The Newfie

So I'm sitting minding my own business and doing a crossword puzzle when out of nowhere a man actually says "I think 2 down is DADA". The clue is PC Food. "DADA?" I say. "AS IN THE SWISS CULTURAL MOVEMENT?" I ask, confused. "No - D-A-T-A. Get it? The computer eats Data?" Ah Hah! I get it. Of course. I smile and fill in the boxes. What just happened?

I peek to my right where the man is sitting and he looks to be in his late 50s wearing a Bantam team hockey jacket. He is smiling and leaning towards me, eager, eyebrows raised, grinning. "What else are ya' stuck on? I just love those things. Do quite a few myself!" Oh Jesus. I sigh put my crossword on my lap. This is it. The moment of surrender. The point of no return. You can either continue to do your crossword and answer with one word responses hoping he gets the hint that you actually don't want to engage in conversation to pass the time because you have your crossword to pass the time. Something like a "I''m okay thanks. Take care. Bye Bye then" would do in this scenario. Or - you can be a decent human being and humor the guy. "Bhutan locale?" I reply.

I can see my fellow commuters assessing the situation. They look up from their Metros, one lady even takes out her earbuds to eavesdrop. "How cute" I can hear them thinking. "They're going to share a puzzle now." We get to talking, I fill in A-S-I-A (how moronic of me!) considering I'm surrounded by their entire immigrant population - how could I have been stuck on that?

I proceed to learn all about this man's hobbies and that he's going to see the Leafs play the Thrashers and that his daughter is pregnant and lives in Newfoundland. Then he tells me that where he's from was actually a war town. That a German submarine was found in the caves in in the farthest inland port in Canada. That he's a first generation Newfie and that his parents are British citizens. That he worked for a company in Kitchener for 18 years. That he and his wife watched every second of the Olympics in their heated garage. That he once picked up a young girl who was a hitchhiker who was from Colorado and who said the Canadian Rockies are more beautiful than the American ones. The rest of this man's stories were endlessly entertaining and most of them started and ended with the mention of a big rig. I had to cut him off mid-sentence. "Buh-bye then. Enjoy the game!" I said as I made way to the doors. "Bye dear - keep up with your crosswords and don't cheat!"

Commuter Calisthenics

Everyday I try to hit the subway gym. You might be familiar with it. Its not a real gym that requires a monthly membership and is hidden through some secret door deep within a specific subway stop, but a make-believe gym that exists in the minds of some ingenious commuters. Ingenious-lazy commuters. Ingenious-lazy commuters, like me. You see, I don't work out. No treadmills. No elliptical machines. No public heavy breathing, schvitzing, and jiggling up and down. That's just not my bag. But since I love a butter croissant as much as the next gal, I do walk up the stairs instead of taking the escalator between levels on the subway system. I do stand the majority of the way to and from work so as to focus on toning my core (you really feel the burn enroute to College station where the train sways quite dramatically). I've calculated that its pretty much the equivalent of 100 crunches. I figure that I spend an hour and 20 minutes a day on either the subway or the streetcar (in bad weather, otherwise I power walk) so I might as well come up with some moves to pump up the jam. I've taken to walking to the end of the platform regardless of whether the platform is full or not (Its solely to increase the count on my pedometer). I've got exceptionally svelte wrists now thanks to having to balance my coffee from spilling for 80 minutes each and every day. My thighs are marble sculptures since I've been holding my purse between my knees (the floor is just too risky). But, by far, the most complete exercise one can do is hold it in on a packed street car. Think of it! People are squishing by you and attempting to pass by you in such insanely small spaces that in order to maintian any sense of dignity and not be sandwiched into a complete stranger, you are forced into a Lotus-like position. Yes, indeed, if I keep this up I'll look like Kathy Ireland in no time.

A Thank-You Note re: subway ride of shame home after st. paddy’s day

Dear ttc,

Thank you from the bottom of my green-tinged heart for getting me home thoroughly entertained and in once piece yesterday.
After two cold pints of smithwick’s and nary a bite to nibble, I was feeling pretty teetery-tottery and your shuttle services from The Unicorn to King Street W. helped me to make it home so that I could deposit my emergency-Burger King-stop-off-come-upchuck in my own bathroom and not in the Out of Order men’s stall at said pub. Thank you also for the Guiness-scented subway cars and fast, efficient services last eve.

I mention that I was entertained because along with my drunken ass you transported hundreds of fellow partiers to their homes (or to secondary, nay tertiary bars on their leprechaunian pub crawls.) I saw many oversized Kelly green, felt hats and some shiny brass buckles too. I even saw a drunk teenager's shelayleigh and boy was that a treat!

Sincerely,
Enya McEvoy

Killing Time

So after 3 train delays last week which made me 1) tardy for a 9:00 am teleconference, 2) in desperate need of the toilet and several stops away from my home salle de bain and 3) extremely pissed off at the entire world in general, I decided it was time to cave and buy a book of crossword puzzles to pass the time.

My dad is an avid puzzler (he even has a encyclopedic help book which some view as cheating, but he never actually looks anything up when anyone is around to judge him for it - I inspected the spine - it doesn't even look like he's cracked the thing once). He just loves puzzles. All puzzles, the one in the back of the TV guide - even the toughies in The Sunday Times - those hard ones that would even stump Einstein. I remember getting some photocopied exercises back in elementary when my teacher was sick and we had a substitute. It was Thanksgiving time of year and along with a connect the dots cornucopia, I had been given a Harvest-themed crossword in the shape of a giant turkey. All the clues were to do with pilgrims and Stove Top stuffing. I got a perfect mark on it. I knew I had inheritied a gift. Think of the most odd, arcane, random tidbit of knowledge and my father can figure out 4 Down. I should mention that he gets this from my grandma who, along with smoking massive quantities of Virginia Slims and painting her talons a shimmery mocha peach, has done crossword puzzles her entire life.

As I paid my $3.50 for the JUMBO SUPERB CROSSWORDS - ALL THEME - I had high hopes that I had inheritied my relatives' Trebekian intelligence for obscure facts and rare synonyms and antonyms. ACROSS 1. Cotillion gal - 3 letters. STUMPED. FAILURE. I sat there for a good 15 minutes as the train stopped at Davisville due to signal problems. I looked around. Someone somewhere on this train was looking at me and judging me and my blank puzzle. I couldn't even get the first damned clue! Defeated already! I surveyed my co-commuters and no one was really paying attention so I peeked at the answers. This breaks the code of my anscestors, but as far as I knew they weren't on the train.

With DEB filled in 1 Across in nice, ballpoint block letters, I proceed to fill out the puzzle: Beekeeper's reward was easy. "Metamorphoses" poet? Well it wasn't Dante or Virgil, that left OVID which fit perfectly in the 4 boxes. I nearly finished the puzzle when I realized I had missed my stop.

Who Is At Fault The Employee or The "Customer"?

An interesting point of view about abysmal TTC experiences...
http://www.eyeweekly.com/blog/post/84580