Christmastime in the Emerald City











{September 24, 2007}   Cars are for ‘Tards

There are a few things that piss me off more than average. One of them is people lingering in my reception area. Actually, if I like you, this is more of a highlight of my day. But if I don’t like you, or don’t know you, it’s just going to piss me off. I’m pretty clear about it, so I’m not sure why people keep doing it.

Observe: Two separate men wander in at different times on different days. One of them is obnoxious, calls me baby, talks incessantly about how cool it is that both my glasses and my hair are purple, asks if I have had lunch. During this time, he is spinning a football in his hands, dropping it several times onto my desk. I eventually threaten to make him eat said football if he’s so interested in lunch. He then compliments my sarcasm. Stab!!!! Why are you still talking?

The second is the sexy tattooed DUIer I’ve been going on about. Very quiet (a little too quiet – when I get your lawyer to tell you I think you’re totally hot, it’s perfectly alright to come ask for my number) and very polite. Did he walk in and say “Uh, I’m here to see that lawyer guy? Uh, I don’t remember his name…”? No, he didn’t. He walked in, gave me his name, then his proper name “Chuck…or Charles” and then sat down quietly, made a bit of conversation, and that was it.

I don’t understand. I’m a total bitch to the first one, and uber polite to the second one. Why is it that the retard is the one who keeps fucking talking? Grar.

Anyways. My second pet peeve is unnecessary driving. I don’t drive. I live downtown. I don’t leave downtown. I don’t need a fucking car, and stop trying to convince me otherwise.

Everybody please congratulate me on not stabbing this particular person last Friday who committed both of the above offences.

So he’s lingering in my reception area for no particular reason, as his meeting with whomever is over. He begins to complain about the cost of parking downstairs. I am completely unsympathetic. This is the cost of living folks, part of the joy of having a car. Maybe you live out in the middle of nowhere because you like fresh air and cheaper housing…this is the price you pay. Not my problem.

“I don’t drive,” I curtly inform him.

“Oh. Well, are you married?”

And it begins. What the hell? One, how is that any of your business, and two, what the fuck does that have to do with driving? “Um, no, I am not.”

“Well, if you were married, you would have a car.”

Would I now? I’m sorry, is this 1950? “Is that a fact?” I ask him.

“Well, all girls want a guy with a car.”

“Do they now?”

“Well, if a guy picks you up for a date, do you want him to pick you up in a car, or do you want to walk?”

At this point, I could launch into an expose on the dating mannerisms of downtown. First, you can walk just about everywhere. If it’s cold, there’s the TTC. If you take a car, you’ll end up paying more for parking and having to walk farther to get from the parking lot to your destination. It doesn’t make sense to drive downtown.

I also think of Chuck and/or Charles, who lives in Woodbridge, according to his lawyer. I don’t even know where the hell that is, because I don’t drive and highway reference points are therefore lost on me. But I can tell you that if he drove in, I wouldn’t be impressed. If he took the bus in, I’d be very impressed. So, again, no to cars.

I do not launch. I simply tell this brain-dead character: “Yeah, TTC.”

“But what if you want to go out of the city?”

“I live downtown. Why would I want to go out of the city?”

“But what if you want to go camping?”

“Why would I ever want to go camping?”

“To get fresh air! It’s lovely.”

“Yeah. I live downtown. I don’t leave downtown. The world stops at Bloor.”

“But what if you want fresh air?”

“Uh, I step outside.” What is it with outsiders who think downtown is covered in a constant pea-soup thick blanket of smog?

“You know where I live? Richmond Hill. I’ll never leave it, it’s the best place ever.”

I tune out here. Why the fuck would I want to live in Richmond Hill? For the cookie cutter houses? For the need to drive everywhere? To pay for a car, gas, insurance, parking, repairs? Really? When $100 a month covers all my transportation? Okay, $150 maybe, if I get lazy and take the occasional cab?

Then he mentions his lawn, and I tune back in.

“You have a lawn? That’s your argument for Richmond Hill? What do you need a lawn for? Seriously, what do you do with it? Do you frolick on it?”

“Well, no, but – ”

“Do you do anything with your lawn except compare it to your neighbours and wake up every Saturday morning, thinking ‘damn, I have to cut the lawn’?”

He appeared a little stunned…

Guess what folks? I live downtown. I generally don’t leave downtown. Your ways do not interest me. Why is it assumed that a gigantic house in some up-and-coming suburb is the ideal, the goal we are all working towards, and that those who live in apartments have somehow failed at a goal we never had?

I live downtown. It’s convenient. I can get everywhere, and I can get there faster than you can. Observe:

     best thai place in city: Me, five minutes walking. You, twenty minutes driving.

     vet: Me, five minutes walking. You, twenty minutes driving.

     hardware store to buy lawnmower: Me, ZERO MOTHERFUCKER! You, who the hell knows?

     bar: Me, five minutes walking to three of them, all trendy and awesome. You, one fucking thirty dollar drunken cab ride, you fucking loser.

     discount store: Me, five minutes to Honest Ed’s. You, twenty minutes in your tacky fucking gas-guzzling SUV to buy your skid of mayo.

And so on, and so forth.

I don’t want a house. I don’t need a guest bathroom. I don’t need a den and a living room. I don’t need a fucking yard to mow and rake. I don’t need to worry about fixing my own roof. I don’t want eavestroughs to dig slimy leaves out of. I don’t need a cottage. I wouldn’t mind a boat, but guess what? We’ve got several yacht clubs downtown, and they aren’t a four hour drive away. The Great Lakes are also bigger than your piddly pond, so I win again. I don’t want a Costco. I don’t want a cultureless school, and I don’t want my possible kids drinking in someone’s basement because there’s nothing to fucking do. I don’t want your pathetic suburban saplings as an excuse for trees. I don’t want your molesting fucking crossing guards. I don’t want a quiet cul-de-sac. I don’t want a two-car garage, and I certainly don’t need a fucking car!

I don’t need a car. I don’t want a car. If I won a car, I would sell it to some Richmond Hill schmuck, and use the money to fix up my apartment all funky like. Cars disgust me. Stop trying to tell me that I’m in denial and secretly wish to be just like you and the Jones’. I don’t…want…a car. You are tempting me to rent a car for the sole purpose of backing it up into yours to further demonstrate what a pain in the ass your car is to everybody, including you, but especially me.  

Cars fucking suck.

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Talea says:

You already know how I feel about this particular douchebag. I also fucking cannot stand the suburbs and the mentality it breeds among it’s pathetic inhabitants.
There ARE no upsides to living there. This is why they’re constantly trying to convince us far-superior downtowners that there are. It’s an overcompensating defense mechanism.
Hmmm, speaking of overcompensating, all the suburban men seem to need to drive a huge nasty SUV? Why is this? Huh. Something to think about.



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