Turn the clocks back, November is in full swing. Some of you fellas are growing moustaches for prostate cancer awareness and I want to thank you for that. Me likey. Manly hair is the best. I hate when men shave their chest hairs or get all insecure about back fur. Some deluded dudes shave their legs thinking it will make them run or bike faster. Stupid. Men usually have spindly skinny legs and the hair provides some volume. No one wants to see smooth twigs in Spandex shorts. And as for the male torso, stop waxing it! Have you ever heard of a treasure trail? No woman wants to put their hands on an ice rink with pimply ingrown bumps and flail around, like we are trying to read Braille tattoos. The fuzzy path provides guidance. Preserve the forest alive, men, and stay hirsute. And keep your moustaches for winter. Makes y’all look debonair and let’s face it, most of you are dumb asses and need all the help you can get.

November, aside from moustache growing, is also a self-imposed frugality month. Christmas is coming and money is tight! Food prices! Hydro! Gas! Everything is going through the roof! I haven’t had a haircut since January, I’m on a hair strike anyway, I’m going to grow it until I can swallow it whole, digest it, and then the bikini waxing lady can take care of it. Kill two birds with one stone! Ha! I am also doing my own mani and pedis. Lately I have been taking the streetcar if I can’t have free parking downtown. Yesterday I went downtown to meet a friend for a movie and then a drink afterwards. I took the Queen car there, without incident, enjoying the scenic sea of humanity and all its diversity. A veritable salad of dander and germs!

After the movie, and having consumed a barrel of Diet Coke and 2 pints of Stella, I broke the seal before taking the streetcar home. You know how once you take the first pee, the bladder becomes Boss. “I have to go,” it says. “Yes, I know, just wait a minute. We are on the streetcar, we have 6 stops until we cross the bridge and you can go at Prohibition. We love that gastro-pub and maybe we can stay and have bison burger and duck frites!” You realize you are talking to your own bladder so try and diffuse the crazy by pacing up and down the aisle.

No way is the Boss letting you get away with that trick. It releases 1/8 of an ounce of hostage urine. “GET OFF THIS STREETCAR NOW BECAUSE THERE IS MORE COMING!” Bladder screams. “I can’t!” you hiss back, “We are at Church and Queen, any washroom we need to go to from here to the bridge will be under lock and key. This is vagrant territory. HOLD YOUR HORSES!”

“I CAN’T! I HAVE TO PISS LIKE A RACEHORSE!” Boss is trying hard. It’s bursting and lazy, flaccid old Captain Kegel is trying to support this mess. But it’s like a tarp in the storm, something is going to give. Make a decision. Quick.

There is no way I am going to pee my pants on a streetcar. I am a lady. I hop off the car and lo and behold is a Popeye’s Fried Chicken at the corner of Queen and Sherbourne. I hightail in the restaurant and pretend to be interested in the menu and not just the toilet. Who am I kidding? Of course, I am interested in the menu. Fried chicken is my fantasy, my last meal on death row. But I have to ask for a key because it is Moss Park after all and heaven forbid if a homeless person should use the washroom, maybe they redecorate in there and claim squatters’ rights, I don’t know, but restrooms are for “customers only.” So with my promise to order and even though I might look slightly homeless with my shaggy hair, chewed up”mani” and a wet spot, Popeye’s employees don’t let on.

I peed, barely making it. Best feeling ever. I think this might how men feel when they jizz. I wish I knew. Men never seem to have the bladder issues we do, maybe because they secretly pee in tubes under their pant legs. They can do it more discreetly in public, standing and aiming, their clothing is designed just for the purpose of urinating and the possibility of impromptu public fornication. Imagine a man in high-waisted trousers with a side zipper! And women, who have to urgently pee all the time, are encumbered by undergarments that don’t swing open like a fly. Fruit of the Loom, you have some inventing to do.

Anyway, I ordered a three pieces of spicy chicken without a drink, duh, I still have to go back on the streetcar for possibly more bladder sass. I do love Popeye’s, I must say. It’s really the first batch of fast food I have eaten since the Righteous Teenage Daughter made our household all about organically grown local farm animal meat. Don’t get me wrong, I am into it but sometimes you need to answer the call of the wild. As much as I love the chicken, though, Popeye’s should not bother with their ridiculous side dishes. Just give me the meat. Weird mash potatoes and strange gravy are not treasure trails. And I have no time for that biscuit as it is just lard filler. Let’s not kid ourselves. Such superfluousness gives fast food a bad name. And that is all I am saying about that.

The rest of the streetcar ride home was pleasant enough. Another Saturday night under the belt, home by 7 pm, turned the clocks back so I wouldn’t be confused in the morning and asleep by 11! Or was I? Stay tuned for Part Two: Driving The Drunk Neighbours To The Emergency Room In The Middle Of The Night!