A Different Kind of Hat Trick

Whenever I end up in downtown Toronto, I always think of 3 things.

#1 What kind of panhandler would I be?
A girl of many hobbies, I often wonder if I would juggle, sing karaoke, tell jokes, or perform some type of lyrical dance for attention.
I know I have good hair, but I don’t think it’s good enough to make money on it’s own.


#2 Being in Toronto and not seeing a baseball game seems odd.
The epic Sky Dome, now called the Rogers Centre, has always been a place of excitement for me.
On this day I eventually made it there, which brings me to the next observation;

#3 I wonder if Cataldo is working today?
Ever since I’ve know him, my brother in law has worked at the CBC.
The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation is a TV station.
This educational note is for my one follower in the US.
I remember going on a trip there with my Broadcast Journalism class and being fascinated by our class work in action.
I have to say; it’s a pretty cool space.
I revel at the sheer magnitude.
The place where shows I never watch are created.
It doesn’t make them bad, it makes me selective.

On this particular day, I do what I normally do.
I text Cataldo and show up at the CBC unannounced, with the assumption he will drop everything he’s doing and entertain me.
And rightfully so.
The programming of the nation should come to a halt whenever royalty stops by.
I smile at this analogy.
It gives me an added level of sophistication.
Like the Brand Name party mix.
This time he’s in a meeting.
I chuckle.
I used to be in “meetings” too, the classic get out of jail pass for the working man.
I used that excuse many a time and then realize today’s blog protagonist might actually be in a meeting.
I’ve heard of this rare breed of productive meeting, but I’ve never attended one.
Which is why it made complete sense for me to teach Effective Meetings.
The first lesson in my 12 hour class;
“Ask yourself, do you really need to have a meeting? Wouldn’t a phone call or email do?”
Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.
I digress.
Just like the wonders of a tv oven, Cataldo magically appears (ready, not raw) and we foray to the Jays shop to kill his lunch break.
I need a new Blue Jays hat.
I say that every game I go to.
I am team colour purist.
I strongly believe a team’s colours and general style should be respected.

I mull this over.
Does a country change the colours of its nation’s flag whenever Pantone makes a hue trendy?

Do gangs adjust their colours just to change things up?                                                              No!
Does a Mother Duck abandon its ducklings if they came out a different colour?
Perhaps if it’s ugly.

Hmm again.

Speaking of ugly, The Jays shop is a hidden treasure with many different versions of offensive headgear.

In no particular order, let me present to you some heinous hats, and the fictitious people that wear them.

The Duck Dynasty Douche-bag. 

17904150_10158633541675595_3629060358432483935_nDrinks bitch beer. Voted for Trump during municipal election due to influence of said beverage. Favourite hobbies include manspreading and NASCAR. Spits in public. Wears a white cloak to unwind on weekends. A night out on the town always includes a trip to Cash Money followed by the hunting section at Walmart.

The “I’m 1/8th Irish”

17884156_10158633541695595_5730767293445508373_nThe results are in from Ancestry.com. This person has no real existing European lineage. Irish Spring is about as good as it gets. Notoriously unlucky. Might be colour blind. Argues at length about these colours being the team’s exclusive fifth uniform. Highly argumentative. Most likely home schooled. Only child. Self-explanatory.


The Occasional Fan.

17862605_10158633541400595_4389584003044460524_nCrappy golfer. Crappy mid-level executive. Crappy at everything in life proven by lack of interesting hat colour. Wears this hat at the weekly golf game that his wife picked out for him. Wears matching oatmeal outfit. Drives something obnoxious like a Hybrid.

The Fan Girl.

17795787_10158633541550595_5049873464515454853_nNo real interest in baseball but likes this hat because pink is fun and cute. Will force her boyfriend to take her to baseball games with her and the guys. Asks stupid questions i.e. “Why is it called Baseball, and not Diamond Ball?” “Is it done yet?” Cannot recall any part of the game but has 78 selfies posted during said game on insta.

The Raver.

