shut it

Two jabbermouths on the GO Train last week speaking three decibels higher than necessary in a public place. Everyone else is quiet. Some try to read, many wear headphones, watching videos, playing video games.

But these two. They think they have the right to let the whole train in on their incessant chatter. How the baby is getting weened off the bottle. How the dog only eats Swiss Chalet. How the wife hasn't lost all the pregnancy weight yet, but it's because she doesn't eat regularly, so she binges.

"Eating three large bags of chips in one sitting isn't reasonable. I'm a 220 lb man and I can't do that you know?"

Then GUY #2 starts up with his advice to GUY #1 on how to handle his wife when the baby starts to crawl.

"You gotta watch that. Believe me, she won't want him to touch anything, there's germs on this and there's germs on that. Mine was no better with the dog. Now the 100 lb lab needs to be hand fed because she coddled it so much. I mean really."

No. I mean really?

TMI guys. Too much information. Must you do this in public? Have you no sense of privacy? No respect for fellow commuters? Inside voices, please.

The following day, they were at the other end of the car so I only caught the last of their conversation as they were exiting the train.

"It's my ingrown toenail."
"Oh yeah. If you cut it too close, where the skin is thick you know, it can get infected."
"It's been like this for a while."
"How long?"
"A year maybe."
"A YEAR? You have to get that looked at."

Good grief.

Don't get me wrong, I've been told to shut up plenty of times - at the office carousing in the cubicles and disturbing others, on the balcony - usually late after several beverages have been consumed, once on a patio on Church street - years ago but I still remember this - a couple of gal pals I hadn't seen in a while got together and our laughter was reverberating off the buildings out back of the restaurant. It was 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night.

But the GO Train? Come on.

In an age where we, in North America, are online more than offline tweeting, skyping, facebooking, texting, MSN'ing through our days, one would think it might get a little quieter.

But it's no better on the subway. My colleague had a subway ride that was interrupted by two teens screaming curses at each other to a point that led a passenger to pull the emergency alarm. Subway stops. Driver gets on. What's the problem? No problem here Sir, not anymore.

I was on the streetcar once where the guy next to me, right next to me, in a two seater near the back, was trying to sort out his Rogers bill because he'd been out of the country for a for a year. He had all his credit card info, address, phone number, mother's maiden name out there on display. He'd been teaching in Korea and had changed addresses now and needed the service back up.

You can't read with that going on next to you.

Etiquette people. Try it on.

It's no wonder bands write songs about it. One of my favourites is Cake's Nugget, from Fashion Nugget.

The lyrics to the chorus are:

shut the fu*k up.
shut the f*ck up.
right now
learn to buck up.
shut the f*ck up.
right, shut the f*ck up
yeah, yeah
learn to buck up.

And the opening lyrics to the Black Eyed Peas song, Shut Up.

Shut up
Just shut up
Shut up [3x]
Shut it up, just shut up
Shut up
Just shut up
Shut up [3x]
Shut it up, just shut up

And of course, the chorus to Joe Dolce's classic 80's comedy song, Shut Uppa You Face.

What's-a matter you? Hey! Gotta no respect.
What-a you t'ink you do? Why you look-a so sad?
It's-a not so bad, it's-a nice-a place.
Ah, shaddap-a you face!

The youtube video has over 1.5 million views.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFacWGBJ_cs

While in line to buy another GO pass, the woman behind me gives a speech on relationship woes to her troubled pal.

"You did this before, I'm just saying. I see the same thing happening and you can't let her get away with it again. She's gonna walk all over you if you let her. I'm just saying."

Maybe I should just shut up and ride my bicycle all year long.

the nose knows

Recently, my morning walk along the West Toronto Railpath has been affected with the comforting smell of burning. I think it's wood. The city is getting rid of a pile of junk (see photo in post re: stuff, Nov 3, 2010) and building something in its place. This burning smell, no matter where it occurs, always, always, always reminds me of Mexico.

I spent a couple of months there in the early 90's and they would often burn things. Wood, stubble, garbage. The smell would drift into the little beachfront town and give me that solid feeling of being somewhere else. It also didn't hurt that it was thirty degrees in December.

