Yep, I Attract the Creepy. Call it My Gift
It is not only Pride week in Toronto, it is also the week of the Toronto Jazz Festival.
I have a friend who is crazy into jazz so the two of us decided to go watch one of her favourite local musicians perform. She happens to be single at the moment (my friend, I’m not sure about the singer’s relationship status) so she let me know in advance that she planned to look über hot. Always one to support my friends, I slipped into a dress that was low cut enough to be sexy without looking slutty, smeared on some bright coral lipstick and stepped into some wicked heels. I topped the ensemble with an oversized, way overpriced purse. Then I grabbed and Italian soda and hopped the first of two subway trains that would get me to Dufferin station.
I was lucky to find a seat on the overcrowded subway, and a man whom I shared the platform with sat across from me. He started to stare at my legs, which I found odd because my legs are not what I’d consider my best feature. I resisted the urge to pat my hand over them to check if I had indeed shaved before I left the house. Just when I was sure there had to be something seriously wrong with them –maybe a giant bruise, a suddenly appearing spider vein my mother always warns me I will wake up with one day or a giant bug fixing to take a chunk out of me – his gaze moved to my mouth. Not my face, people, my mouth. In fact, every time I took a sip of my soda he stared at my lips. Eventually I did not even have to have a straw to my lips, he just stared at my mouth. For six effing stops! It totally creeped me out.
Finally it was time for me to transfer subways. I thanked my lucky stars when he did not transfer along with me. The creep factor was gone.
I found another precious seat and stared out the window into blackness, wondering why some men don’t even bother to try to scale back their creepiness. And then I happen to look up to find a woman glaring at me. And I don’t mean a slightly annoyed why-is-your-purse-nicer-than-mine type of glare. She was giving me an unwavering, completely evil stink eye. I blinked a couple times, thinking I must be imagining the venom in her eyes. Nope. This woman glared at me with such intensity that other people on the train started to notice. People kept looking back and forth between us. Finally, not being able to stand the tension, I shouted over the crowd in what I thought to be a very friendly voice, “I’m sorry but do I know you from somewhere?”
She didn’t answer, folks. She just continued to glare until the next stop where she left the train.
As soon as she left, I pulled out my compact and checked for any reason for the attention I received on this and the last train. My makeup wasn’t smeared, I had no baby arms growing out of the side of my head. A quick pat on the legs ensured I had indeed shaved. WTF?
Anyway, I went to the club where my friend (who did, indeed, look hot as hell) and I listened to some stellar jazz, drank very strong Sangria and laughed about my subway adventure.
Here is a song called Big Fat Daddy. This is not the same singer from the club we were at, and I wish I could offer up a video of that, but it is a very fun version as well.
I saw this pic on Facebook this morning and just had to add it to this blog entry: