(insert rambling apologies, etc, blah blah blah, and what have you.)
It's fall, so I've been told, but I'm still waiting for the horrible, leaf changing evidence to love-slap me in the face. The reason I haven't noticed the changing of the seasons is that I've been, blessedly, out of Toronto for the past 7 weeks or so. A little 45 degree heat in Madrid and Barcelona, some sexy 38 degree + cool summer breeze action in the Greek Islands, a cottage in NYC and finally Vancouver, which apparently is the TITS. Or at least, it has been the tits for the past week. Just gorgeous, kids. Just grand. I like to think it was all for me - the sunshine, the hot hot heat - since when I left Canada's prettiest city just yesterday the sky turned a dark shade of used-asshole black in what can only be a protest of my sad departure. Fear not, Vancouverites, I shall return the next time there is a week of perfect weather! Start working on that, will you?
Anyhottimesinthecity, after 7+ weeks of fabulousness, I find myself in the bustling metropolis of Winnipeg (aka Winterpeg, aka Punishment Land of Pain). Various weather.com checks over the past week led me to believe I was going to be rained on with all the vengeance of several....vengeful...gods? Wow, I'm tired. Where am I? Oh right, Winnie the Peg! So imagine my surprise when I stepped off the plane last night, into the arms of my beautiful best friend, through the parking garage, past Go, and finally into the warm? summer?! AIR! (Kenny Powers fist pump!) Today was a darling 28 degrees and sunny, and looks like the trend is going to continue until I leave on Saturday, when this fair village will resume it's gloomy non-m-ness existence. (Editor's note: all of the above weather control is only more evidence that I am, truly, surely, a wizard. More on that later).
But lo! Not all was puppies and chocolate flavoured cigars (do these exist? I like to dream yes) en route to ole' Pegtown. (I heard that communal sigh of relief among you, most loyal readers - "is this really another GD entry about the fucking weather?! Damn this bitch is getting old!). Fear not.
Yesterday, my dearest friends S + M (yes!) drove me to the airport, bless their hearts, a few hours early. I made it through customs in record time (4 mins?) and found myself with a good 2.75 hours before my plane was set to take off. Le sigh! I fucking hate airports, let me just put that out there. I've been in about 14 of them in the past 2 months and if I never set foot in one again...well then my life would be really boring and shitty, but part of me would secretly rejoice. Gross carpeting, old people everywhere, snot-nosed brats crying....shudder.
In an attempt to forget my hideous surroundings, I decided to try to nap. Vancouver was not a sleeping week for me (apparently I like to party?) so I was overdue. I had my travel pillow with me (a ratty, 14 year old "pillow" that basically feels like several tube socks rolled up and shoved into a burlap sack, but I love it so!) and decided to put that bitch to good use. Awesomely, the Vancouver airport has no annoying homeless-barriers between seats, so I was able to stretch out my whole 5'4 frame on three chairs. My shit was feeling pretty good all lounged out like a hobo, and I was almost sleeping when Johnny Dickface Snoremouth started trucker-breathing on the bench next door! J F'n C! Really? Can I just say that all snorers should be shot in the face? I'm...not joking.
I got up and wandered to another gate, attempted to sleep again, but there was a little ratling watching Dora the Explora (would be way cooler if it was spelled like that) on her very own 4 year old lap top and squealing with retarded delight. Fine. No rest for the wicked.
Luckily I found refuge in my sweet, loyal ipod, and my new favourite song, Unless it's Kicks (thank you, provider), which I listened to on repeat while vigorously using my starbucks stir sticks to drum along atop the latest Vogue. Eventually I noticed several people looking at me with a mix of disgust, rage and pity - apparently no one appreciates a sweet, 63 minute air drum sesh. Whatever.
Finally we boarded the little avion. By some Christmas Miracle, I had a window seat with an EMPTY seat beside me! Huzzah! I was throwin' my hands in the ay-er-ah in a gratitude dance when a 30-something dude sat in the next seat over (still an empty seat between us though). Fine, I GUESS that's ok.
I hate talking to people when I'm traveling - on the train, elevator, anywhere. Guess what? I don't know you and I have a lot of magazine reading to catch up on, so let's just both look ahead and ignore each other, mmkay? I promptly inserted my earbuds, made a killer playlist and started perusing GQ (why are you so hot, Chris Pine?).
Every so often I notice 30's-guy staring at the side of my head. Mostly I wouldn't respond, but every now and then I'd turn and provide my best cut eye that I hoped he read as "look at me once more and the last thing you'll ever see is my pen in your eye". Clearly, it didn't work.
Fast forward to those horrible final 15 mins on the plane, where you have to put your seat upright, take your hand off your dick, fasten your tray or whatever the fuck and carefully stow everything that's remotely entertaining. Including my ipod (how my ipod is going to prevent the plane from landing is beyond me, but I reluctantly agreed to put it away). The instant my protective headphones left their happy place inside my little ears, 30's-guy fucking zooms in like a vulture. "Oh, hi." No.
Being a chick, I have an annoyingly hard time being verbally mean to strangers. Sure, I can give them death stares, but once they start talking to me, I just don't have it in me to say "Oh, hi. Would you please fuck off and die?" So instead I just say "Oh. Hi." The rest of our 10 minute convo went like so:
Him: "Are you from Winnipeg?"
Me: "God no."
Me: (eyes closed, sighing) "Are you?"
Him: "Yep. It sucks. I'm actually moving back home, which sucks. I was just in Vancouver though, which doesn't suck!" (thanks, tips).
Me: "Wow. So was I. We just came from the Vancouver airport."
Him: "Isn't it awesome?"
Him: "Are you from Vancouver??"
Him: "Where are you from then?" (these are the only options?)
Me: "Toronto. I'm here to visit my girlfriend."
Me: "Um...I guess."
Him: "Where do you live in Toronto?"
Me: "Queen and Dufferin."
Him: "Oh yeah, I've been there. It's so cool. Those streets."
Me: (staring, knowing he has never been to Toronto).
Him: "So, wanna know why I'm coming back to Winnipeg?" No.
Him: "Are you ready for it?"
Me: (looking around making sure that there are witnesses since he is clearly about to reveal some hidden, grotesque object, possibly his penis). "I guess..." (backing up in my seat)
Him: (Takes. Out. His. Front. TEETH.)
Me: "Oh, God!"
Him: (through gums): "I know!"
Me: "Jesus, God. Oh God."
Him: (finally puts teeth back in). "I sail. I was on a sailing trip. I fell off the boat and it hit me in the mouth."
Me: "Wow, so....you have to move back to Winnipeg since it's the one city where you'll more easily blend in without teeth?"
Him: "Ha ha ha! No. I have surgery tomorrow."
Me: "Well, good luck!" (clearly, that's supposed to let him know that this is the end of the conversation. I turn to look out the window).
Him: "So your friend...you're staying with...are you guys around all week? Like, will you be downtown?"
Me: "Ye....nooo. No siree bob! She's crazy, this one. She likes to plan surprise mystery road trips that start the second I land. Who knows where we'll end up. Yep, sure won't be anywhere...around."
Him: "Oh, well...do you..."
Me: "Oh look, the seat belt light is on! I can finally finish my song." Insert ear plugs. Rush off plane.
I still don't understand the gum-revelation. Was that an invitation to make out? Was he trying to impress me? Let it be known: a toothless, bloody mouth is never anything you want to invite others to view, unless you're a toothless, sexy vampire, in which case, give'r.
Welcome to Winnipeg! God, I can't wait to go out tonight.