17630185_10158633541415595_3828071005878227729_nHigh on life, opiates and other questionable means of chemical highs. Believes Unicorns exist because they’ve spent many a time being chased by them. Believes in peace, love and the legalization of marijuana. Does not watch baseball but thought the dragon on this cap would ward off evil vibes.

The Self-Proclaimed “Life of the Party.”


For the record, anyone who calls themselves the life of the party is probably unenjoyable. Has an endless repertoire of fart jokes. Took 6 years to complete a 2 year college program. Will hit on anything with a pulse. People are too nice to blow him off, so he spends lots of time in fictitious relationships. Aloha!

Featured post

Always a Career Bridesmaid

On May 10 2014, I had the proud role of being the Master of Ceremonies for my best-friend’s wedding.

Ok, I was officially the Mistress of Ceremonies, but that sounded far more promiscuous than I’m comfortable with.

So let’s stick to MC.

It was a glorious spring day…when everything comes together seemingly without effort, celebrating two people whose love for one another made the day even more beautiful.

Add to this reverie, a charming, articulate, good looking MC…and you have a dream wedding.

It was that good.

People are still talking about it.

I digress.

Upon wrapping up my duties and handing things over to the DJ, I did, what any self-respecting MC in my position would do—I made a beeline towards the bar.

A middle-aged man was already there, and congratulated me on a job well done. We started chatting, you know, friendly bar banter, and then, just when I thought I was safe, I receive the loaded statement.

“Oh, you’re single?!? Don’t worry, you’ll find someone.”

I chuckled.

By his tone and look of concern, it was quite obvious this person considered being single an excruciating disease…one, that with proper treatment could be inoculated.

I thanked this man for his well wishes, took my drink and poured it on his head.

Ok, that part didn’t happen, but I did make a polite exit and continued to enjoy myself with the wedding guests—back to the land of reality where people aren’t defined by marital status and wishing their time will come.

Months later, I find myself relating this married versus single context to career development, in particular, employment status.

On one extreme, you have Career Brides. These folks are professionals with salary, tenure, vacation, benefits and, for lack of a better term, continuity.

They may even be supported by a union and aren’t afraid to let you know it—particularly if you ask them to do something that isn’t in their job description.

Our blushing Brides revel in their status and assume that if you aren’t a bride, you want to be a Bride.

Good for them.

The other extreme showcases our Career Bridesmaids.

A Career Bridesmaid may have a series of part-time jobs, live off of different contracts, and does not have the safety and stability of a Career Bride.

They do what needs to be done to make ends meet, and are just as proud.

Our blushing bridesmaids may enjoy the freedom and flexibility of their work, and may even assume if you aren’t a Bridesmaid, you want to be a Bridesmaid.

Good for them too.

Where do you see yourself within this spectrum?

Who would you hire to do the work?

Would employment status even matter?

The point is, let’s stop judging people on their employment status and begin to appreciate the value they bring to the organization.

A Career Bride may long for the flexibility of a Bridesmaid, and maybe there are Bridesmaids who want the stability of a Bride’s career path.

Wherever possible, let’s not have processes trump the competence of great people.

Stay true to your professional convictions and let the rest follow.

Later that night, after rejoining the wedding party, I scanned the crowd and saw that same man, sitting beside his wife.

They were clearly having a heated discussion.

Proof that it’s always better to be a single bridesmaid than in a committed, unhappy marriage.

I waved to him and smiled.


Notice: This post was originally published through the ABC: Alumni Blog connection. Check out this blog for some great career tips and musings!


First on the left–that’s me as a real bridesmaid, in Rome, back in June 1999!


Peculiar encounters of the Purple Hair kind

**I found this draft, 98% complete on my phone so decided to finish it a few days later. Enjoy!**



This morning I realize I slept in.
I typically wake up 5 minutes before my alarm tells me to, which is about an hour earlier than anyone else.

At 5:27am, I glance at the clock and realize the alarm was never set.

As I stare in horror at my cell phone screen, I realize a shoddy attempt was made to set the alarm but I never did swipe the screen to the right.

Everything in life favours right handed people.


