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.

Domestic Wednesday: It's Cidertown

This post is a two in one type situation, because it's hard to get more domestic than this cider. It's currently fermenting just a few feet away. If it's drinkable, I'll call my home production set-tup the "Under the Sink Cider Company" and our mascot will be an old sponge. If it isn't, we shall never speak of it again. I bottle on Sunday. 

What, it's a jug of cider under a sink. What did you expect, Ansel Adams?

I've made small batches of beer before, to rather middling results. These results tasted worse when I considered the time I spent brewing them. It was a whole day's worth of work (not including fermentation) that tended to turn my kitchen into a sauna, for beer that was pretty meh. Cider seemed like a way to slowly get back into DIY drinks. It's more like making wine: pour apple cider into something. Add yeast. Wait. (Also, sanitize EVERYTHING.) Of course, people who take this sort of thing seriously will question my methods on my first batch. I just bought some local President's Choice cider and pitched in half a leftover packet of yeast from a previous brewing attempt. It's english ale-style yeast, so who knows what horror I'll uncap in two weeks. Something delicious? Or something that makes me believe in the existence of a cosmic, unknowable evil, one that happened to be sitting under my sink for two weeks?

Domestic Wednesday: Socks and Suds

Because of the awkward placement of Canada Day right in the middle of last week, I was left with two awkward days on either side of the holiday. I knew that, come Thursday morning, I wasn't going to want to wake up and go back to work. So, I cashed in some vacation days and gave myself a five day weekend.

I also decided to give myself a vacation from social media at the same time. No refreshing my Facebook wall, no Twitter scrolling, no Instagram favouriting. The exception would be some Shenmue 3 tweets, but that was out of love for Dan, my Shenmue fanatic. It would be five days of productivity and writing.

Instead it was five days of finally watching Orange is the New Black and knitting.

Eh, you do what you can.

I was working on my second or third attempt at the Pomatomus socks, a pattern that is now ten (10!) years old. I've made it to the foot of the first sock, which was a stunning improvement over my last attempt, which ended with half a sock finished and the rest of the yarn in a massive tangle. I'm using Rowan Fine Art in Blue in this attempt. I don't like the way it's pooling, but I love the way it feels. Hopefully I can make it to the toe of the second sock without the ball turning into a Gordian knot.

And, of course, there was beer on my five day weekend. Phillips Brewery is one of the great lost loves from my time in Victoria, along with my growlers Rock 'Em and Sock 'Em, and the half-dozen unrequited crushes I nurtured while there. So, when I saw their Electric Unicorn White IPA at the LCBO, I had to buy two bottles. It's a brassy, hazy beer, reminding me of a pineapple spliced with an herbal tea bag, with a head like a marshmallow and a yeasty character. It's perfect for the summer, even if you can't spend that season on a deck in Fernwood Village.

Finally, the social media holiday was nice. Maybe a little too nice. I felt more disconnected from the world at large; Twitter had largely become my source of current news, and so I forgot the Greek referendum was even happening until hours after the result was certain. But I also felt less frantic. It was like I had been in a box full of people yelling, and suddenly they were all on mute. I'm half tempted to do it again (though I've checked Twitter nearly ten times while writing this post.)

Uphill Battles: Further Indignities from the World of Cycling

Because global warming has turned spring into a pleasing fiction from the past, we quickly transitioned from Cold to Hot here in Toronto. Unfortunately, this means that I play Russian Roulette every time I cycle home from work. Will this day be the day my head finally explodes like that guy from Scanners? Or will that be tomorrow? Or Tuesday of next week?

My apartment is in Forest Hill, which is uphill from my job. Unfortunately, it is also uphill from the border of the prehistoric mega-lake that has since receded into Lake Ontario, leaving behind a  sharp shelf for my little black bike to climb. I keep on trying to find an ideal route that combines low hill grades with Toronto's limited bike infrastructure; I keep on failing.

Instead, every day I slowly pedal my way up Spadina until my face is turned a colour Pantone has named "geranium pink." Woe to any car that tries to cross me as I power through the streets at 0.3km/hour. With my dry throat and slack mouth, my violent threats come out as "If ffnyouuuuuurnntrythattttImmmmaklzznznjnyou," but there's no mistaking the look of murder in my eyes. I'll tear their throat out with my teeth! Or pass out on their hood. Actually, if they would just hit me, they could conveniently drag me uphill.

