Town Mouse, Country
Mouse – Toastmasters Humourous Speech (
I am an imposter.
I do not belong in
downtown Toronto, I don’t belong on the subway or Go Train, shopping at the
Eaton’s centre, or attending a posh nightclub…Its far too….’city’ for me.
I belong in a pickup
truck on a dirt road, cow tipping, and sharing a few beers with friends at the
Stamped Corral Tavern.
Fellow toastmasters,
honoured guests,
I am a country kind of
girl.
When I graduated
university and had to move to the city for work, I looked at it as an adventure
– a chance to morph into a ‘city girl’.
It wasn’t that easy…
I should have realized
that I was in over my head on the first day I went apartment hunting. I took a little drive into
I have never seen so many
cars in one place before! Honking, and
yelling, and cutting each other off.
I was told the suburbs were
better. I was told they had ‘small town
feel’.
But I did not see any
corner shops, or people sitting on their porches playing the banjo or drinking
lemonade. I didn’t see any children
selling lemonade. Heck, the closest
thing to lemonade I saw was an old empty mud-covered lemonade juice box laying
on the side of the road in a puddle - and some old gnarled women with 400 bags
and a trail of cats following her, poking it with a stick.
But, I
was pressed for time and needed a place FAST!
So, I reluctantly signed the lease to what I
affectionately called “the dingy pit”.
It came complete with a creepy building manager, lack of parking, and
Malfunctioning elevators. Not too bad
compared to some of the places I had seen.
And if I only eat 3 times a week, I can afford it!
On moving day I received another reality
check when the movers asked why I chose this particular neighbourhood.,
and suggested that I always lock my doors.
Now I DID mention where I spent my Friday nights, didn’t I? At the Stampeed
Coralle Tavern?
I figured that if I can handle our prized
bull (and they don’t call him wild willy
for nothing), I can handle a rougher neighbourhood. These guys are so funny. They also
suggested an alarm system…
and a dog… a big dog. They were joking, right?
As the movers brought in the last of the boxes, I returned to my optimistic self. A few days of hard work and I would have my apartment in tip top shape. If I can muck out barn stalls, I could fix up this apartment.
But, now there was the problem fitting
everything INSIDE the dingy pit. I might
be a country gal, but I’m a country gal who likes to shop. I
was having a slight problem with my clothes. Apparently I have a lot of them. I certainly don’t think so. But I guess 6 large wardrobe boxes is a lot
for a single female.
The movers joked that they moved entire families with less clothing.
I started unloading the wardrobe boxes into my closet. After one box I heard some creeking. After the 2nd I heard something cracking. (SHRUG) I was about ½ way through the 3rd box when I heard something snap…..then the closet rod fell down.
I had crammed the clothes in so well, when the rod broke, they literally exploded into my bedroom. I think I broke the record for distance, when a sweater that ended up in the toilet.
It was at this moment that the fire alarm went off.
Now, I was very glad to see that my new home actually had a fire alarm, but seriously – this was the worst possible time.
Then the panic set in. “What if the building was set on fire by deranged city-folk? They keep saying that the city is full of crazy people, and who knows what could be happening. I bet it’s a bomb. Oh my Gosh, it’s a bomb and the building is going to explode, sending the contents of all 6 of my wardrobe boxes flying across the city. I can see it now: My underware hanging off of the CN Tower.”
Donned in my fuzzy bunny slippers, I flew down all 14 flights of stairs. I was scared. Because in the country, the fire alarm only goes off if it’s a real emergency!
I burst into the lobby, only to find it completely empty, except for ‘creepy building manager’, yelling “false alarm, false alarm”.
28 floors, 12 apartments on each floors… and I am the only person who flees the building. Total Hick.
Back upstairs, the alarm was still ringing…and ringing… and ringing. So, I solved the problem in true country fashion – with beer and duck tape. I taped two large pillows over the speaker, and retreated to the balcony to drink the beer. Problem solved.
Over the next few days I
began to realize that driving tractors, wrangling bulls and mucking out barn
stalls did not suffice as adequate ‘City girl’ preparations. I couldn’t handle the driving, rough neighborhoods
and my dingy pit. Many nights I went to
bed dreaming of the mayberry-esque small town I missed.
A few weeks ago though, I
overheard full fledged “city girls” on the subway talking about the exact same
problems I had experienced. One complained
of the horrific traffic, the other of the crime, and both agreed that the
fabulous apartments were far too expensive.
I thought to myself.. I’m sitting on the
subway – that’s a ‘city girl’ activity.
I’m going to my job, which is right downtown. I even tried drinking something other than
beer, at a martini bar! And I like
it. Huh.
[Pause]
Maybe I am becoming a ‘city
girl’ after all.