Yesterday my lovely mother and I went to see Hairspray at Centre in the Square. It was a lovely show, the cast was amazing, and the set was incredible. Probably one of the best I’ve ever seen**.
Mom and I took the geriatric route, and went to the matinee. Since downtown Kitchener has next to no parking, CitS offers a shuttle service from the Aud to the CitS. We hopped on the city bus, and remarked at how uncomfortable the seats are.
I looked out the window, and noticed a mysterious brown smear on the side of the bus. I pointed out the mysterious brown smear to Mom, and she informed me she wished she had hand sanitizer with her, because just looking at the mysterious brown smear made her feel contaminated with germs. We speculated at what the mysterious brown smear could be from, and we decided to tell ourselves it was chocolate, because it was much more pleasant to think about than any of the alternatives. I said that I didn’t want to find out for sure what it was, and that I was okay with the mysterious brown smear staying a mystery.
She then said that she almost pukes when she sees mysterious brown smears in restaurants. I said I agree, but at least there is a greater chance of the mysterious brown smear being from food, since it is in a restaurant. Again, we speculated that a mysterious brown smear should stay a mystery, because neither one of us were willing to do whatever we would need to do to solve the mystery of a mysterious brown smear. Mom asked me if the mysterious brown smear was blog worthy and I said, yes, I think it is blog worthy. Thanks for the idea. I’m sort of glad I saw the mysterious brown smear on the bus, because I always need something to blog about.
On the bus on the way back, there were no mysterious brown smears – at least none that we could see – but there were crabby old ladies. The bus was rather packed, so there were a bunch of people standing up. One crabby middle aged woman stood next to me, but decided it would be a good idea to press her bum against my shoulder. It was completely unnecessary bum press-age, but no, crabby middle aged woman insisted. By the end of the not short enough bus ride, I was wishing for the mysterious brown smear as opposed to middle aged woman bum press-age. At least if I encountered any smears after the bus ride with the mysterious brown smear, they would still be a mystery.
The moral of the story is, be thankful for mysterious brown smears, because the alternative could be worse.
**The only other show to top it was the time we went to see Mamma Mia in Toronto. Dad bought front row seats by accident (“No wonder they were so expensive!”), and one of the keyboardists offered us a mint.