Table for One

Sunday, November 25, 2012

A Thirty-Something Life: Compliments

Last night (Jan. 2011), an older man in a bar came up to me and told me in French, "You are a perfect example of genetic success."

I think it made both our night.

He had been practicing his line, obviously, because he tripped on his words as he said it. But it seemed to make him happy to have used it.

I got a good inner chuckle at the cheese of it all.

Win-win!

A Thirty-Something Life: Root Beer Slushie

So, I was minding my own business the other day (2011), on my way to work.

I was not 15 meters from my home when bus 67 whisked by and doused me in my first root beer slushie.

From foot to shoulder.

Covered in slush, I dipped into my bag where I found a napkin. I started to clean myself off, thoroughly unimpressed by this experience. I looked up at the corner and the 47 drove by, my ride to work.

I sighed.

I've never liked root beer.

A Thirty-Something Life: Stinky Feet

The other day (2010, actually) I was minding my own business at work (I mind my own business quite a lot!) when later in the afternoon I started to smell something funny. Pretty bloody smelly, actually. It smelled like stinky feet after an hour playing basketball. I immediately assumed it must be my feet.

You see, I had recently destroyed my brown boots which I've had for many years. It was a good companion. But I was not expecting all the snow this year, nor the accompanying salt. The salt had eaten into the leather of my boots and no vinegar/water combo would help that. I tried buying leather protector which only served to destroy my boots further as the sealant magnified the salt-eaten leather by painting it a bright shade of white that even I was impresssed with.

So, anyway, back to the story. The stinky feet...As I was still wearing these now awful-looking boots, I started to think that the chemical reaction I had jumpstarted had somehow reached my socks and was causing them to stink. It was very embarassing, because I assumed everyone could smell it. So I went to the bathroom and smelled my booted feet. No smell. My feet were not the culprit.

Époisses de Bourgogne

I returned to my desk and the smell was there again. I looked over to my colleague. Under his desk was a gym bag. Aha! THIS must be the culprit. Dude forgot to empty out his stinky clothes from last night's workout. Yucky! I was not impressed, but held my tongue.

But when he left later that day, the smell lingered. I should have known it wasn't him. He's Asian after all!

So I rifled through my desk, thinking that I had perhaps left some food in one of the drawers. I opened each drawer and sniffed, like a dog on a walk (thankfully most of my colleagues had already left for the day). I went through each of the three drawers twice. Finally it seemed as though the smell was coming from the bottom drawer, where I had my lunch bag. I thought back to what I had eaten that day and couldn't put the pieces together. I started to empty out the bag and my hand encountered something soft and malleable.

I pulled it out. It was the Époisses de Bourgogne I had bought the night before at Première Moisson.

This lovely cheese is now stinking up my fridge, where it belongs!

A Thirty-Something Life: Metro

In the springtime of 2010, I was working for a little company out west and had to take the metro everyday to and from Namur metrol. By the time I would find myself a seat in a car, I would sink down and listen to my MP3 player with my eyes closed.

As it was one of those warm days in May, I took off my jacket, revealing a short-sleeved top. Luckily, I had found a single seat and was leaning against the window, my left elbow on the ledge and my head in my hand. My right arm was placed on my purse and I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the music and the movement of the metro car.

We were a few stops away from Berri-Uqam and the car had become full to bursting. People latched onto the metal bars all around me, but I kept my eyes closed and focused on the music.

A man stood above me, swishing back and forth with the rhythm of the metro. I could feel his presence hovering over me. I ignored him. And then...he sneezed. As soon as I heard that sneeze (yes I heard it above the music blasting through the earphones), I heard the tell-tale sign of impending moisture. A split-second later, a sizeable glob of his mucus found its way to my right elbow.

Utterly disgusted, but not at all surprised, I opened my eyes and looked into the man's. He gave me the 'oh-crap-did-I-do-that?' look and shrugged. I reached into my purse and found a partially used sheet of tissue paper. And I wiped myself off. The man turned away and then got off the metro at Berri-Uqam, never looking back. I held the tissue paper with the tips of my fingers until I, too, got off the metro a few stops later. I went straight to the garbage bin, tossed the hated evidence of my recent attack into the bin and hurried home where I rushed to the bathroom and diligently scrubbed my elbow and hands until I felt a little less dirty.

There is something to be said about always having tissue paper with you. But sometimes I wonder if the laws of attraction are at work here. Do I often find myself in these types of situations because I have the means to decrease the effects of such 'attacks'?

I'm thinking of banning tissues from my purse. But it'll have to wait until winter is over. The city of Montreal will thank me for not submitting it to my perpetual runny nose.