If I was to set the alarm and swipe to the left, I’m sure I would have still forgot.

Fighting off sleep to watch a documentary on Randy Johnson’s illustrious baseball career was better than  any type of sleep aid.

What he loses in eloquence, he gains by ensuring the beaning of batters became a fixture of the modern game.

I mull this over.

If I was beaned by Randy Johnson, I probably wouldn’t charge the mound, either.
He always has and always will remind me of a Transformer.


As I scramble to find something else to wear other than a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle t-shirt and flannel pants, I make a mental note that this is the weekend Mount clothing will move off of my floor and into my dresser.

It could happen.

In my haste, I get to the washroom, look in the mirror and smile.

Today is one of the first day I haven’t scared myself by doing this.

Why, you may ask?

It’s because I’m currently sporting purple hair.

I have to admit, it’s been a big change for me.

Here’s what my hair used to look like:

I went from sporting the Angela Bower look to President of the Mindy Cohn fan club:

Hey, at least I’m loyal to my 80’s sitcoms.

With purple hair comes great responsibility.

I cannot tell you the amount of feedback I’ve had because of it.

“I don’t have the guts to do that to my hair!” 

I get that a lot.

Newsflash; you don’t have the looks, either.

Yikes, that was harsh.

Perhaps the colouring has seeped in.

Out of the many encounters and conversations I’ve had about my hair; these three peculiar encounters stand out.

All in the same day too.

Consider them parables with poignant lessons.

Because this blog is also educational.

Peculiar Encounter #1 occurs when a friend of mine sees my hair for the first time and says; “daaaaaaaaaaaaammmn!”

I’m impressed by her seventh inning stretch of the word.

This is followed by two astute observations;

#1 She tells me “You know, that’s going to be a bitch to maintain!”

She’s right. As someone with a hair stylist in her family, she can say things and not get voodoo dolled afterwards.

To this, I respond; “Luckily it’s not me doing the work!”

We laugh.

The way that beautiful people with awesome hair typically do.

#2 She also tells me; “You know, your clothes will never match your hair ever again! Everything is going to clash”

Such a prophecy haunts me this morning as I avoid throwing on a red sweater and curse her name out loud.

Lesson learned: In a world of fake, hang onto those who speak the truth. They are keepers, even if you want to cuff them.

Peculiar Encounter #2 occurs literally outside the office building.

I’m walking along the street and am stopped dead in my tracks by a young woman.

I never knew what dead in my tracks meant until I literally almost killed this person.

“Your hair…it’s amazing!! I love it!” I say thanks because that what nice people do.

For someone who loathes small talk, I certainly have been a catalyst of it.

I ask the student; “What program are you taking?”

“Oh no! I’m not a student! I don’t have a job. I walk up and down the streets all day! Why, are you hiring? Can I work for you?”

I briefly mull over expensing a Personal Assistant or Bodyguard.

I do appreciate her proactive approach.

After more chatting, I send her on her way with a couple of resources and the location to a career centre about 13 minutes up the road.

Lesson learned: It doesn’t cost anything to be a decent human being. Besides, maybe this person will remember you and win cash for life. 

Reciprocity in action.

I kinda like that.

My third and final encounter of the day occurs at the No Frills grocery store.

I can’t think of a better name for a place where good customer service and replenished inventory go to die.

I’m buying soap because there appears to be a soap shortage at home.

Having eaten it regularly as a child, I can say the taste of Ivory is much better than Irish Spring.

The alternative would have been to stop swearing but then I wouldn’t have developed such a discriminating palette.

As I place my soap products out of mouth reach and onto the conveyor, the cashier looks up to say; “I have to tell you, I just love your hair!”

I say “Thanks!” because that’s what nice people do.

He is then joined by a coworker who tells me she wants her hair my colour but her boyfriend won’t allow it.



She looks really sad.

I say “He sounds like a real piece of work!”

And she proceeds to tell me and her coworker how he really is a nice guy, he just likes things certain ways and she just has to ask his permission.

I shrug my shoulders, grab my scented products and leave.

I have nothing positive to add.