I could get in better shape. I could buy an e-bike. But at either point, I might just do better to move.

Domestic Tuesday: Baby Sweater and a Yukon Beer

Remember that baby sweater I started a while ago? Well, I stalled out on the first sleeve, and I'm not really sure why. Baby sleeves are are barely the size of a washcloth if laid flat. It's like deciding that I don't have the energy to knit a gauge swatch. Oh well.

I finally picked it back up, and now I'm just hoping it will fit. It's not like babies grow quickly or anything, right? Eh. Love those buttons though.

Dulling the pain of knowing this sweater probably won't fit is Yukon Gold's English Pale Ale. I picked it up because I had never tried a beer from the Yukon before, much less seen one for sale at the LCBO. According to the shelf tag, this is the most popular draught beer in the Yukon, though I was a little concerned when the shelf tag then mentioned that the label art captures the spirit of the Yukon. It's definitely an attractive label, but I was worried this was the shelf's way of warning me, like saying "the movie sucks, but the poster sure looks amazing!" I shouldn't have been so worried. I was expecting something quite light, due to its popularity, but it was more robust than expected. Kind of sweet, with an emphasis on the malts, it reminded me of a digestive biscuit. I could drink a few of these in a night; not shocked it's so popular up North.

Pillow Blog: Some Classic Films for Bad Times

Right now, the world seems particularly heartbreaking and awful. The only thing to do is to fix it, of course. There are too many things a person can do, both small (donating money to the Emanuel AME Church) and large (helping to build a more just society) to ever feel truly hopeless. But sometimes I forget to feel that optimistic. When I feel this way, the only thing that can make me bear the real world is to escape into a beautifully constructed artificial one. Golden Age Hollywood films are my tonic of choice. And yes, it's odd that these films both represent and perpetrate so many harmful systems; but reason and comfort aren't always good company. Here are my personal favourites:

1. My Man Godfrey: This film is screwball perfection. The outfits are fashion perfection. Carole Lombard is perfection. Either the gorilla scene or the dishwashing scene will make you laugh, but both probably will.
2. The Thin Man: Nick and Nora are the ideal married couple. They have fun, they're clearly still hot for each other, and they're perpetually drunk off their asses. I don't have the liver for that lifestyle and thus I am likely doomed to a lifetime of unfulfilling relationships (don't tell Dan). I think there's a murder mystery in this, but it's not that important because you're here for cocktails with the Charleses.
3. Singin' in the Rain: Perhaps the best musical ever made in Hollywood. Film history would be a sad affair without Gene Kelly, Donald O'Connor, and Debbie Reynolds striding arm in arm in their rain slickers.
4. Top Hat: There's something magical about seeing Ginger Rodgers dance in a completely feathered dress. I'm sure it would have looked ridiculous in real life; lost feathers start to litter the dance floor as the scene goes on. Doesn't matter. Fred Astaire and Ginger don't miss a step.
5. It Happened One Night: This movie completely misrepresented the allure of traveling by Greyhound, in that it indicated it might have some. However, Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable are so charming I've always forgiven the film for this lie. It's funny and a little sexy, probably because the Walls of Jericho (the bedsheet separating the unmarried travellers) stays up until the very last scene.

Pillow Blog: 5 CBC Personalities I Thought Would Go Down Before Evan Solomon

In the tradition of the Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book, here's a Pillow Blog: an observational list on some subject or another. In this case, five CBC personalities I thought would go down before Evan Solomon, with their absurd potential malfeasance:

• Ian Hanomansing for stealing all that maple syrup that went missing in Quebec
• Rex Murphy for drug smuggling
• Peter Mansbridge for running a fight club behind his Stratford home
• Wendy Mesley for importing knockoff designer bags
• IdeaswithPaulKennedy for stealing copper wire from the recording studio

And yet, somehow, it's Evan Solomon for making art deals on the side. The code names are a fun touch though, "the Guv" for Mark Carney, and "Anka" for Jim Balsillie. If I ever buy art from a CBC host, I want my code name to be "El Camino" and the host to be either Steven or Chris, but not both. Anyway, this whole affair is doing a great deal to restore my interest in Evan Solomon, an interest formerly drained by nearly every episode of Power and Politics I ever tried to watch.

