June 4th, 2009

Be nice to cashiers!!

Well, it’s another happening night at the Rose-coloured ranch. I’ve been down on the floor sorting manuscript pages for the last while, and after getting dismayed by the slipshod sweeping job I do, I decided what I needed was write a blog post about the latest upsetting trend at the grocery store.

On Monday, a new Toronto law kicked in, requiring stores to charge 5 cents for each single-use bag they distribute. Not, perhaps, the most thrilling news ever to have hit the streets, but I assumed that if even I knew about it, everyone did (being as I spend my evenings on my living room floor, covered in paper and dust, not watching or reading the news).

But apparently, the people of Toronto don’t *all* know, and when the cashier at their local grocery/drug/clothing/porn shop informs them of the charge, some don’t take it too well. I have witnessed a couple meltdowns in the three short days the law has been in effect; apparently, the most logical interpretation in some people’s minds is that cashiers are lying about the nickel charge in order to…steal? Piss customers off? Make their own already hard jobs that much harder? I really don’t know what is going on in these furious consumers’ minds.

I haven’t worked in customer service for nearly two years, but I still remember viscerally the bottom-of-the-belly fear I felt when I realized that the person I was serving was angry with me. As far as I am concerned, unless your customer service personnel has been sexist/racist/homophobic, anger is never an acceptable emotion in that context. Frustration, irritation, desire to speak with a manager; fine. I did, at various points, suck at various jobs, and I can see why many many people were a little snarky with me. But anger is a somewhat crazy thing to bring to the checkout line, and to see people lashing out at squirming teenagers and exhausted ladies in smocks makes me so sad.

So…have you seen the 5-cent meltdown yet? What did you do? I can’t imagine it would help for me to raise my paw and say, “It is a real law, you know.” Or, like, “That woman make $10 an hour, flat, not commission off her bag sales, therefore she has no reason to lie to you.” Or…what? In my days in service, I was always comforted by raised eyebrows and smiles from other customers following a confrontation, so that’s all I’ve offered so far. But if this nickel thing is going to be a major tipping point in stores citywide, perhaps I should formulate a better response.

Thoughts…?

Do you know your enemy?
RR

March 16th, 2009

Pretty Things

I’ve posted a bunch of pictures of books over at Thirsty today. Because I like pictures of books, and because I’m *finally* getting the hang of my digital camera, is why.

If I kissed your face / in front of all your friends
RR

December 12th, 2008

Books for the Literati

*Once* makes Geoff Pevere’s Last Minute Shopping Guide.

Sort of amazing company to be in.

How I’ll hate going out in the snow
RR

November 17th, 2008

The Day I Went to America

…was yesterday. Whilst there, I

Saw
–an inflatable and operational Ferris wheel, each car of which was filled with a lovable Christmas-related cartoon character. It was going backwards (cost: $US179)
–big hair
–7 massage chairs (cost: $400-600)
–infinite gum
–a brand of candy called “Palatable Pleasures” (cost: too much, considering)
–more than 4 purple houses (we lost track); one each that was teal, lime-green and salmon
–children making a scene

Heard
–nonstop Christmas carols, excepting one song by Genesis and one by Steve Winwood
–drawls
–“honey,” “sweetie” and “darling” from people serving us in stores and restaurants
–children making a scene
–a refreshing lack of honking no matter how poorly anyone was driving

Consumed
–FOUR different kinds of pop, all unknown and unattainable north of the border($1.89 to $2.25, so worth it)
–one bite each of three truffles (these were being shared; it was complicated and messy, but very good)(Cost: won from a scratch’n’win)
–all-you-eat salad and breadsticks at Olive Garden (cost: ~$15)
–fistfuls of Trix on car-ride home (cost: approximately 1/8 of $3.59)

Purchased
–two pairs houndstooth tights (cost: $4 and $6)
–box of Trix ($3.59)
–2L (or Imperial measurement equivalent) bottle of Cherry Coke Zero ($1.59)
–2 3-packs of Orbit Bubblemint gum (cost: $3.59 each)
–*Midnight’s Children* by Salman Rushdie (cost: $15)

Felt
–that things are very very slightly, almost imperceptibly, different since November 4 (cost: priceless)

(c’mon, you knew I was building towards that)

I found music/and he found me
RR

September 18th, 2008

Rose-coloured Reviews Cresson Ballet Flats

Shoes are a class issue, and they have been ever since the days of Chinese foot-binding; what you do to your feet is a product not only of what you can afford to put on them but what you are going to *do* with your feet. The above article mentions that, “… by the time of the late Qing Dynasty, foot binding had become popular among people of all social classes except among the poorest – who needed to be able-bodied to work the fields.”

