How do YOU put your pants on?

The answer, of course, is "one leg at a time." Or rather, that is what I used to think.

Settling in for an evening of school work, I wrangled myself out of my school clothes (which today included some semi-professional dress) and pulled out my pajamas. Though some research shows that you work better the better you dress, I was too tempted by the bright yellow pants and baseball t-shirt. I was so excited to get into comfortable clothes, that maybe I was rushing a little bit? Perhaps I was getting careless? Assuming that this wasn't going to be a trying act?

In goes leg number one.
In goes leg number two...
... Into the same pant leg.

I hop, wriggle and try to catch my balance... Alas! To no avail. I fall face first on the floor, just managing to catch myself before my face made contact on the hardwood.

As long as I can remember, I have managed my entire life without having a problem putting on pants. I guess this ends my record.

AGO AGO AGO AGO AGO AGO

Last weekend, I was lucky enough to have time, the drive, and the company required to head downtown to the AGO on a Saturday afternoon. It was a sunny, brisk (and by brisk I mean freezing) and beautiful day, and since being outdoors was out of he question - the AGO seemed like a perfect plan for the afternoon. Art AND warmth. Perfection.

Now, I could go on and on for hours about how wonderful the new building was, how Daniel scolded me for taking a picture (in hindsight, I really shouldn't have... I'm lucky they didn't catch me and ask me to leave), how I have never had my heart melt everytime I looked at a Harris Group of Seven painting, or how I gawked at the Totem Poles made from golf bags (So cool. Really, check it out). But I'm not going to go on and on about that. I have two, short little stories.

One. Colin Mocherie was in the line in front of us! The last time I saw him was in the Toronto Airport, when I was in grade 11 and headed to Yellowknife for the week. Being keen youth, we attacked him and he graciously took a picture with us. We were starstruck. I'm a fan for life. Turns out he was also on the same flight as we were, and he was sitting in front of me! He was in 1st class and I was in plebian class - and he cranked his seat back allll the way so that it went past the little curtain and his head was pretty much in my lap. I could have pet him. Moral of the story, I saw him, and he was wearing the same red, down coat that he was 7 years ago. Must be a great coat.

Two. There are these super cool curvy stairs that you no doubt have seen pictures of by now. They are as cool as they seem, and so we walked up then to check out another exhibit. We took the same stairs coming back down. The stairs twist and turn in such a way that you don't know if you are going to see anyone until you are almost on top of them. This was a non issue, until we were leaving the Gallery.

Now, I am all for public displays of affection. Go ahead, hold hand. Kiss a cheek. Hug on the street. Move that adjustable armrest at the movie theatre and snuggle. Fine. That is all cool. I have yet to come to terms with the public make-out, however. On the stairs, one such make-out was being performed... Maybe it was performance art. Maybe it was just innappropriate. The stairs were not wide, and so I though (silly me) that they would stop once realizing that people were going to walk by. Nope.

Next time, I may take the elevator.

How many rich women can you fit in a Starbucks bathroom...

It is a Friday night and I am in downtown Toronto. What am I doing here? Am I going to a musical? A movie? Clubbing? A lecture?

Nope.

I am in Starbucks doing schoolwork. That is just how cool I am.

It is a pretty small cafe, with only 3 tables, and I am right by the door, So I can easily see all the people walking in and out of the cafe.

Four women just walked in... They are dressed to the nines, obviously swimming in money, and are being followed by a cloud of booze-smell.

There is one bathroom for everyone... one room, no stalls... They all make a beeline for the bathroom door. One goes in. Another goes in. A third totters in. The fourth stays outside and doesn't order a thing. A few minutes go by, and then she knocks on the door, says: "It's me!" and they let her in. They are all in this very small bathroom for about 5 minutes together.

I would like to state at this point that it is quarter to eight in the evening. Quite early to be going out on the town.

Eventually, they file out of the bathroom, and un-apologetically continue on their drunken trek through the bar district.

I see a lot of weird things here...