the three faces of . . . disgust.

January is not a month to reckon with; its sheer force is contingent on its ability to transform itself (and its inhabitant) into a 'less' month: colourless, penniless, heat-less, one-new-years-resolution-less and apparently, humourless. I consider myself an expert-witness when it comes to testifying on behalf of January's persona, having (reluctantly) survived nine Toronto winters thus far; knock on wood.

It is by mid-January that my colourful Christmas spunk has wistfully contorted into a grey shimmering mirage; my new years eve hang-over has dutifully worked its way through my taken-for-granted liver; my wallet epitomizes emaciation and I've grudgingly returned to the workforce to rest my nose on the grindstone, where the boss thinks I'm working.

To top it all off, like a sickening sweet cherry on a bed of January manure, I'm permanently cold. My apartment complex was apparently built before fireplaces were invented and my wall heaters are like an erectile dysfunctional man, making several promising sounds but coming up unsatisfying short in productions. In a vain effort to ward off at least one of January's 'less' influences, I wrap myself in a warm cloak made of a steadfast sense of humour. Unfortunately (and certainly not in the month of January), not every Torontonian is blessed with a similar sense of humour. For those of you who know me well, or even for those who don't but have met me after a couple of martinis, you will know my sense of humour is much like a (real) fur coat: ostracized by many; cherished by few. The following three faces of disgust highlight not only a (tame) version of my humour but also one of the calendar's most humourless months.

Disgusted Face Number 1:

Bumper to bumper we patiently crawl forward while the car wash attendant works his way through the Sunday afternoon line. He takes his time collecting keys and punching washing preferences on a piece of pink paper that reads "Your car is about to be pampered!" Being an amateur car wash customer, I sit in my car intensely studying the meticulous car wash process - while in car: unlock doors and collect valuables; when at the front of the line: leave the car idling and the door opened as you give keys and pampering instructions to attendant. There are two very crucial elements to this process that I observe immediately. One, act like you've been here before. And two, be damn sure you know your pampering instructions before reaching the front of line. No one wants to waste quality Sunday afternoon time while an amateur front-of-the-line customer cranes their neck studying the 55 car washing options. The line creeps steadily forward giving me more than enough time to decide on my car wash preference. I locate the cheapest one on the too-crowded billboard and resume clicking through the radio stations. I gaze over at the attendant receiving keys and punching pink paper and notice his glassy eyes and lifeless statue; he's probably been here for hours, if not years. What he needs right now is a stimulant; something to shake the monotony. I decide that I am to be that stimulant. I push the clutch in and then release it one final time. I creep forward. I am now the front-of-the-line customer. I act in accordance to strict protocol: I leave the car running and the door opened; I hand the attendant my keys. Then I look him straight in the eye and innocently ask, "If I remain in my car for the interior wash, would you be able to wash me too?" He blinks several times, staring at me hard, before casually flicking his eyes to my front licence plate. I grin as he finds no clues; the plates are from Ontario. He looks back at me, paper puncher in mid-air and says, "pardon?" It takes more willpower to solemnly repeat my inquiry than an 8th grader trying not to giggle when the geography teacher says 'Regina'. Silence follows. The attendant then asks if I'm from the area. "Well," I say, "originally?" More silence; and an impatient horn sounds. Finally, I give in and say with a hearty smile, "exterior wash # 4 please." Relieved to be freed from uncharted territory, he punches #4 on the pink paper and responds with a disgusted face, "you can't remain in the car for an exterior wash either you know." I smile harder. I know.

Disgusted Face Number 2:

Again, I am waiting patiently in a haphazardly formed queue. Customers bark their coffee and doughnut orders in a non-nonsense-let's-get-the-show-on-the-road fashion. It is 8:22 on a breezy January morning and no one wants to be here. I will not disclose which coffee establishment line I am in, but I will say that much of the conversation consists of two words: double-double. There's nothing like a good round of humour to disembark the methodical assembly of double-doubles and boston creams. I step up to the cash register, and with a bright smile I say, "I'll have a medium quintuple-quintuple." Previously, while waiting for my turn to order, I had been silently repeating the two words in order not to stumble on a mouthful. The preparation paid off; my order came out in beautiful form. Unfortunately, the cashier's response wasn't near as beautiful. She sneered, "what?" with two distinct expressions on her face: impatience and disgust. I heard several sighs erupt from behind me and swiftly decided to forgo the extended version of my attempt at unheralded humour, "um, just a boston cream doughnut please."

Disgusted Face Number 3:

I look both ways before entering, making sure no one I know is within eye-shot. The smell in the air is laden with expensive perfume and the faint click of heels can be distantly heard. Several of the female customers are wearing fur coats while trying to juggle armfuls of lavish shopping bags. The most prominent shopping bag in the store is pink; the letters HR are encompassed by a white circle on each bag. I head straight for the one of the cashier-counters while trying to maintain a nonchalant and earnest demeanor. There is no line-up; the cashier is exclusively mine. "Excuse me," I say politely, "I have a small favour to ask." "How may I help you?" the cashier eagerly responds. "Well, here's the thing," I explain, "I don't actually want to buy anything from the store, because frankly I can't afford it, but more than anything, I'd really like to get one of those pink shopping bags just so I can walk around with it and pretend I bought something here". I don't have to wait long before a look of pained disgust manifests itself on her painted face. "The bag can be any size- even the smallest one!" I say in an imploring tone with bright eyes and a small smile. The cashier's face doesn't crack a millimeter. Briskly, she clicks away from me, obviously put-out by my cheap request. She shuffles underneath one of the near-by counters and returns with a very small crisp pink bag in hand. She holds it out to me with the following advice, "next time, you'll actually have to make a purchase to get a bag." This time I smile openly at her, "but I'm going to take such good care of this one that there won't be a need for a next time!". Pausing, I give her a couple more seconds to let herself smile. She doesn't. Beyond the double doors, the frigid weather welcomes me back.

Come summer, I shall once again visit each of these establishments with the same requests in an effort to establish a seasonal-humour-correlation. Until then, it makes for the good blog.