(no subject)
Yesterday was a good day. I woke up reasonably early, having cleverly scheduled a morning appointment. Up in the sunshine, watered the plants, fed myself, made bed, took meds, dressed nicely. Taking the time to make breakfast meant I was a little late out the door to actually take transit or walk to my destination and be on time, so I took the almost completely unfathomably luxurious option of hailing a cab.
Less than five minutes and around $7 with tip later, I was at my location a solid ten minutes early.
Of course, my companion was ten minutes late. Because that's life.
I didn't begrudge him those tardy moments in the slightest: it was my choice to take that taxi. And it afforded me some quite time to just drink in the splendour of the latest and most beautiful iteration of Rooster Coffee.
It's in what's now fashionably called the podium, ie, street-level retail of a condo building. The space is an airy two-storey box, with a narrow mezzanine seating area overlooking a luxurious marble bar, and black-grey-silver accented decor. It manages to be both casual and chic, which is a hard trick to pull off. And a bonus: everyone behind the counter was beautiful. So were many of the customers, which made me glad to have chosen a banquette seat facing that way.
Even the bathroom was gorgeous! It was wallpapered and lit like a boudoir jewelbox, with beautiful fixtures, AND it's fully accessible. Rooster on Jarvis wins. Oh, and the coffee? My Americano misto was too bland for my taste, but the double-shot plain Americano I later had was strong, smooth perfection. Just right.
My coffee date was with Iggy's brother Bram, an academic and general wit, who I hadn't laid eyes on in two years. For half of that he was out of town studying, and the other half, well... I gather it's been trying times on some level. Also, he managed to give the very discreet impression that Rob had been seeking his advice and company while trying to get over his sister. He's been gently disabused of the wisdom of that endeavour, I gathered, but they do still see each other socially. Bram definitely knows a lot more about Rob's life in general these days, but we diplomatically avoided most topics related to him and Iggy and whoever it is that he's presently involved with, though Bram agreed she was remarkably similar to Iggy.
We talked for three hours. Time flew, happily.
After we parted, I walked in the midday sun over past Yonge to run an errand near Bay, then another health-care related errand closer to Kensington, stopping to grab a fast bite on the way. Then home in the heat of the hot,hot day.
Later, on transit again to meet a burleque friend way out in Bloor West Village, who had a bagful of early science fiction paperbacks for me. Pleasant chat ensued. Home most of the way via streetcar... I stopped to buy some cider at the LCBO.
This happened: a young woman approached me with a 1.5 litre bottle of white wine. At first I thought she was asking me to buy it from her, like some people ask you to buy their (social agency provided) tokens for cash. I said no, I didn't want that wine.
She persisted, clarifying that she wanted me to buy it FOR her, with her money.
"I have expired ID and they won't accept it," was her explanation.
Again I turned her down. She asked again, brow wrinkled in annoyance, and again I politely but firmly said no.
"Okay fine, no problem," she muttered, sweeping off.
Three minutes later, I saw a middle-aged blonde in a long sundress holding that bottle of wine in a cash line, with our young heroine hovering nearby.
Here's my take: I don't care why the LCBO is declining to sell you alcohol. If they don't want you to have it, then I am not enabling your purchase, either. People get carded all the time and they know the rules. Next time, either bring the right ID, or be of drinking age, or whatever. Leave me out of it.
The other day I teased an LCBO cashier for not carding me ("sad face, right here!") and then pointed to Fitz. Would you card him? I asked.
"Absolutely," she answered. He and I giggled. He's 35, but he definitely has a touch of that ageless-Asian thing going on. Which is why he always carries proper ID.
Less than five minutes and around $7 with tip later, I was at my location a solid ten minutes early.
Of course, my companion was ten minutes late. Because that's life.
I didn't begrudge him those tardy moments in the slightest: it was my choice to take that taxi. And it afforded me some quite time to just drink in the splendour of the latest and most beautiful iteration of Rooster Coffee.
It's in what's now fashionably called the podium, ie, street-level retail of a condo building. The space is an airy two-storey box, with a narrow mezzanine seating area overlooking a luxurious marble bar, and black-grey-silver accented decor. It manages to be both casual and chic, which is a hard trick to pull off. And a bonus: everyone behind the counter was beautiful. So were many of the customers, which made me glad to have chosen a banquette seat facing that way.
Even the bathroom was gorgeous! It was wallpapered and lit like a boudoir jewelbox, with beautiful fixtures, AND it's fully accessible. Rooster on Jarvis wins. Oh, and the coffee? My Americano misto was too bland for my taste, but the double-shot plain Americano I later had was strong, smooth perfection. Just right.
My coffee date was with Iggy's brother Bram, an academic and general wit, who I hadn't laid eyes on in two years. For half of that he was out of town studying, and the other half, well... I gather it's been trying times on some level. Also, he managed to give the very discreet impression that Rob had been seeking his advice and company while trying to get over his sister. He's been gently disabused of the wisdom of that endeavour, I gathered, but they do still see each other socially. Bram definitely knows a lot more about Rob's life in general these days, but we diplomatically avoided most topics related to him and Iggy and whoever it is that he's presently involved with, though Bram agreed she was remarkably similar to Iggy.
We talked for three hours. Time flew, happily.
After we parted, I walked in the midday sun over past Yonge to run an errand near Bay, then another health-care related errand closer to Kensington, stopping to grab a fast bite on the way. Then home in the heat of the hot,hot day.
Later, on transit again to meet a burleque friend way out in Bloor West Village, who had a bagful of early science fiction paperbacks for me. Pleasant chat ensued. Home most of the way via streetcar... I stopped to buy some cider at the LCBO.
This happened: a young woman approached me with a 1.5 litre bottle of white wine. At first I thought she was asking me to buy it from her, like some people ask you to buy their (social agency provided) tokens for cash. I said no, I didn't want that wine.
She persisted, clarifying that she wanted me to buy it FOR her, with her money.
"I have expired ID and they won't accept it," was her explanation.
Again I turned her down. She asked again, brow wrinkled in annoyance, and again I politely but firmly said no.
"Okay fine, no problem," she muttered, sweeping off.
Three minutes later, I saw a middle-aged blonde in a long sundress holding that bottle of wine in a cash line, with our young heroine hovering nearby.
Here's my take: I don't care why the LCBO is declining to sell you alcohol. If they don't want you to have it, then I am not enabling your purchase, either. People get carded all the time and they know the rules. Next time, either bring the right ID, or be of drinking age, or whatever. Leave me out of it.
The other day I teased an LCBO cashier for not carding me ("sad face, right here!") and then pointed to Fitz. Would you card him? I asked.
"Absolutely," she answered. He and I giggled. He's 35, but he definitely has a touch of that ageless-Asian thing going on. Which is why he always carries proper ID.