Only those who can afford to work less, choose to work seated, or not to work at all, can attend to fashions that render them less than able-bodied. When I worked on my feet, I wore athletic shoes or, when those were forbidden, Docs, which look from a distance like dress shoes. Almost everybody did, and had to–when you move all day every day, everything on your body is in service of that.

When I got an office job, I quickly bought a pair of pretty vinyl-covered cardboard shoes for $15. It didn’t matter the quality, because they looked cute and they spent their days resting quietly under my desk. The luxury of cheap shoes, I call it. Those shoes, ballet flats, turned out to be pretty good despite the cardboard, and I wore them for ages. My current ballet flats are more expensive, better quality and slightly more interesting looking–they are called the Cresson from Naturalizer, home of vaguely sensibly, vaguely stylish shoes. Teacher shoes, I think of them, as teachers have to look professional but do spend their days pacing in front of a chalkboard on a cement floor.

I like cute shoes, but the voice of Uncle Alex from Eight Cousins is always in my head when I evaluate wardrobe: “‘Suppose a mad dog or a runaway horse was after you, could you get out of the way without upsetting…?'” For, office job or not, I do have to walk the city sidewalks in snow and sleet and goose shit (when I moved to Toronto, I really didn’t expect that the geese would overrun the city); I have to climb onto bushes and occasionally over traffic medians in pedestrian-unfriendly parking lots; I have to deal with not horses but certainly dogs and violent stroller-pushers and cracked cement: I don’t have a car.

In Toronto, car vs. no car is not quite as much of a class issue as it would be in Regina, but it really does make you buy shoes in a different way. I’ve not watched that tv show everyone says makes you want to buy $400 shoes you can’t walk in, Sex in the City, but I suspect those women operate in a slightly different tax bracket from me. I guess it could be an issue of equilibrium as much as money, since I have friends who will stroll quite casually in 3-inch heels over those medians and snowbanks. But for every one of those, there’s one digging in her spike heals, and refusing to walk one more step unless it’s into a taxi.

I hate taxis and like to move under my own power, so I like the Cressons. The online add brags about having a “stylish low vamp” (vamp being the leather bit that goes over your toes) but it is actually high enough to give the shoe good purchase on the foot–when there’s the pivot-point of shoe-coverage is too low, the whole thing can flip-flop right off (hence the eponymous shower/beach shoe) when you try to move at speed. The zig-zag strap (a sportified allusion to toe-shoes, I think) also gives the shoe greater staying power, while also looking cute–over short distances, I think I can run nearly as fast in the Cressons as in sneakers. Good for snarky bus drivers, short pedestrian signals, vengful drivers and wild dogs.

The online ad also describes these as having a “1-inch heel” but I totally don’t think they do. The rubber sole is built up slightly at the back, but it’s also built up *around* the back, making a firm support perfect for stomping angrily down the sidewalk (I never do that) or climbing a dirt hill (also an unknown circumstance in my life).

There isn’t major arch support inside, just a little rise on the instep, which is enough for me but might not be for others. But the insole is nicely padded and, bonus, bright red, as is the inside of the leather upper, and there is a tiny bit of red stitching on the outside of the back. I dig that little hint of cool.

I bought these about 6 months ago. I paid $70, and consider them very well worth it, as they are fare and passage to so many places.

Pete almost lost his job until the union stepped in
RR

September 13th, 2008

Upshots

Thanks for all your advice, guys–I really appreciate it. In case you were wondering how it all turned out:

1) I couldn’t get the book Fred recommended from the library, but the search brought up something similar sounded, which I have ordered. I’m sure whatever I end up with will be disturbing, as it should be, but maybe I’m hoping for…manageable disturbance? So I can still fall asleep?

2) I love the booklet that Kerry lent me on recycling. You *can* mix paper and plastic and metal. You should put cut tin lids *in* the tins and then pinch them shut so the recycling collectors don’t stabbed. You can recycle those round cardboard canisters that cocoa and disinfectant come in, but not the plastic lids. Amazing. There’s even a picture. The booklet provides a link which leads to a much more confusing bunch of information. Try to get the booklet if you can.

3) Since the age of my olives was indeterminate but at least 8 months, I took the advice of Naya and Scott and almost everybody and tossed them. I miss them, they were a part of my life for so long that I notice the blank spot when I open the fridge. I miss them even though I don’t actually like olives all that much, which is what cause of the problem in the first.

