So, interesting. Very, very interesting. On Monday, I stepped out to go and catch my bus to school, and almost froze my non-existent balls off. Then, Tuesday, I bundle up, prepare myself for the worst, and head out. It's a tiny bit warmer, but there are these mysterious wee flakes of something whipping around in the wind. What are these small bits of flotsom? I ponder the conundrum, scratching my head frequently. Suddenly it comes to me.
Yes, boys and girls, it is snowing in St.John's! There were flurries all day, and finally, when the sun set and it got dark and cold enough, the snow stuck. I couldn't believe it, and yet I've been expecting it for a month.
I mean, September and October were beautiful! It got up to 26 degrees the day before Halloween. And now, my beautiful-almost-B.C.-but-not-B.C. weather is gone. B.C. has left the building when Newfoundland decided to show up after all.
Once again, I am amazed at the bizarre toad's-wild-ride driving skills of the St.John's Metrobus company. Today, as I was hurtled homeward, I was actually catapulted from my seat into a near standing position as the bus lurched around a corner at 400 miles per hour. It was only the extreme tension I placed on my outside calf that kept me in my seat. I have to make sure that I change sides on the bus regularly in order to prevent one leg developing huge, knotty calf muscles while the other becomes a weak atrophied thing. Then I'd be forced to concentrate when I walk or end up circling myself like a desperate wagon train.
And the level of conversation and weirdness on these bus routes is never-ending. On the wonderful below 0 Monday, it was nice to get on the heated bus when it finally arrived. But let me tell you, I didn't enjoy it half as much as the old geezer in the back.
"Boy, this bus is some warm!" "I tells ya, this bus is sure nice and warm." "It sure is nice to get on a bus that's nice and warm when it's cold out." "Ah, buddy, this bus is some nice warm."
This litany continued until I got off at my stop, and I assume it continued till he got home to the Mrs. and said:
"Ah honey, that bus I was on today was some warm."
There's also a mentally challenged little pervert who always seems to be going home the same time I am. He's a bizarre little man who finds the most attractive girl on the bus and then proceeds to tell her "cute" little stories and hug and try to kiss her. Everyone just laughs it off, but it actually gives me the creeps. I never thought being somewhat unattractive would ever be such a boon, but so far I've escaped his notice. Except once, when he was making reference to "big girls being good in the sack" and he winked at me. Buddy better keep his hugs and kisses to himself--I have no qualms about poking a mentally challenged pervert in the eye. A pervert's a pervert in my books.
(I bet a lot of you are writing that bit of wisdom in your journals and diaries.)
I'm slowly getting more organized. Still no luck finding a job--even though St.John's is peppered with my resumes and applications. It's very frustrating, and a little scary, but I'm surviving. Besides, as a "big girl" I can live on my own body fat for quite a while! I just hope we don't get snowed in and some of the other people on my floor get the same idea. I'll have to start spreading rumours about how tasty the elderly can be with the right spices.
Halloween was a sad bust. I spent it pleasantly enough, I hung out with one of the ladies on my floor and we watched scary movies. But I wanted to go to some of the St.John's Halloween festivities. There is a huge 3-day Mardi Gras, lots of haunted houses, a haunted hike (ok, we all know I wasn't going on that one!), all kinds of cool stuff. And I stayed home. The one thing Newfoundland constantly teaches me--I can get lamer. I thought I was pretty lame back home, but I've reached new heights in the East. I have followed the dimly-lit star, and found that it was only a street lamp.
Tomorrow is Guy Fawlkes night. There should be lots of bonfires and wildness for me not to attend. It is interesting that they actually celebrate it here though, being a mainly British institution. (C.R. will kindly note this as it is mentioned in Georgia Nichols.) We also get St.Patrick's day off, too. I'll bet that little pervert on the bus wears a shirt that says "Kiss me I'm Irish" and then enforces it!
Anyways, must get to bed so I can doze in all my classes tomorrow.