Lesson learned: Hair colour can fade but a jerk significant other can sting for a lot longer.

Also, wear a cap next time you go grocery shopping.


“Et tu, Brute?”

This morning, I find myself more perplexed than usual.

As I arrive on the train platform, I realize the feng shui of my train towers has been altered.

To the left, my usual 6:18 train has its doors closed.

To my right, the 6:48 train has its doors open.

Except I soon realize the alleged 6:48 is actually the 5:48 due to mechanical problems.

My suspicions are affirmed with the following announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen this is STILL the 5:48 train out of Hamilton. We’ve had some delays this morning. The moment the brake tests are finished, we will be on our way”

Yes, you go ahead and fix those brakes before leaving.

It’s the courteous thing to do.

I board the alleged 5:48 at 6:11 and wonder what to call it.

Is it the new 6:18, or the alleged 5:48 once removed?

I’m mild annoyed with this change in events because it’s disrupted my chi.

Let’s be clear, the train has done nothing wrong, it’s more the obnoxious lady who keeps articulating that she’s sooooo late for work!

And then continues to swear out loud, towards other passengers, the Customer Service Ambassador and anyone that can hear her.

I’ve managed to ignore her a couple of times, but our eyes lock and then I nod at her and smile.

Lidz on the Go faithful know with that one point of contact, Crabby McCrabberton has awarded herself a place in my blog.
Regardless of what one does for a living, eventually, everyone has work with customers or clients at some point in their lives.

I can’t think of a time when someone was being an unpleasant waste of humanity and that inspired me to work faster and harder on their behalf.

Here’s a tip.

If you’re in a verbally abusive frame of mind, no other customer service provider will advocate for you, either.

It’s the reason you end up with hidden fees on your cell phone bill, and your burger tastes a little funny after you’ve complained about it.

After being irate, your products have been altered, likely not for the better.

And the best part; you’ll never track down the representative who is operating from a call centre in Mumbai, either.

I digress.

Back in Hamilton, I’m about to ask this lady if she’s a surgeon and late for a life altering operation (the only real reason she should be upset) when a new announcement emerges:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this 5:48 train is now your 6:18. We will be leaving shortly.”


I’m pleased with this announcement as it might prompt Dr. Grey to shut her pie hole.

So the 5:48 is now the 6:18 once removed, and the 6:18 is the 6:48 once removed.

Dr. Grey is now joined by a nurse and they  both lament at how the 5:48 never runs on time.



Just who do these folks think they are?

Some sort of clever commuting bloggers?


If she is a surgeon, she really could afford to buy closer to the city.

Just sayin.

The train leaves and I think of today’s date.

March 16.

Yesterday, March 15 was the ides of March.

What does Ides mean?

Good question.

The Ides was one of three markers used each month which related to the position of the moon.

It’s a special day for me and my Roman ancestry, as it marks the anniversary of the assassination of Julius Caesar.

All the poor man was trying to do was unite the Republic.

He was thanked for his efforts by being stabbed, multiple times, by friends and peers.

Poor Julius.

It’s also seems like a peculiar, reflective date for me.

It’s a day when I’m reminded of multiple memes involving salad with a knife stuck in it on Facebook.

It’s also a time when I perform my annual relationship review.

Made famous by the Shakespearean play, Julis Caesar, “Et tu, Brute?” is now used to express surprise and dismay at the treachery of a supposed friend.


The interwebs can teach us so much if we let it.

I think back to situations where I’ve felt betrayed.

It’s not a good feeling.

It’s actually hard to recover from.

One never completely recovers from treachery.

I think each time treachery occurs, we feel wounded, remove the blade and try to move on.

The problem with being stabbed…it does leave a mark, in the form of a wound that could have varying degrees of recovery.

We get on with our lives, but the markings are still there.

Be careful of how you treat people.

Not everyone is a crash test dummy.

Not everyone is a surgeon either.

Hail Caesar.

The Boys Of Summer

This morning, our blog’s protagonist returns to the big green chariot with an overwhelming sense of fervour.

