It's Christmas Time in the City

...and our blogger got depressed today. Christmas can be really depressing, you know?...

No Music. I'm Too Bloody Depressed.

Another daily stroll, only this time we go EAST, not west. The westerly walk we usually take leads us to Superstore, and I am mad at Superstore, for reasons discussed last week. Eventually, yeah, we're gonna have to return there, because, other than the Filipino grocery store that charges $3.99 for a can of tuna, it is the only place we can go within walking distance that sells food. But today... today I'm still mad at them, so we go east.

The west trek is, from a scenic point of view, a pretty dull walk. Cement pavement, lots of traffic, not many shops. Boring, but at the end lies the thrift store and the 1 sq km Superstore, so we do that walk a lot. Going east, although there's nothing really big at the end to walk towards, is much more interesting. There are bargain stores. There are bakeries. There are Portuguese restaurants and tattoo parlours. And there are prostitutes.

Now, walking past prostitutes is probably never easy, but the problems are compounded when you are trucking along two small children. I don't know how the average gal does it, but basically when I walk by my mind is doing acrobats. Do I make eye contact, don't I make contact, do I make eye contact, don't I make eye contact, oh crap, she's looking this way, don't make eye contact, oh jeez, too late, smile you jerk, smile!! And I brace myself, look her in the eyes and give the stupidest, fakest smile you can imagine. Then, feeling like the biggest dork in the world, I shove the stroller and drag the kid by thinking, gee... I wonder if she thinks I'm square?...

Today we walked by no less than three of these gals and each time it was horrible. The first two were really tough looking, and they seemed to know what they were doing. I used to work at a Salvation Army homeless shelter, and I've spent a lot of time talking to prostitutes, and believe me, I know, they don't all hate what they do. The third one, though, was different. It was pretty obvious she was strung out on drugs, she was kind of muttering to herself, and walking back and forth at a pretty frenetic pace. We got past her, and I was contemplating the logistics of rushing out, selling our home and giving her all our money when old High Intensity piped up and said, "She's pretty, mommy." And she was, she really was. Which made the whole thing all that much more crappy. Honestly, I don't think she could have said anything that would have made me feel any sadder, ugh, something about the way the snow was so dirty and slushy and it being so close to Christmas, and oh, H.I. was eating a cookie I had just bought from the bakery and really, is there anything more innocent than being four and eating a big cookie on the street with your mittens on? It's like someone said, OK, let's stage a scene which shows everything good and everything crappy all at once, in one shot. Someone should have taken a picture. I mean, really, what a great Christmas card that would make. "Christmas Time in the City." Wheeee. Ain't life grand?

P.S.: I just read this over, and I sound like Holden Freaking Caulfield. Too many "crappies." Blah. Just call me J.D. Whippersnapper.

P.P.S.: This is the next morning, and I'm going to totally change the subject to leave on a positive note/shock you with my shallowness: Mr. I.Q. Fifty Million has brought me coffee in bed TWO DAYS IN A ROW!! Gotta totally make note of my Christmas gift wish on this blog.

P.P.P.S.: I know. Talk about a total 180.