Springing into action

Nothing says springtime in Toronto like the intoxicating whiff of street meat and this afternoon I enjoyed my first noseful of the season. Could it be that happiness is a warm 'dog?

A friend and celebrated blogger warned me this might happen the day I made public my desire to maintain a blog.

“It can be difficult to stick with,” he cautioned in a comment on my first posting and although I didn't want to believe it, I'm afraid the man is spot on. Every month, my posts become increasingly sparse. Pretty soon this blog will look like a dead lawn with a few ratty dandelions desperately clinging to life. It's time I start to tend my blog as if it were my garden - something that will only survive with a little TLC.

For me, blogging is like flossing my teeth, or jogging, or reading before bed: it's a good habit that keeps me happier, and possibly even healthier, than when I don't do it. It's one of those tasks that can seem overwhelming or impossible before its begun, but in the end, I always feel better for having done it. Rarely do we regret doing things that are beneficial to our physical or mental health.

Time. That's the culprit here. But isn't it always? Who has time to do anything these days? It's the same answer we use to excuse our inability to stay in touch with friends in distant places, or our failure to cook a nice meal at dinneritme, or why we've never been to the ballet. What is keeping us so busy that it leaves us with no time to do anything?

My goal from here on in is to keep up with the posts, to plant more seeds in this arid, wintered soil. We'll have flowers sprouting in this brownland in no time. Spring hasn't just arrived in the city. It's arrived here, on my blog, too.

Strange overtones

"Yeah, I just tell people I work for a company called TCM. No one needs to know what it stands for."

Half a breath later, the strange passenger talking on his cell phone loudly reveals the riddle behind the acronym: Toronto City Morgue.

I am sitting three rows in front of this peculiar man on the streetcar. I am traveling east on my way to the gym and am dying to get a glimpse of the man's face. Politely resisting the urge, I pretend to concentrate on the Metro crossword puzzle and continue being nosy.

I dedeuce that the man's interlocutor is also a TCM employee. “Well, did you go to the lounge yet?” streetcar morgue worker asks. “There’s a huge posting there. 4 positions. The city morgue can’t put ads in the paper so they put jobs up in the staff lounge. Ridiculous.”

What kind of qualifications do you need to work at the morgue, I wonder inaudibly. It seems the chatty passenger can read minds: “The ad says you need to be 19 years of age with strong arms and a strong stomach! Exactly the same things they were looking for 20 years ago when I started there.”

Twenty years working in a morgue. Sounds like this particular employee sort of feel into the position and has never looked back. The man's dialogue is peppered with zingers like, "Oh, she's worked for EMS? Then she'll be fine; they see them dead before we do" and "God, no. The TTC has it's own clean up crew. Saves me from having to jump down on the tracks myself." He knows he is performing for a crowd; he can sense that all of the passengers are eavesdropping, no matter how unobvious we're trying to seem.

It's almost my stop. I get up and wait by the doors at the back of the train and finally see the man's face. For some reason, I'm surprised to see a round, pockfaced man in a polo shirt. What were you expecting, Kate? Lurch?

"Everyone around me is breathing,” he says, gushing breezily into his cell phone. “So that’s a good thing. Yes, alright. Uh-uh. Bye-bye for now.”

Queen Streetcar, eastbound from Spadina to Yonge Street. Overheard on a Tuesday in March.

Proust Questionnaire

Every few years, I like to answer Vanity Fair's Proust Questionnaire and record the responses in a journal or a Word document. It's fun to compare answers from year to year, to see what's changed and how, and to realize in what ways you are still exactly the same. Here's the latest.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

An empty streetcar.

What is your greatest fear?

Dying young.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Narcissism.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Self-doubt.

What is your greatest extravagance?

A tall non-fat London Fog and a slice of lemon poppy seed loaf from Starbucks.

What is your current state of mind?

Frantic.

On what occasion do you lie?

To get out of things I don’t want to do.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Genuineness.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Sense of humour.

If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what do you think it would be?

A palm-reader who winters in Florida.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

“I don't know.”

What or who is the greatest love of you life?

My father.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

It’s still in the works (hopefully).

Where would you like to live?

San Francisco or Buenos Aires.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Hopelessness.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My nicety.

What do you most value in your friends?

Honesty. Loyalty.

Who are you favourite writers?

Margaret Laurence, Leonard Cohen, Virginia Woolf, William Faulkner, Tori Amos.

Who are your heroes in real life?

My mother.

What is your greatest regret?

That I was too chicken to write for my university newspaper.

What is your motto?

“I’ll still have a headache even if I don’t go for a run.”

How would you like to die?

With a featherweight heart.