Hot Takes: My Job Application to become a Globe and Mail Columnist

Margaret Wente and I have reached an understanding. I avoid reading her columns and pretend that she doesn't exist; she doesn't care to know that I exist. In this way, we have achieved harmony, balance, and a meaningful reduction in the number of times I cry blood while reading her column. 

But sometimes, in spite of myself, I read it. Usually because she's said something so outrageous that my friends will complain about it, and they'll ask me if I've read it too. I tell them about the understanding, but even as I say that I won't be giving the Globe and Mail the pleasure of my clicks, I inevitably click on her column. 

Before the blood tears come, there's at least one thing that always gives me satisfaction. As a young women with a university degree in the humanities, I'm used to being somewhere in the third quartile of Canada's societal power rankings. Jobs are scarce, good pay almost extinct; I occupy so little space in the public consciousness that many Torontonians will try to walk right through me on a sidewalk and are shocked when my shoulder checks them. However, in Wente-land, this is not the case. There, I am part of a dangerous cabal plotting to rule over a ruined Canada with not one but two iron fists. One is poised over a Rape Culture Alert button, while the other repeatedly checks the "sociology" field instead of "petroleum engineering" on every university application. 

Margaret Wente had us, or at least a particular segment of us, in her sights again last Tuesday. She managed to build a whole column around the presentations at this year's Congress of the Social Sciences and Humanities without attending any of them. This is the columnist's equivalent of giving a book report without having done the required reading. The offences she found at Congress included daring to critically study video games (an industry worth an insignificant 25 PLUS BILLION DOLLARS) and making "the virtues of everything indigenous" a theme (a particularly galling statement since the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was wrapping up in Ottawa at the same time as Congress was happening). I suppose gender is never explicitly mentioned in her column, but notice what's in the titles of the presentations she mentions by name ("breasts", "female sex tourism", "lesbians") and check who is presenting them. Add in the context of Wente's previous column on the gender wage gap, and... the subtext is practically text. 

Oh, what could I say to Wente about this column if we ever stared each other down in an elevator? That people who worked hard to research and prepare for their presentation deserve more than a glib dismissal by a known plagiarist? That it doesn't make sense to complain about scholars focusing too little on Northrop Frye and Jane Austen when they are hardly "practical studies that will pay off in a good career" like she praises the "aspirational children of new Canadians" for pursuing? That SHUT UP, WENTE, YOU HACK??? No, cathartic as the latter might be, I'm not going to beat her. I'm going to join her!

Because if she can make a living wage with her contrarian word spew (eruptions occur twice a week), I want the same deal. It's only fair. We both have English degrees, so she knows I am fit for nothing else. Here are the three writing samples I'll be sending to the Globe:

Column Preview #1

Column Title: Young Women: What Is to Be Done?

Synopsis: I don't trust young women. They're asking to be treated like real people, and one of them was mean to me once. It's okay, I can say this stuff because I am also a young woman. 

Hot Take: Young women have it easy, it's young white men who have it hard. 

Sample Sentence: "The woman--more of a girl, really--hit me with her tote bag as she left, and I knew there was a  Feminist Geographies of Public Space class somewhere on her transcript."

Column Preview #2

Column Title: I Read a Book

Synopsis: I read a Book about Something. I will then condense the author's arguments, use them to make my argument for me, and apply no criticism to their work.

Hot Take: Everything you thought about a thing was WRONG because I read a Book that said so. 

Sample Sentence: "Global warming, it turns out, will be barely warm enough to steep a proper cup of tea, as Book Author points out in the Book whose product description I read most of on Amazon."

Column Preview #3

Column Title: True Patriot Love and Hook-Ups: My Canadian Election

Synopsis: I discuss the upcoming election entirely on the terms of an extended and increasingly tortured Tinder metaphor. Because I am a young woman, and we like apps. 

Hot Take: I'm not going to swipe right on anyone, because I need to learn to love myself first--and so does Canada. 

Sample Sentence: "Mulcair's beard is rich and his baritone is practically platinum, but you know he would just endlessly debate you about Bill C-51 via chat before you even had a first date at Terroni."

Salary-wise, I want whatever Wente's getting. And if the Globe adds another grand, I'll even wear a low-cut shirt when my columnist photo is taken.