Ever since a guy was clubbed to death outside where I work, my Mum has been on edge. She doesn't like the idea of C and I (or anyone, for that matter) living in a city teeming with murderers.
So it wasn't helpful last night for a crazy lady (we'll call her 'A') with lipstick everywhere on her face but her lips to accost me while I was on the phone with M.
Now, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with Toronto's unconventional lipstick fashionistas, but some are so far ahead of the trends that they look just plain crazy.
I mean, if you're trying to get folks talking about, and WEARING, big red clown lips, lipstick-blushed cheeks, and lipstick forehead dots, don't get greedy and try to bring back slouchy leg warmers in mint green as well! Assume that great things take time, and perhaps approach change in stages. Build on the clown lips once they've established a following; ease folks in the the heavily-rouged cheeks and forehead bullseye--don't just dive right in and expect complete compliance!
I'm getting off topic. I'm no fashion maven, and should not make attempts on Star Jones' crown.
So. . . I'm on my phone with M back in Lucan, when our heavily rouged fashionista approaches me and sticks her paw out. I wasn't sure if I should: slap it and ask for a high fiver in return; check to see if she washed up for dinner (or just ran the tap--sneaky brat!); or tell the old palm reader joke we used to do at bowling when we were kids, wherein I take her hand, tell her I see a big house in her future with a pool in the backyard, then spit in the palm of her hand where the pool line would be--hilarious!!
B- "Can I help you?"
M- (on the line)"What's going on??"
B- "Just a crazy broad with lipstick all over her face, hold on. Can I help you? You want I high five?"
A- (shakes her head)
M- "Brad--where are you!?! Tell me where you are!!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. Do you want some money? Because I'm not giving you any."
A- "Give me a fuckin' quarter!" M- "WHERE ARE YOU! ARE YOU NEAR WHERE YOU'RE GOING?!"
B- "I'm fine, Mum. I'm almost there. And you--not tonight."
A- "I just want a fuckin' quarter! That's cheaper than a whore!"
B- "You're correct; but I'm not looking for a whore tonight either."
M- "I HATE YOU GUYS LIVING IN TORONTO!"
A- "A FUCKIN' QUARTER! I'M CHEAPER THAN A WHORE, ASSHOLE!"
B- "Mum--calm down. I'm fine. And you--you need to learn a little bit about marketing yourself. Telling me that you're cheaper than a whore isn't necessarily a good thing."
A- "FUCK YOU! A FUCKING QUARTER!!"
B- "Mum--I'm fine. YOU--no quarters for girls with bad manners, no matter how pretty their makeup is!"
A- "ASSHOLE! A FUCKING QUARTER!"
B- "Yes. Good night."
M- "You guys are moving home. That city is crazy."
And so it went.
One dead body, and an altercation where raised voices and cuss words were used, and my mother is terrified. She called me this morning to see if I made it home okay. I told her I had, but not before I encountered the cheapest whore in Toronto--ten cents!! She did not share my enthusiasm for this joke.
M knows, as all folks in small towns believe, that bad luck comes in threes. I'm about due for my third bout of bad luck.
The way I see it--my luck's picking up. I haven't had much to write about lately.