I went clothes shopping on Saturday. N.I.G.H.T.M.A.R.E Sometimes I think I really am a man as I detest clothes shopping. How on earth can trying on clothes be considered fun or therapy. You spend half an hour picking out something to try on, another 15 minutes trying to work out your size, give up and bring in all sizes with you only for the Power Hound at the changing room door inform you that you can only bring in 4 items to which you throw an almighty strop, bring in the 4 items, try them on, realise you have vastly underestimated what size you are, force the items on anyway, penguin waddle your way out to the Hound with vast quantities of flesh on show to get the other 4, waddle back in fearing death by lack of oxygen if you don't get the tighties off soon, try on the other 4 and almost drown in the sea of material, consider the fact that no one makes clothes in your size, give up, leave the store, get a coffee and sit staring with hatred at anyone that has correctly fitted clothing on themselves.

However, the Gap came up trumps for me. The changing room goon was rather ungoon like, more gay like and took great joy in dressing me, flitting from changing room to floor in quite the bouncy fashion. I think he was a little disappointed that I only purchased one item. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I only wanted one pair of pants not the entire Fall collection.

I ventured to the swanky Yorkville area of Toronto. The closest I got to Versace jeans was leaving my breath mark on their very clean window. Not anymore it ain't.

Commuter Observations

If you are going to stand on the left side of the subway escalator get the hell out of my way when I come torpedoing behind you trying to catch my train.

If the door says "pull" it is highly unlikely that it will "push".

Please have your subway tokens or passes ready before you reach the machine so I can actually make it to my train some time this decade.

Stop bringing toddlers and push chairs on crammed subways during rush hours. No one appreciates it and you only give yourselves high blood pressure making sure little Jimmy doesn't get the wrong end of a briefcase across the face.

The door that says "Entry" does not become "Exit" simply because you are in a rush.

Coffee guy at the commuter train station- you rock. At 6.30am you always have a smile for me and that I appreciate.

Ian's Niece's Christening


Ian's little niece was christened a few weeks ago and here is the photographic evidence. Her squished up little face hides the fact that she is quite the adorable rugrat and enjoys posing for pictures. It was one hell of a hot summer day so Ian was out of his shirt and trousers combo as soon as the pastor ended the prayer marathon. I, however, chose to remain in christening chic.

Urgh

Our apartment building is full of drunk old men. It adds that certain je ne sais quoi to an evening sitting on the balcony hearing the thump thump of drunken stumbles, uncouth belching and inane yelling at the main door security system.

And..............

And the mail people also returned the geographically challenged package to the wrong address.

Geography Ralph Wiggum Style

So I sent a package to England last week. On the package I addressed it to "England" and on the custom declaration form I wrote "United Kingdom"

The package was returned to me with a note saying that I needed to specify a country in order to facilitate international delivery.

What in the name of all that is good and holy are people taught in schools here. I have repeatedly explained to so called well educated Canadians that I am NOT British or English, that I am in fact Irish with many of them failing to notice the difference. Even more horrifying is that a substantial number are unaware of a sea separating Ireland and the United Kingdom.

Calling Blog Care Services

Were this blog a child it would be extracted from my care by social services on the grounds of abandonment and I would be slapped with jail time, no doubt. However, like the well prepared accused I do have an excuse- Moving. It took a lot out of Ian and I, probably more so me seeing as I would rather give over a limb than actually indulge in the insanity that is shipping ones life from one outpost to another. Nevertheless it has been done- furniture is in place, only a few bits and pieces are lacking and some boxes are still lying unwanted on the floor with ne'er a sign of ever being unpacked. I have, however, discovered that I am residing with Martha Stewart. My wonderful Ian has become chef extraordinaire and is hell bent on creating a 'cosy home' whether I want one or not. There has been talk of wall hangings, accent walls and other such nonsense. I am from the school of simplicity or, or in chic fashion lingo, "minimalism" and so am not too pushed about the placement of various pictures on the walls. The only area of decorating that I will wield my fist of iron in will be that to do with the hanging of my black and white pictures from Vietnam. They shall be placed with the precision of an art gallery wannabe.

Moving might have been a little smoother had the mattress delivery men been able to tell the difference between queen and double. The mattress fits but the box spring might be able to sleep one of Snow White's dwarfs at a push. I have no idea how such people manage to get jobs. Before anyone asks why I didn't complain at the initial moment of delivery I must add that Ian and I were not here and that it was Mrs. King who had the 'joy' of dealing with Canada's Worst Delivery Ma. She questioned the size to which the mattress cretin said "Well I can't do anything about it". It seems we would have to magic up the mattress delivery fairies. Mind you it did feel good yelling down the phone at a store representative. Deeeelightful. I like yelling.