For the past 36 hours, her beautiful hometown of Hamilton hosted quite the winter spectacle.

She was physically unable to get to work as snow ravished the city, closing transportation routes, malls and just about everything.


I was hoping people would read that  introductory section just like that one guy in Hollywood narrates all the movie trailers.

Think Cameron Diaz’ conscience in The Holiday.

Go ahead, give it a try.

It sounds way cooler.

Now back to the first person.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled to have to work from home.

The one thing that was working was the internet which makes this role a lot easier.

Isn’t it ironic…the only day of the year whereby elementary and secondary schools would have closed for a snow day occurred during March Break?

Don’t you think?

Ya, I really do think.

Oh great, now that Alanis Morisette song Ironic will be lodged in my think tank for the next little while.

It’s also ironic that all the scenarios from that chart topper of 1995 are not ironic…merely a combination of poor life choices preceded by bad luck.

I’m about to digress, then I realize some true dramatic irony.

What’s also ironic is that Alanis Morisette was likely unaware of the definition of irony while crafting this hit.

I’m sure she sleeps better than I do at night, using her millions of dollars from royalties to fluff her Sealy posturepedic pillows.




Now I digress.

I board my chariot, a random cab car du jour and see this glorious sign:

The Boys Of Summer Are Back!

I cannot help but see this sign and have a big smile.

Think of the Grinch, once he realizes he can destroy the Whos’ Christmas.

Typically, the only signage that excites me on the Go Train involves their unintentionally ironic etiquette posters, but here I can make an exception.

I’m easily excitable and impressionable.

I love loving things, especially Blue Jays baseball.

I can tell you when my affection for the team started…long before the ’92 World Series and ’91 pennant.

Damn you, Kirby Puckett!

I was a Jr. Lidz and accompanying my parents for a visit to the CIBC Bank.

It must have gone well, because there were all smiles and McDonald’s afterwards.

During our visit, Bank lady commented on how cute I was.

I still get that a lot.

Once the meeting was over, she gave me a small package that looked like a deck of playing cards.

It was a pack of baseball cards from the 1985 Blue Jays roster.

Jesse Barfield, Lloyd Moseby, George Bell…all of these people had their own card!

Each came with the CIBC logo.

Super cool.

I wanted my own card too.

From that point onward, with very little to go on, I decided I would enjoy the game of baseball.

It was and still is one of my favourite sports.

Of course, growing up in an Italian household, soccer is a cult like phenomenon, but baseball was the sport that became truly mine.

Baseball is polarizing. People either love it or hate it.

Kinda like me.

Note: If you hate me, I’m likely already plotting your demise.

And I’m a great actor so you don’t notice.

That is a true story.

I digress again.

Baseball really is the sport that truly everyone can enjoy.

It can be easily understood or critically analyzed.

It’s not ironic, but coincidental that I see this sign within hours of receiving my Blue Jays game tickets and getting the MLB network back on my tv.

It is ironic that these baseball related coincidences occur during the worst winter weather of the year.

It is also ironic that the alleged Boys Of Summer begin their training in February and if successful, will end up playing through October.

Who would have thought, it figures?
I know I did.


Winter Storm Warning

This morning I wake up rather conflicted.

Is it 4:09am or 5:09am?

Meh, doesn’t matter. Either way it’s too early.

I, like millions of others before me, will continue to blame my general sense of apathy within the next few days on daylight savings time.

Having desperately craved the sunshine, us winter warriors finally gain an hour of daylight and now everyone becomes slightly stupid.

A series of events has me lined up waiting for the early train, not the early early train.

As anticipated, the train itself is on the platform, yet no one is allowed to board yet.




I smirk.


I’m about to ask the relic beside me why she wears her scarf outside of her jacket and how does that provide warmth when the train makes a groaning sound that I suspect regulars are accustomed to.

Onto the train we go.

I have slight hesistations.

Anytime I take a train other than my usual big green chariot, I feel like an adulteress.

I’m in a committed relationship with the 6:18.

He’s a Gemini. I’m an Aquarius.

