My Toronto: Four Neighbourhoods, Three Bars

In my five years of Toronto living, I've lived in four different neighbourhoods and loved three local bars. Here they are, as a timeline of my many moves.

Neighbourhood #1: Main and Danforth

When I lived there, Main and Dan was a very convenient, if not particularly comfortable. neighbourhood. I'm not sure if the unstoppable hordes of gentrification have marched that far East yet; I've been doing my damndest to reverse-gentrify Forest Hill by moving there, along with my stubbornly low bank account. Back then though, the local bars were mostly grim and unwelcoming, so I would walk or subway over to The Only Café instead. It's cash and counter service only, but the selection of beers on tap is large and you can bring in food from the outside world. This was how I discovered Big House Pizza and Square Boy. 

Drink: One of the cask offerings

Eat: '70s Burger Perfection in the form of cheeseburger from Square Boy

Neighbourhood #2: Bloor West Village

The pub offerings at BWV were a little better, but I still wound up travelling to find a place that I really liked, in this case heading north to the Junction. I spent a lot of time in this bar that my brother was working at, but my favourite turned out to be a different place--The Hole in the Wall, which is truly both hole-sized and wall-oriented. It's a nice, unpretentious place, where the music is usually quiet enough that you don't have to scream to be heard, unless it's live music night. If it's live music night, you may as well keep your mouth busy with food.

Drink: Neustadt 10W30

Eat: Brunch

Neighbourhood #3: Vaughan and St. Clair West

This time I only had to walk to Christie and St. Clair to find my bar of choice. Finally, a true local! Dave's only has four taps, but whatever's rotating through tends to be reliable. Currently, it's the Sidelaunch Wheat. I keep on trying to explain what works so well with Dave's. It's basically a bar that's nice enough that you can take your mom there for brunch, but not so nice that going there is a faintly taxing and overwhelming experience. At Dave's you'll never have to turn an artisanal charcuterie plate into dinner, because you can build your own pizza.

Drink: Sidelaunch Wheat

Eat: White Pizza

Neighbourhood #4: Forest Hill Village

Drinking options in FHV are limited to sit-down restaurants and, bizarrely, Aroma, which is a chain cafe. All of these places lack long bars with TVs, which means I can't sidle up and anonymously watch sports while scarfing an entire order of nachos. This situation cannot stand. So once again I hike, headed back west to Dave's. (In defence of the Village: it does offer a classy kitchen store, a classy lingerie store, and a tiny Type Books outpost--and I've even shopped at one of these places!) Anyway, Dave's also has a decently stocked fridge of bottles and cans, along with a weekly trivia night. It will be a good friend to you. It's been a good friend to me. 

Drink: Barley Days' Yuletide Cherry Porter, if it's winter and bottles are back in the fridge

Eat: Nachos. Dave's avoids the weird Toronto bar habit of putting lettuce on t'chos  (as if they expect you to eat hot wilted salad) and gives you salsa verde instead. 

Baby Talk

For one glorious season back in university, my roommate and I were devoted fans of a CBC show called MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Actually, we were probably its entire devoted fanbase, and we loyally referred to the show by both halves of its title. We would toss one line in particular back and forth to each other. It was wailed by the Nice Blonde Teacher, who was in love with the Nice Guy Hockey Player, but... let me just quote the line: "I want...BAYYYYBIES, but I can't have...BAYYYYYYYBIES."

We would make the "babies" particularly guttural and tortured and laugh. Though one night we did admit that we were scared that, if we ever admitted we wanted children, we would somehow be made infertile. In Sex and the City terminology, we would go from Mirandas to Charlottes; or the example of Friends,  we would magically be Monicas instead of Rachels. It always seemed like it was the woman who wanted kids who couldn't have them, whereas the shortcut to fertility seemed to be a casual ambivalence to the prospect. 

That roommate now has an adorable daughter, though I'm still holding steady at one (1) delinquent cat. This situation at least proves that some of our bizarre superstitions about fertility were unfounded, but it doesn't answer on key question. Do I want children?