Smells trigger memories that are as vivid and precise as the original thing.

There are smells that are obviously wonderful. Bar-b-que, a cake in the oven, your lover's neck, freshly ground coffee, garlic, a good cheese shop, clean laundry, baby after bathtime, pizza delivery guy in an elevator, gin.

When you enter Village Meat (pictured above), a bakery/butcher shop in a Polish neighbourhood near me, it is almost impossible to leave without buying a slab of smoked bacon or a few slices of peppered salami or cured ham. They also make one tray per day of the best cheesecake I've ever eaten in my life. Go early if you want some.

There are the not so nice odours we try to avoid: wet dog, garbage trucks, fish gone bad, the litter box, an Irish pub after last week's revelry, burnt hair.

Places have their own personalities, and smells. Paris smells like bakeries and piss, Cape Breton is fresh and pine scented. Vancouver smells damp and sunny while Montreal is humid and smokey. New York smells busy and active, full of art and money and delis. The prairies are extreme - frozen or overheated, but they always smells wide and windy. Mexico City is polluted. So is LA. London smells like soot and sea and beer and fried fish.

It is a conditioned response. The first time we smell a new scent we link it to a person, place or thing. EFA skin cream by JASON reminds me of Costa Rica, because it's what we slathered on our sun soaked bodies at the end of each day. Nivea skin toner still reminds me of Cuba because I started using it there, over a decade ago. Hawaiin Tropic suntan lotion reminds me of the beach. Any beach.

Perfume. A specific scent can define a person. Alfred Sung (my sister), too much Polo (my brother), Kenneth Cole Reaction (my husband), Love's Baby Soft (my life as a teenager trying to hide the stench of cigarette from my parka), Farenheit (an ex I'd rather not remember), Oscar de la Renta (the woman I babysat for when I was seventeen), Vera Wang (me in the mid 90's).

A note to Alfred Sung if he's reading this: Why do you stop making things people are still buying? The scent my sister wears has been discontinued. By her account, she has about five years left of the stuff. This includes the traditional Christmas gift bottle from her husband and few extra ones she found from rogue sources on eBay.

The answer to why things change might be this; According to Amy Verner's article in The Globe and Mail's Style section a few weeks ago, she learned a few things from her L'Oreal scent workshop, the first for beauty editors and writers. Apparently, "fragrance trends and the development of new scents are not arbitrary but mirror the zeitgist and evolve each decade. In the 1980's, yuppies ruled and scents such as Poison, Opium, Cool Water and Egoiste were brash and overpowering. The nineties, of course, was the era of unisex fragrances such as CK One and Issey Miyake. The past 10 years can be characterized by the duality of glamour and nature, Gucc Guilty verses Terre d'Hermes."

I am part of the masses with that theory in that, at the moment, I enjoy wearing Chanel Sensual. However, I also carry around a little tin of Pacifica Waikiki solid perfume. The latter is made from organic coconut and soy wax with natural and essential oils. The woman at the store where I bought it said I could eat it if I had too. And it's vegan.

These are fads. Not to be confused with trademarks.

There is a guy in Kensington market named Moses who sells perfume oils in plastic containers. I started buying Egyptian Musk from him about ten years ago. (Prior to that, when I lived in Montreal, I found the musk in an store that sold African artifacts on St. Laurent Boulevard) Now, I supply a friend's sister in Regina with the stuff, along with Explorer for her, a thick green oil that smells like fresh soap and pine needles. Moses fills up little glass viles from his bigger reserves and sometimes doesn't charge me.

Well hasn't Moses disappeared.

His shop, that also sold Jamaican t-shirts, scarves, cards, candles, creams and lotions, was boarded up when I stopped in before Christmas. The fellow next door said Moses is working out of another space around the corner with no name and no sign because he had a riff with landlord. I'll be on my bike soon enough and have a look for this nameless place and hope I find Moses and his magic oils.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning." A line made famous by Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now. I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning. It means I am at the drop zone, near a plane prepping for flight and ideally, out of which I will jump.