4) I bought a knee-length, non-black, non-constrictive new dress yesterday, but it is only good for a specific season (fall) and since we seem to be having all of them in alternation, I’m still not sure what I’ll actually be wearing on Monday. But I am excited. And to get into waaayy too much information, the trial run on my hair didn’t go so well. I now must take the bus looking like I’ve just received a mild electrical shock. Learning, learning.

As cool as I am / I thought you knew that already
RR

September 7th, 2008

The Pages Window

So, in the wee hours of yesterday morning, Brandon was wandering the city and passed the wonderous Pages Books. A fine attraction on it’s own, but while there, B. spotted a window display of Once. Even though he emailed me both description and photo, I actually rearranged my day in order to go see for myself. I am hugely lame, as is evident in this picture, but I am also really gleeful, as is probably also evident.

Please note: these are only posters right now. As of Monday, they will be actual books.

On the morrow, Eden Mills, where it might or might not rain, but where it’s fun enough for rain not to matter (right? right!)

Wearin’ a raincoat that has four sleeves / gets us through all kinds of weather
RR

August 24th, 2008

On the weekend (an epic photo essay)

There was a journey to Rexdale.

Then Blogger freaked out and wouldn’t let me show the rest of the pictures. But trust me, it *was* epic. You wouldn’t believe how far you can go and still be in Toronto. That’s what I love about Toronto. You wouldn’t believe how thrilling imported sodas (Ting! Faygo!) can be! I tried on the world’s sluttiest dress, and leggings that came down over my toes. I bought a quarter pound of balloons! Good times, my friends, good times.

Don’t wanna see it on my windowsill
RR

July 12th, 2008

Photographic Failure

My camera experienced existential doubt in, oh, April, and in a sense really ceased to exist, since a camera that doesn’t take picture is like the tree falling without an audience–what’s the point?

The point is I have no camera. Sorry, focus. That camera that died had a good run, since it was a film camera that I got in (I think) the nineties. Yes, film. I’m not much of a photographer–I rarely even miss the ability to take photos, except on occasions when someone I know does something photogenic, like the Idle Tigers live on stage, be-glittered and brilliant. Oh, last night was very very good, and it did make me sad to be camera-less.

I have been for some time ready to take the leap into digital photography (once more, bravely into 2002!) I even have money set aside to purchase a simple yet effective model. But I can’t *stand* the thought of losing half a day to comparison shopping, learning what a megapixel is or whether I care about them, and why, being chased by Future Shop employees, eventually buying something I saw in the first hour of the jaunt for $20 too much because I’m just so tired, and then getting teary-eyed over the warantee.

I am not a good technology shopper.

Please please, if you know the name and model number of a simple yet effective digital camera, tell it to me and I will go purchase it (maybe also tell me where to go?) Yes, I am outsourcing my thinking on this matter, but really, almost anyone’s going to be better at it than I am.

All this goes also for laser printers.

In the meantime, sometimes I get photographed by professionals, and that’s really both easier and more effective, because this shot here by Donna Santos is far better than I normally look. Also some other lovely authors you might recognize.

Wear your pink petticoat
RR

May 7th, 2008

Chick-Lit Ruined My Life

It used to be that clumsiness and ineptitude was just embarrassing, and best kept to yourself. Then Bridget Jones happened, and it was so great to have a book about being self-conscious and semi-insane over your own secret faults—someone else had written it, better and funnier than I would have, so now I didn’t have to. Then there came the strange cultishness of chick-lit, where self-obsessed ramblings came to be packaged in book form all-too-regularly without a hint of irony, or context, or humour. Women engaged in subtle self-deprecating one-downsmanship at parties, and it seemed that there was always a more glamourous way to fall off a chair than the way I was doing it.

And now it comes to this: defeated by the cello bags at the grocery store. Opening these has always been a challenge, and one day it finally proves impossible: the bag remains aggressively two-dimensional, a sheer limp sheet of cello no matter how much I try to rub, tug, and blow (sorry) it into three dimensions. Finally, I have no choice but to sidle back to the bag spinner and get a new one, nervously tucking the failed case into the tie cup. I look up, sure I’m being scrutinized, either by my bitchy blond nemesis from work, or my stand-offishly handsome grouchy boss, or perhaps a quirky cute butcher with a raised eyebrow and a penchant for clumsy girls. Or perhaps the bag stand is about to be knocked into the grapefruit display by a grocery-robber run amok and I’ll be taken hostage in a great big televised misunderstanding that all my friends will see.

But no. What actually ends up happening is that I can’t open bag number 2, either, and I have to put the bag and the loose apples separately into my basket and take the whole thing with me as a kind of long-term project, and after about five minutes in line, finally get the whole thing sorted.

What an anti-climax.

We were the high-priests / the keepers of the backbeat
RR