postcards from 41st and Fraser
Dear Dad,
As I compose this in my head, I'm carrying a buttload, a frontload, and two sideloads of groceries. Seriously. I have two tubs of margarine in my backpack. My left shoulder is saddlebagged with the burden of a canvas bag that contains two twelve packs of Sprite. A bag that contains two big packages of Dad's oatmeal cookies is hanging from my right elbow. The rest of my arms are cuddling the thirty rolls of toilet paper that, like everything else I'm carrying, were on special. I had more stuff on my list, but it can wait until later.
In this light, it seems hilarious that whenever we go shopping together, you're reluctant to let me carry more than two light bags. Or whenever I go shopping solo, you ask me if I can handle all that I intend to buy. Dude, if I can handle a two-bus trip with all the shit I'm carrying at this moment, I can handle a couple of days worth of supper, sandwiches, and the milk.
I'm stronger than you think. Hell, I'm even stronger than I think.
Can't wait to get home, though.
Cinemagirl.
-------------------------------
Dear teenage boys hanging out in front of the rear doors of the 41 bus,
Excuse me, but is this bus crowded? Are there no seats available? Actually, the bus looks kinda empty to me. In fact, outside of the people trying to get off the bus, you're the only ones on this thing who are standing up. So why, pray tell, do you have to stand right where the rear doors are? This isn't a rhetorical question, either--I really want to know. I mean, I make my intent to get off the bus known, I say "please," and I say "excuse me," and nothing gets your attention. Hell, you're not even fazed when I have to squeeze and shove past you in order to get out the damn doors. Not even when I'm burdened with bags and boxes and backpacks. So tell me: why do you do it, and what do I have to do to get you to get out of the gotdamned way?
Curious.
Cinemagirl.
As I compose this in my head, I'm carrying a buttload, a frontload, and two sideloads of groceries. Seriously. I have two tubs of margarine in my backpack. My left shoulder is saddlebagged with the burden of a canvas bag that contains two twelve packs of Sprite. A bag that contains two big packages of Dad's oatmeal cookies is hanging from my right elbow. The rest of my arms are cuddling the thirty rolls of toilet paper that, like everything else I'm carrying, were on special. I had more stuff on my list, but it can wait until later.
In this light, it seems hilarious that whenever we go shopping together, you're reluctant to let me carry more than two light bags. Or whenever I go shopping solo, you ask me if I can handle all that I intend to buy. Dude, if I can handle a two-bus trip with all the shit I'm carrying at this moment, I can handle a couple of days worth of supper, sandwiches, and the milk.
I'm stronger than you think. Hell, I'm even stronger than I think.
Can't wait to get home, though.
Cinemagirl.
-------------------------------
Dear teenage boys hanging out in front of the rear doors of the 41 bus,
Excuse me, but is this bus crowded? Are there no seats available? Actually, the bus looks kinda empty to me. In fact, outside of the people trying to get off the bus, you're the only ones on this thing who are standing up. So why, pray tell, do you have to stand right where the rear doors are? This isn't a rhetorical question, either--I really want to know. I mean, I make my intent to get off the bus known, I say "please," and I say "excuse me," and nothing gets your attention. Hell, you're not even fazed when I have to squeeze and shove past you in order to get out the damn doors. Not even when I'm burdened with bags and boxes and backpacks. So tell me: why do you do it, and what do I have to do to get you to get out of the gotdamned way?
Curious.
Cinemagirl.