Spring has sprung (well, tomorrow it will have) and with it comes its own smells. You can sense it in Toronto these last few days. Things are warmer, sunnier, happier. Nothing is slower, just...better. Then summer follows, with lilacs and fruit blossoms and those trees that smell like semen. Latin name: Ailanthus altissima, commonly knows as 'the tree of heaven'. http://www.thestar.com/news/gta/article/836481--sperm-tree-spreads-its-seed-in-toronto

Speaking of semen, in her workshop, Verner also learned that perfumers have to identify over 3,000 raw materials from plant, animal or synthetic origin. The weirdest thing, as she pointed out, "arguably the most intriguing", was ambergris. "Produced in the intestine of the sperm whale, it becomes solid over time and takes on a sweet, musky smell. During Middle Ages, it was used to cover up the stench from plague."

I know what a thunder storm smells like. I grew up on the prairies. It's warm, then cool, then dark, then electric, then wet, then energized, then light, then over.

dating disasters

(Photo: Morgan Reiner)

Another entry to CBC's Flash Fiction contest.

Theme: Dating Disasters

The task: Tell us about the oddball your sister set you up with. Tell us about the guy who brought his ex-girlfriend along. Tell us about the guy who tied his pit bull up outside the restaurant. Or maybe you are the weirdo who's scaring everyone off. That's okay too! I'm sure there are guys out there who would describe me as having been their worst date ever.
_______________


Before Lavalife, eHarmony, 25dates and Match.com, there was Telematch. Phone dating.

Years ago as a single, twenty-something, theatre school student in Montreal, I called the phone number at the back of the Mirror’s classifieds. What I found was a plethora of material.

I ended up going on one date.

After two polite and entertaining-to-the-point-of-maybe-this-could-lead-somewhere phone conversations, we agreed to meet in person. At a coffee shop on Crescent Street, the lack of chemistry between us was similar to that of two burnt out bulbs on a string of old Christmas lights. Our conversation, civil and restrained, was as interesting as a glass of water.

I went back to the phone. I was addicted to the voice messages.

Fascinated by the depth and breadth of creepy, lonely, professional, sad, ethnic, bizarre, cryptic, funny messages, I wrote a play about a woman who explores teledating.

The comedy, Call Me, was produced twice in Montreal and won the first ever Montreal English Critic’s Circle Award (MECCA) for best production, semi-professional. I moved to Toronto and thanks to a Telematch sponsorship, the play also had a ten day run over Valentine’s Day at Second City’s Tim Simm’s Playhouse.

bad behaviour

Another entry to CBC's Flash Fiction contest.

Theme: Bad Behaviour

Are writers naturally inclined towards wickedness? Do we have wilder lives than other people? Is that why we have so many stories at our fingertips?

In addition to bad behaviour, I would file this under: mean, inappropriate, frustrating, spiteful and judgmental.

________________


The middle seat on a charter flight is a gamble.

Passengers file onto the aircraft like blood cells traveling to an aorta. Husband on my right stares out the window occupied with all things aviary.

Here she comes.

White hoodie, shoulder length brown hair, pretty face. She shoves a bag into the overhead compartment and maneuvers her black sweat pant clad hips into the aisle seat. Her bulbous thigh touches mine.

“I can’t believe the vacation is over already,” she says.

My smile is false. I shift closer to Husband giving me less room in an already cramped seat. We all opt for Shepherd’s Pie over pasta. She eats the brownie first. I want more wine.

Two hours later, after the half funny movie, Fatty continues watching Ugly Betty reruns. Her head is four inches from mine. A chubby cheek now full of gum. I insert earplugs but still hear her chewing. Her fleshy arm against me is like warm glue. I fondly remember the chatty fellow on the outbound flight who asked too many questions. I exhale in puffs. Husband covers my hand with his.

Later still, she snores. A sleeping giant beneath the hoodie. It smells like damp sweat and peppermint foot powder. I stretch the muscles in my face keeping my mouth open in the position of a scream. FAT!

On our descent, she asks me to repeat the announcement she missed about donating to the charity of the airline’s choice. I pretend I can’t hear her.