He’s loyal. I’m loyal too.

He has multiple personalities.

I elect to ignore them.

We have our issues.

So too do all of my friends in committed relationships, and this bastard doesn’t get to talk back to me.

Based on these stipulations, I realize I’m doing ok.

I find a new perch to share my wonderful stories on and am about to decide where to start, when this muse pops up on screen:

Winter Storm Warning.

As someone who works for a living, I can assure you there’s no greater feeling than the potential to not have to work.

Especially on company dime.

Special Weather Statements are like stockings on Christmas morning.

Winter Storm Warnings are like presents, and Winter Storm In Effect is the crown jewel or diamond ring of the weather statement triumvirate.

There’s nothing like the threat of a winter storm to turn even the most aggressive of atheists into believers.

Side note; have you ever meet an atheist or a vegan that wasn’t aggressively obnoxious?

You have not.

How do I know?

Because within the first 30 seconds of meeting them, they always tell you.

I digress.

Most professionals, regardless of their trendy hipster beliefs and tendencies become meteorologists with the threat of snow looming.

I think back to a time at an old job, where it was almost Christmas break time and was myself and a coworker in the office.

The snow came down in a flurry.

You can smirk at my clever use there.

We had the “Manager of the day” come around and tell us we can leave now and only be docked half a day’s worth of pay.

I smiled sweetly and told her I’d rather wait a few minutes until the company officially closes that way I’m paid for my time.

Once she left, and she likely left to go home, my coworker and I proceeded to have a snowball fight outside until we received official word it was paid time to go home.

On company dime.

Winter Storm Warnings are exciting but typically don’t turn out.

I take them with a cautious optimism.

Last Friday afternoon, the power went out in our building.

I always have hope.

With the weekend rapidly approaching, rather than being sent home, we were given the alternative to go work somewhere else for the remainder of the day.

A proper Snow Day doesn’t come with these types of sanctions.

If the weather is bad, you go home and stay home.

As the good Lord intended.

Also, don’t be a Martyr and compromise your safety if you feel compelled to go into work.

I can assure you that more work will be there for you once you get back.

However, if the weather is bad, and you have to go into work, blame your apathy on daylight savings times.

After all, that gaining an hour of sunlight really screws up everything.

Safe travels.

Here’s hoping there’s no need for a blog tomorrow.


The Original Go 

This morning, as I board my big green chariot, I notice it smells different than usual.

I’m excited about this observation because it means my sense of smell is returning and my head cold is going away.

I’m excited for about three seconds, then I realize the smell does not remind me of hotdogs or tacos.

Instead, I smell what reminds me of the first day you turn on your furnace for the season.


Could be better, could be worse.

Or maybe someone is having a BBQ and I just can’t find it.

I sit on my perch and realize my jacket is emanating the distinctive smell of wood chips, like a true outdoorsy type.

I feel accomplished with this scent.

I secretly hope someone with a wood chip allergy sits beside me.

I even remove Brune from her usual perch to entice fellow allergy prone commuters.

Why do I smell like I’ve tended to a fire?

Last Sunday, my family and I attended a Maple Festival at a heritage village in honour of my brother James’ birthday.

James loves maple syrup.

James is 49.

And a young 49 at that.

I’d say he looks about 47.

That’s a true story.

Fun times were had at the festival, taking many inappropriate photos and pretending to listen to the cultural interpreters.

I do recall one thing.

The difference between a Pioneer Village and a Heritage Village is that each focal point in a Heritage Village represents a different decade, whereas a Pioneer village maintains that specific time frame.

It’s the reason why one building had these:

Fresh out of a horror movie.

As my family and I trampled along the Village en masse, we came across yet another intriguing photo opportunity:

Toronto Hamilton & Buffalo RY.

I stare at the locomotive for quite some time, pronouncing this phrase slowly, as if each word was foreign to me.

I mull this over.

Where did I see this term before?

It hits me!

At the GO Station!

I’m so pleased with myself.

I stare at the train in wonderment.

“You Guys! Look!! It’s the original GO Train!!”

