Tea? What Tea?

I love to go out for tea. Love tea. Love it. And there are so many places in Toronto. Love it. Getting together with all my girlfriends and pretending we're civilized. Nothing else like it.

So I decide I want to go to tea here. In Winnipeg. You just know this story ain't gonna have no happy ending.

I decide on, like, one of, like, only two teahouses in Winnipeg proper (and it's not really a teahouse, per se either) and off citrusboy and I went.

Now let me just tell you: beforehand, I had checked their hours. Thursday 12-9. Great. Awesome. Sounds like a plan, man.

So we get there. Their little sign says OPEN. Cool. This might actually work, I think. I should have knocked on some wood, because I get a little closer and see: CLOSED FOR PAINTING. OPEN FROM 12-4.

You have got to be shitting and covering me with sprinkles. I look at my watch. It is seriously 4:01. Seriously.

This-city-HATES-me. Anybody really need more proof?

That's the Sound of My Head Hitting the Floor

So I was up all night (until 4:30 am to be exact) trying to finish a nutrition assignment that I needed to hand in the next day. Or make that this day. Today. And I needed to get up by 6 am in order to make the bus on time to hand the damn thing in. So that's 1.5 hours of sleep I just got.

Maybe I can squeeze some pity sushi out of citrusboy later today.

Even though it's my own damn fault. Because, after having over a month to work on it, I barely did anything. Because I went out to see a movie and out to dinner the day before it was due. And stayed out until 8. Because I'm a procrastinating little twit and everybody knows it. Except, hopefully, the nutrition professor.

Either way, anyone wanna send over some pity sushi if only because they feel I'm going to need it when I realize the world doesn't hire procrastinating dieticians?

Humpty Dumpty? Gave the Finger to Winnipeg?

So we had some people come over on the weekend, before which I wanted to get some party food. You know, the usual casualties: Spinach dip and bread bowl, Smartfood, tortillas and salsa. And, I wanted some party mix chips. And I don't mean any old crappy party mix. I mean the good stuff: Humpty Dumpty Cheesy Party Mix.

I set out to Superstore: Nothing. Safeway: Nothing. IGA: Nothing. Sobey's: Nothing. Shoppers: Nothing. Wal-Mart: Nothing.

This freakin' city doesn't have any Humpty Dumpty products? Nothing? Seriously? Oh. My. God. Now I've seen it all. I need to move.

Broke-down Gal

So we go to a bar on Wednesday night for some cheap beer and cheap wings, 'cause, well, we're cheap. I forget my driver's license at home, because, well, I don't drive anymore and it's well past its expiry date anyway.

And wouldn't you know it, they happen to be carding at said club. So citrusboy pulls out his license and the big-bad-bouncer-guy checks it. I'm all: Hee, hee, I forgot mine. Hee. Big-bad-bouncer-guy takes one look at me and says: That's okay, go right in. Not quite what you were thinking, huh? Not quite what I was expecting either. So fine, we go in and have a dandy time. But not the end of my story, my friends. No, indeed.

The next day I'm talking to a friend and I tell her where we went for wings. I add that I didn't have any ID and he still let me in. She's all: NO WAY. They never do that. They never ever ever ever EVER let anyone in without ID. Uh, okay, I think.

So I'm an old hag apparently who couldn't possibly pass for 17 if her life depended on it. I must look 90 years old for him to be so sure about not getting busted for under-age drinking.

Wonderful. Winnipeg has turned me into some crazy broken-down, decrepit, fossil. I wonder when the mummifying begins?

Heal Me, Oh Great Masseuse!

When I first went for massage therapy, hoping to cure my lovely, lovely back pain, the RMT didn't do a particularly good job. In fact, I think she made it worse: it hurt like a bitch for almost a week. Which, I'm told, is not supposed to happen. And she never told me to come back. So what? She thought she cured me in one go? Not bloody likely.

So after a couple of months, I thought I'd try it again and went back. To someone else, mind you. And she was all: Oh, this? I can fix this!

Seriously? You can fix this? Because if you can, I will give you my first born. And my second born. And anything born after that. Then again, that might not effectively display my deep and eternal gratitude for the fix-up, as I hate children. If you can fix this, I will give you my chocolate danish. Yes, I will. My chocolate danish. Now there's some gratitude!

So two massages later, and it's definitely feeling less numb.

Wow, Winnipeg houses a miracle worker. Maybe this city is good for something.

So Much for Getting Sushi Today

First (second?) snowfall of the year. 25 cm and more on the way. Blinding wind and snow. Everything closed. -30C tomorrow. I can hardly wait. Really.

But at least I got new boots. Yay boots!

Love Me Some Library

The Millennium Library is finally open. Finally! Open! Let us all rejoice.

Finally, all the books I have been waiting oh so patiently to read will be mine. Bwahahahaha! Though I suppose since most people have been waiting two years for the damn thing to open, while I've only had to wait one year, I should have nothing to complain about. So I won't.

And the library is pretty awesome, I must say. Probably as big as Mississauga's Central Library (maybe even bigger) although I'm not convinced there are as many books.

So I go in, grab the mountain of books (think I'll be able to finish them in three weeks?)
that I have waiting for me, when what do I hear? A tour? Of the library? I'm in!

So it's me and 12 teetering seniors (this entire city consists soley of teetering seniors), wending our way though the library and its four floors plus staircases. This should somehow end badly, but it doesn't.

