelves of (fresh!) goodness that lay, only steps away, at the local 7-11. Why couldn't i achieve both? Why couldn't wanting more and actually getting more be merged without having to deny my taste buds or de-crown my discipline?
Why Eureka, it could! Through the invention of a neck-hole!
That's right, a neck-hole (or a hole in the neck in layman's terms). Picture it: if i had a neck hole, i could satisfy all my cravings without having to suffer the consequences of a bloated belly or extra caloric intake. With a neck hole, everything that went in my mouth would simply come streaming out my neck; do not pass the esophagus, do not collect 200 pounds.
A neck hole could even come with a decorative tube (flesh-coloured of course) joined to a discreetly hidden (also flesh-coloured) "baggy". Once the snack or craving had been deemed complete, the now-pleasantly-full "baggy" could be conveniently tossed and the neck tube removed.
Of course there would have to be stipulations. One, neck tubes could not be shared. If you forgot your tube while dining at a restaurant, discipline would have to kick in at high gear or you would be forced to contend with a unappealing chest stained with chewed (but not digested) food. Restaurants wouldn't tolerate such behaviour and neither would your friends. Stipulation number two: the neck hole could only be 'opened' and used for EXTRA calories - if the body detected its minimal caloric intake wasn't met, it would simply deny access to the neck hole; much the same as HAL denied David access to the pod bay door in Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey. Stipulation one would guarantee hygiene. And stipulation two would guarantee no one took advantage of their neck holes to conform to un-natural body trends.
The concept of a neck hole way seem slightly ghoulish now, but if it were always part of the human genome, then it wouldn't seem any more strange than fingers or ears or necks; it would simply be a known (and appreciated!) part of the body.
Perhaps even a sexy part of the body.
Hmmmmmmm sexy neck hole.
As my cholesterol-free tasteless tea grew cold and my daydream of the greatest invention slowly faded, i was left with the unattainable truth:
With a neck hole, i could cut my cholesterol and eat my cake too.
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