killedwithkarate

On Tuesday, I had my second last exam, and now I have a huge gap of a week before my theory exam. I got out of school at 4pm, so I decided to walk around the city, despite my initial lack of mittens or a particularly warm scarf. I walked up Hutchison and then turned along Milton to St. Laurent.

Thanks to the hotness that is Miss Sheila, I bought myself a much needed MAC treat - new Studio Tech foundation. Holy crap, I needed new foundation badly. I had mistakenly got the powder last time, and then used it anyway, because like fuck I was going to go back to the store. I also dropped it numerous times, so it was cracked, and was eventually just a fine dusting of crumbs that fell all over my assorted black clothing pieces when I did my usual subway make-up routine. (For those who don't know, I'm known around Solin for the amazing feat that I accomplish each morning - I put on a full face of make-up while standing on the subway, frequently without a mirror. I'm also known for finishing the eyeliner while walking up stairs. Yep.) Suffice to say, my face feels like a million bucks, and my pores thank you!

I then went on a little bit of a shopping frenzy. I hadn't bought myself a black top in ages, so I caved and got a really hot reversible long sleeved number. In fairness, I wear black shirts almost every day, but they're all full of holes, too short and from either the 7th grade or lost and found boxes, because that's how I roll. I'm just a classy dame like that. So, I now have a well-fitting and presentable shirt I can go out in public in without having to wear 2 tank tops underneath to control my breastesses. Because of my overwhelming lack of a scarf or mittens to combat the Montreal winters, I finally caved and got myself some super warm woollens. The mittens are dark red with a little snowflake on them, and the scarf is more like a shawl with thick black and white stripes. And then I bought a plain white tee (in my defence, it was cheap), a pair of 70s porn star sitting by the pool-esque sunglasses (once again, in my defence, they were cheap) and a ring for my nose piercing. It's a definite change from the more subdued stud (Speaking of studs, hello charming French Canadian piercers!), but I like it. Amazingly, thanks to a mixture of subtle flirtation, gift certificates and extensive shopping around, I managed to escape with my bank card relatively unscathed. Sweet cuppin' cakes!

Then I did the usual Claire thing. I stayed out for 5 hours walking around the city and falling in love with strangers and inanimate objects. Luckily, I sat down at one point and documented my thoughts. They're in my datebook, so it's just a bunch of point form scrawled across October 11th and 12th (apparently not very busy), but I was happy to have it to hunch over. It was towards the end of my adventure, walking back down St. Laurent after walking all around the East side of downtown, and I just decided to stop in this little fenced square called Parc du Portugal. My butt melted the snow on the bench, leading me to believe that I have a hot ass. It was pretty, since the gazebo and fountain seemed to be white to begin with, so everything was very wintery looking. So, here's my initial point form, expanded for your reading pleasure.

I thought I heard someone call my name. Turns out some child was running into oncoming traffic. (Don't worry. No one got hurt.) This was while I was walking into the park. I kind of seized up for a second. I mean, what would I do if someone saw me? Say "Hey, do you want to come smile at strangers with me and hum 'Let It Snow' under our breath?" and wait for the laughter? I guess it depends on who would have stopped me, since that's not an entirely uncharacteristic proposal coming out of me. It would just sort of be like intruding on a date, though. I consider my alone time to be very much like going on a date... with myself! Best. Date. Ever. See, I think I'd make the best boyfriend ever. If you're a cute boy and you're not following my example, you're wasting your shaggy haircut. And before you even say it, I know that women can do stereotypically "boyfriendly" things without fear of reprisal, but I've had mixed reviews on my flair for impromptu picnics, giving flowers for no particular reason and all the poetry I write with that optimistic romantic edge that people in my writer's craft class once guessed originated from the sexy urban actor boy who sat across from me. Boy, they were surprised when Mr. Morgan was like "Actually, that stuff was written by Claire." I have an apparently distinctly masculine literary voice. A discussion last night lead me to think that maybe the fact that my dating track record has been about 90% with openly bisexual men has something to do with their appreciation of my masculine qualities. Y'know... Not the boobs.

I learned coy glances from Saturday morning Bollywood music videos on City TV. They have served me well. I don't use them with any motivation, but when I'm in a good mood, I think everyone needs a little glance to perk them up. I know that when I've had a shitty day, someone throwing a quick look on the subway home tends to make the ride go a lot quicker. It also got me cheap mittens and piercery.

Duluth St. feels very familiar to me. I think I walked it a lot when I was a very small child. See, the childhood memories I have in Montreal all happen in Chris and Jen's house, walking the dogs around NDG and enjoying their big, luxurious bath tub. But then, when I sort of moved here with Eric, I realized that I definitely recognized Carre St. Louis, and later going into the St. Viateur bagel shop, so I guess there's this whole Eastern section of my early Montreal memories that I've blocked out for whatever reason. But when I turn down the street, walking east from St. Laurent and I see that Portuguese cafe and get to thinking about the stretch along College street and that cafe with old men who would play dominoes and call me pomba (dove) I guess because I was pale and little and always dancing around. My dad seems to think they were in the mob in hindsight. Those are parenting skills. But could this be the type of street that I could make my home? I think it could be. Maybe on that little side street with the stained glass shop. Every restaurant along this strip is pure first date, friends in town kind of stuff. It's like it all has to be prefaced with "I have to show you this place..."

I feel very alive when I'm out by myself. On dates, everything is under water. I catch myself being mean, and then I surface as I walk home, thinking "What the hell was that?" I think I'm just intensely shy, so instead of showing it the right way, I get all defence mechanism-y. It'll wear off.

When I'm walking around the city, darting into Lush to smell anything pink and sipping on my eggnog latte, everyone looks like they could be in a painting. I was walking past the dessert shop where I hung around with a husky for a good twenty minutes once, and I saw this young Elvis Costello with basset hounds. Now, that wasn't a coy glance. As I continued on my walk, I turned around. I wonder if everyone on those walks knows how good they all look. I mean, I think of myself with cold pink cheeks, bangs falling in my face, bundled up in woollen things and think "Damn, I look amazing!" when I catch my reflection in shop windows. It's not ego, it's just joy. I even wanted to sing along with the lady in the second hand shop who was singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside." She had a really beautiful voice, and it started me humming all over again.

I remember thinking once, walking along Mont Royal, "You'd like it here. All the mannequins look up."