That choice has been on my mind lately, since it seems like either decision (aside from the Rachel-Miranda School of Accidental Reproduction), triggers a certain amount of defensiveness. While the decision to remain childfree will bring you more direct censure, at least from grandmothers at family gatherings, having a child isn't always a shortcut to acceptance and cupcakes. If someone thinks you're too poor, too single, or too crazy, they may demand an essay where you justify this choice, before providing supporting arguments for any of the choices that follow (adopted or biological, homeschooled or public schooled, organically and dogmatically fed from scratch or simply fed conveniently.)  

I feel the strongest desire to be a parent when I'm close to Baby Gap and its itty bitty pea coats, or when I'm near a rack of Robeez slippers, considering which animals I want embroidered on my baby's toes (dinosaurs, I think.) I feel the strongest desire not to be a parent when I've come home from a 6:30-9pm class, only to realize that I still need to do dishes, make dinner, do those dishes, briefly consider an activity for personal fulfillment, then fall asleep instead. The thought of doing all that, but in increased quantities and with more responsibilities, is terrifying. I've also shown a real aptitude for being utterly terrible with my money, so any child of mine would be at a distinct disadvantage in this world. The Baby Gap's itty bitty pea coats would stay on their hangers.

But it's not even the responsibilities or the costs of having a child that scare me the most. I am most frightened of sharing a child with another person. I know there are alternatives, from adopting as a single parent to sperm donation, but those all seem to involve scheduling, and I am as bad with calendars as I am with money. I think my ideal would be a bittersweet reunion with my baby daddy after many decades have passed, complete with a heartbroken smile and hands held a second too long. I don't think that many people watched The Way We Were and said "there's my maternal role model!" but I did and I do. 

I also sometimes catch myself fantasizing about being a parent, but of a child who's successful and celebrated in particular. It's like some of us reach older age when we let go of our childish fantasies of fame and achievement, only to forego maturity by transferring them to our offspring instead.

So. This is me taking 400 words to say "I don't know."

My consuming indecision means that, however, I do want to know what other people chose and why. I won't judge, but I always want to ask. I'm selfishly hoping to hear an argument compelling enough, in either direction, that I'll finally make a choice. But it's too personal to ask these questions that often, and so I mostly work the same territory over and over in my mind.

Kristin Booth, the actress who played the Nice Blonde Teacher on MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives later appeared on another Canadian drama, Flashpoint. Once again, she was playing a woman struggling with infertility, proving that there's no niche too small that an actress can't be forcibly typecast into it. This time her character's inferitlity had driven her to kidnap her husband's pregnant lover; at least there are some choices that are easy not to make.

Pillow Blog: Six Anecdotes About My Cat

In honour of International Cat Day, which might be a real holiday but may also have just been willed into existence through the collective force of the Internet, here is a list devoted to the one, the only, Marvin C. Protagitron.

Who, Me?

Six Anecdotes About My Cat

1. Marvin's original owner named him Zaphod. I renamed him Marvin because I hated the name Zaphod. I named him after Marvin Gaye, because he was so vocal. Now I realize I should have named him Wilhelm, after the Wilhelm Scream.

2. At the height of his annoying howling stage, I tried to rehome him with three different people, all of whom flaked out at the last minute. This collection included his previous owner, by the way. After the third time, I decided I was going to figure out a way for the furry little jerk to live with me. So now Marvin and I live in semi-peace, out of spite towards the flakiness of others. Spite is a powerful force, perhaps stronger than love.

3. Dan and I have created a rich interior life for Marvin, where he plots to kill us and fantasizes about having relations with Gary Busey. When we pretend to be Marvin we adopt the same voice as Christian Bale used for Batman. We've decided that what Marvin likes best about Gary Busey is his teeth.

4. Alternate names for Marvin include the Orange Menace; Katsu, Cat-King of the Kaiju; and Stinky Man.

5. Dan hated living with Marvin at first and still maintains that he doesn't like him. However, I have photo evidence of Dan picking up the cat and nuzzling him. He also asked Marvin last week if he loved him. The cat remained silent.

6. In spite of the hours of grief and hundreds of dollars spent on this cat, I love him. He keeps my feet warm at night and welcomes me home from work with the loveable shrieks of a banshee (it's an acquired taste). I've lived with three very different cats so far, and they've all enriched my life with much more than just cat hair. Even Marvin.