We get to the children's section which has an aboriginal design: One lady says "What's that supposed to look like? The inside of a teepee or something?" Heh. Good one.

The most amusing part was when I walked right out of the library and past the sensors with my unchecked books and the alarm didn't go off. Then I walked back in and guess what? Yup, the alarm went off. Winnipeg, you are infinitely backwards!

And this cooler-than-thou library has my Vegetarian Times magazine. Score! And Cat Fancy. Heh. But, sadly, no In Touch or Scoop to which I've become "mildly" addicted. Maybe if I foam at the mouth I can convince them to get it?

So maybe Winnipeg has something going for it? I concede one point.

Cruisin' For A Bruisin'

Lived in Toronto 28 years. Never hit by a car.
Lived in Winnipeg 1 year. Hit by a car.

And I don't mean while we were in another car. I mean while walking on our own two feet.

And I don't mean crossing against the light. I mean crossing while the shiny, happy, walk guy blinked away in all his walk-this-way-yellowness.

And I don't mean in the middle of the night when all the drunks are out. I mean at seven in the evening.

Take from that what you will. I leave it to your imagination to figure out what I take from it.

Happy Halloween! Huh? What? It's Over? Oh.

So I'm a tad late with my Halloween story. Whatever. You'll forgive me right? If only because I live in this hell-hole and you have the deepest sympathy for me, right? Right. Let's carry on.

On the 27th, citrusboy and I were invited to a Halloween social. I know what you're thinking: Awesome! Nope, not awesome, because let me explain something to you about Winnipeg Socials. It's not the usual dinner-dance thingy where you stuff your face, booze it up, dance till 3am, then throw up in the cab on your way home. Not personal experience, by the way, but I've heard stories. Don't laugh - it's true.

Winnipeg Socials are thrown in order to pay for a couple's wedding. Say what? I said. You go, pay the entrance fee, pay for your booze, no or almost no food is served (does kielbasa on a toothpick count?), are forced to participate in raffles and contests (ie. "donate" more money to the cause - the cause being some couple you've never clapped eyes on before), and then go home properly sober.

To say the least, I find this offensive. If you can't afford the lobster dinner for 500, for God's sakes, get the freakin' chicken dinner for 150. I mean, really. Why do you think I should pay for your lobster? What? I didn't quite hear you. Oh, because that's how it's done here. I see. Well, that ain't how it's done in my mind. In my opinion, you get what you can afford and that's it.

I suppose people will argue that they go to these socials to have a good time at a party, but I can do the same thing at my own home with my own booze and my own friends. Without paying for some lobster that, after all, I'm never going to get to eat anyway.

On the 28th, we got invited to a real Halloween party: booze it up, then stumble home.

Citrusboy and I dressed up as Caesar and Cleopatra (respectively, of course - though I would like to see citrusboy put on those crazy fake eyelashes of mine).

There were prizes to be had, but they were not had by us. The Candy Corn won best costume, I think. And it was a pretty awesome outfit, though I'm still not sure what Candy Corn is. Suffice to say, she looked like an Oompa-Loompa (from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, not Willy Wonka). Oh my God, I just looked it up: she totally looked like a Candy Corn.

Oh, and apparently cabs are not to be found in Winnipeg on Halloween night. Either a busy signal or a "we're out of cabs asshole" greeted us as we tried to make our way home.

Where have I found myself, where there are no cabs and I must pay for lobster I don't even get to eat?

Heave big, huge, gigantic, enormous, hefty, immeasurably immense sigh and bury myself back in my bedsheets, never to emerge until I'm safely back in Toronto.

iGross

Okay, so I'm standing in the very long, exceedingly painful, everybody-needs-their-crack-fix-all-at-the-same-time line at the Tim Hortons on campus, when I spot some nastiness across the way.

Some campus organization (I didn't bother to figure out which one, but maybe in retrospect I should have) had set up a table with baskets of bagels and timbits (linked for the I don't know what the effing hell you're talking about crowd). I watched as a woman licked her fingers, picked up two bagels, manhandled them for about 45 seconds, then PUT THEM BACK IN THE BASKET. Gross.

But that's not all. No, it's not. Then someone upset the bowl of timbits (I believe they were honey-glazed, but that's neither here nor there) and they went flying to the floor in a tan sea of miniature missiles. So, of course, one of the organizationees had the very bright idea of picking them up with her bare hands, putting them back in the bowl, and PUTTING THE BOWL BACK ON THE TABLE. Double gross. Triple gross. Gross ad nauseum to infinity and beyond.

At this point I had to turn away, afraid that my quickie breakfast of ham and rye would resurface and rejoin the world of the living.

Finally, I get to the front of the line and order my Mocha Cafe sans "topping". Now, this absence of "topping" is for several reasons:

1. It turns the coffee into the calorie allotment for my dinner and then some.

2. How can you trust something called "topping" and not, say, whipped cream. Or cream from a can. Or anything but "topping". Yew.

3. Fifty cents extra? Please.

So, just to reiterate, the ideal scenario here is a Mocha Cafe without "topping". Of course, the ideal scenario does not occur in the small, small world of Winnipeg Damsel. Winnipeg Damsel receives a Cafe Mocha avec "topping".

There goes my buck ten. And remind me to never take food from any campus organization promoting anything. I don't care if they're giving away free chocolate danishes. I'm not touching the shit.