Flashback to 1984, studying Waiting for Godot at U of T. I must have been going through a faux-intellectual phase, or in lust with an English major, because I pretended to enjoy (and comprehend) the world's dumbest play, all the while looking around thinking, what the fuck, am I the only person in this lecture hall who thinks their dog could have penned this?
Now, much of my life is spent waiting – in my car – at times forgetful of who, or what I am waiting for. Now, I empathize with Beckett's buffoons, created on the back of a cocktail napkin right underneath the words "get a real job". Now, I feel the angst of taxi drivers forced to wait outside – meter not running – while someone checks their ass in the mirror, one last time, just to see if it shrank a bit since the last time they checked, five minutes ago.
Now, Beckett's joke on the literary world make sense.
Like the taxi driver, every minute I spend eating stale Timbits discovered between the seats, or checking for nose hairs in the rear view mirror, is time that could be spent doing something. Like making money. Or, in the case of the taxi guy – performing life-saving surgery – because back in his country, he is a well-respected Doctor. No wonder the man is so pissed off when you finally manoeuvre your two-sizes too-small skirt into the backseat of his cab. He's a Doctor for Christ's sake, he's supposed to keep you waiting.
As a result, had my body been found elegantly splayed on the floor of a seedy Las Vegas hotel room yesterday, or more likely, slumped over the wheel of my car in the arena parking lot – tracking my final hours would have been a CSI cakewalk, even for the slutty redhead.
Eating, while waiting in the car, had produced an art moderne masterpiece. My fashionable outfit of the day looked like a homeless Jackson Pollock painting. A blank canvas converted by an artfully launched coffee and a dab of cream cheese. A dribble of Diet Coke. A chocolate Popsicle. Lunch was in Bedford, where I accidentally dipped my left breast in the gravy at the Chickenburger, meaning I was either carrying the travel tray really high, or, I need to crank the bra up a notch or two.
Soon thereafter, to complement the warm, mocha tones of the morning came a quick dab of ketchup, followed by a splash of mustard-infused relish. My masterpiece was beginning to take shape, and according to the car radio it was only half-past one.
To this end, I have decided that the good folks at Proctor & Gamble should invent a Tide-to-Go stick that doubles as a vibrator you could plug in to the cigarette lighter in your car. Perhaps killing time in the parking lot would take on a whole new meaning if a gal could do a little stain prevention and honk her horn, simultaneously.
Then I'll write a play about it that ends with, "Yes! Yes! Let's go!" (she moves).
Alas, we no longer have to wait for the the Nova Scotia Designer Craft Council Summer Craft Market. It starts today and goes until the 26th in Downtown Halifax. I was particularly excited to see an artisan in attendance called Glowing Members, but I read the pamphlet wrong, it is actually Glowing Embers. Too bad. I was hoping they could fashion a handy, glowing, travel pouch for my Tide-to-Go joystick.
As craft fairs go, this one promises to be a particularly gauzy-skirt, hairy leg-infested affair, with lots of NSCAD types flogging acid flashback-inspired silver jewelry, earthenware, and organic clothing woven from virgin llama pubic hair.
I may drive by the show at Spring Garden and Queen, slowing down just enough to avoid a lethargic, Vitamin B-deprived potter and subsequently burn my crotch with a piping hot double-double.
No problem. I'll have time to kill.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
The NSDCC Summer Craft Market starts Friday July 24th 10am to 8pm and runs Saturday and Sunday 10am to 6pm.