Without missing a beat, my fellow commuter relative looks over at the train and says “yeah, this one probably goes twice as fast!”

We chuckle at our hilarity.

Upon further investigation, we stumble across what my version of augmented reality decides is the original GO Train Station:

Most train delays are caused by door problems and this one is no exception.

I bet the employees are partaking in serious levels of tomfoolery back there.

Or they’re asleep.

This is how every Train Conductor looks like in my head.

Or at least how they should look like.

The fact that he’s firing up the Barbie for hot dogs is an added bonus.

The original multi-tasker, while Train guy is firing up the Barbie, he’s also assisting this young man otherwise known as my brother in law (turned husband for 3 hours to obtain a family discount) with directions.

Yes I watch the Sister Wives show and no we’re not like that.

A good thing our trusty Train Conductor is available to provide us with directions.

The single route with a single train without a bus and streetcar connection may confuse some people.

I love how the propaganda from the GO Station of yesteryear has been a catalyst for modern day media.

Joining the army now replaced with sleeping pill addiction studies.

I’m quite pleased with my jaunt into the Original GO Station.

I had always wondered what an old train station looked like.

Consider that commuter mystery closed….and I didn’t even need my Horatio sunglasses to solve it.

That’s a track!  Now I better “GO” to work.


Temporary Route Change

This morning I realize I’ve been awake for a few hours already, battling insomnia and a head cold.

I think of a meme I posted on my brother in law’s Facebook birthday event wall.

It’s an older looking man that says “Went to Bed last night. Woke up this morning” and he’s giving the thumbs up.

Perspective helps.

Well played, relic, well played.

I get to my semi-usual perch and realize my nemesis already took my spot.

We have this unspoken Cold War about that being both of our favourite place to sit.

We appear to be on the exact same route.

He probably likes the spot because it’s in the near back of the train and will make for the easiest train to train connection.

I like that spot because Brune seems to also like it there.

Today, as I climb up to my perch and see him parked, I do something unexpected.

I stop, turn and attempt to throw shade.

It ends up being a smirk.

He sorta smiles back.

In my mind, I say “I’ll get you next time, Gadget…next time!”

Out loud I say nothing and try not to notice his dimples.

Pretty seat stealer.

Brune is much better at throwing shade than I am.

She comes by it naturally, being of French Canadian descent.

I find a new perch and mull over the pros and cons of what a day like today may entail.

It’s Friday, the day every beaureaucratic  paper pusher observes with religious fervour.

Regardless of how much you love or hate your job, it ends for 2 days at 5 o clock.

Some heroes take work home with them, and they want everyone to know about it.

That’s not a sign of character, it’s a sign of inefficiency.

I consider creating this slogan for a t-shirt.

The day already brims with promise.

My mind wanders to the next steps I need to take to physically get to work.

It’s actually become a bit dangerous, largely in part to this situation;

Temporary Route Change.


What does it mean for our blogging hero?

The streetcar no longer runs where I need to catch it to get to my office.

I now take a bus which appears to be more efficient.

I thought maybe the urban planners realized what a waste of public transit a streetcar actually is, because, well, it’s not like they’re the only vehicles that use those lanes.

Clumsy, awkward and yes, nostalgic.

Such ingredients do not make for a speedy commute.

Prior to this “temporary” Route Change (this work will continue long after my latest contract) the moment the weather became cold, the shelter ended up closing for the season for adjustments and repairs:

Now it’s just a place to post TTC propaganda.

It’s important to note, actually getting to the buses from the train station can be considered dangerous.

Due to the lack of streetcar presence, one would assume there exists ample space for pedestrians:


One would assume keeping pedestrians on one side of the platform and buses on the other would make the most sense, yes?

Here’s what it looks like for a pedestrian:

That’s a photo I took after I walked the narrow path towards a forward facing bus.

This is the only way I can access the bus I need in the morning.

It’s dangerous and stupid.

Even a proper demo of that Shanty like shelter would provide more space.

God forbid someone slipped and fell, or a bus too took liberal of a turn.

I’m no urban planner, but the ramifications of Temporary Route Change  makes very little sense.

Is it change for the sake of change, or change for actual progress?

I mull this concept over.

Within the past months, I’ve observed changes and have unwillingly become a part of changes that I didn’t agree with.

Some I have no control over.

For example, I’m not American and couldn’t vote.

Others I did not agree with and was forced to be a part of.

Change for the alleged greater good, big picture, long term.

Rather than create a culture of contempt, I’ve abided by curveballs in the hopes that these route changes are indeed temporary.

How do you deal with Temporary Route Changes?

For me…I typically ignore or avoid them, blog about them, or pop an Advil and meet them head on.

If the change isn’t within your control, you sorta have to go with it.

In the words of Bob Ross, there are no mistakes, only happy accidents.


Never Gonna Give You Up

This morning I realize I’m in the eye of my cold.

What the hell does that mean?

I’m not even sure.

It sounded good in my head, and, because I have no filter I will stand by this ambiguous observation.

I’m slightly disappointed to see my rounds of Jackass Bingo have been suspended, as the crisp, seasonal air has replaced the warm winds of yesterday.

As I saunter towards my big green chariot (as a recap, think Danny Zucco meets Baby from Dirty Dancing) I noticed Steve has made a triumphant return from his tropical getaway.

Jerky McJerkerson.

He goes on and talks about his super fun trip, and I match his enthusiasm with “I was at work all last week!”

I realize I sound defeated, or like some overacting reject from one of those Disney channel shows I pretend not to enjoy.

As I climb up to my perch, I realize I have a song in my head.

It’s retro.

It’s catchy.

It’s likely to get stuck in your head too.

And I can thank this guy:

Lent is upon us

Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley.

Here’s a refresher for you:

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down

Never gonna run around and desert you

Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you

Oh how I miss music of the 80’s.

The lyrics were complex and profound.

They were poignant.

They had soul.

They rhymed.

If you enjoy 80’s music videos as much as I do, you need to watch this video on You Tube.

It has all the makings of an 80’s classic, including the male vocalist shuffle.

If you’re not sure what that looks like, please ask and I will gladly do a demonstration.

Or look up music videos with Peter Cetera.

Speaking of giving up, yesterday was Ash Wednesday and the first day of lent.

Lent is a religious observance whereby the God fearing folk in the world give up something they enjoy for 40 days as a sacrifice.

Some give up candy.

Some give up wine.

Some give up chocolate.

Some even give up work.

I did that two years ago.

I digress.

As a Catholic who should go to church more often than I do, I enjoy the observance of lent.

I give up junk food.

Fast Food.


Having a social life.


That last part is not true, however, I have to be mindful of what I can eat at restaurants.

For me, lent is a way of having a cleanse that coincides with Spring, the season of renewal.

Trust me, when you enjoy food and drink as much as I do (there’s no real difference than myself and my gluttonous Roman ancestry) you really can afford these days of cleanse.

I just want to throw this out there;

If you give up something for lent and still continue to be a horrible human being, than you’re still going to hell and should probably enjoy time with your vices on this planet.

Just saying.

Regardless of your behaviour, Rick Astley would never turn his back on you.

Never has he ever told a lie.

Made you cry.

Desert you.

I mull this over.

Such an unwavering loyalty.

How chivalrous.

There’s a man that knows what he wants!

There appears to be a translucent line between passion and obsession.

The line blurs depending on the willingness of the receiver.

I’ll admit to having passionately obsessive tendencies.

I’m the loyal person who doesn’t give up on lost projects.

Horrible sports teams.

Seemingly unsolvable problems.

Crappy friends.

Maybe it’s stubbornness, arrogance, or a want to do what’s right in the world.

Perhaps all of the above.

I mull this over.

Such a sense of greater purpose.

I enjoy feeling entitled.

Knowing that you’re better than others makes the day a little bit more special.

It’s a bit lonely at the top of the food chain.

I smile.

If I ever happen to fall back to normalcy, I can do so into the loving arms of Rick Astley.

That jerk isn’t going anywhere.


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