Too embarrassed by my previous posts to keep this blog going.
Too lazy to start fresh with a new blog.
Solution? Bulk action delete.
Change of heart. I thought I’d be taking this blog in a new direction since I’ve been feeling like re-inventing myself these past few weeks.
Then I got into an argument with a customer service guy at Canadian Tire because he wouldn’t let me return an open bag of Doritos I had purchased a couple of weeks ago and I realized that I’m probably never going to change. And I’m fine with that. Sorta.
The good news is that if you’re into reading my complaints about the right and wrong way of sugaring coffee or rude delivery boys, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve restored my posts.
The bad news is that I’ve restored my posts and you’ll continue hearing me opine on font usage, bug reports and a certain Canadian hardware store refusing to issue a refund on a substandard bag of Cool Ranch Doritos®. What? Can a brother not get a decent corn chip-to-Cool Ranch seasoning ratio up in this bitch? I said it before and I’ll say it again: SUBSTANDARD.
Anyway…
The posts are back… mostly. I was deleting them till I realized you could export everything for posterity. Lost some pretty good posts that way. Ah well.
Mi Neurosis, Esq. (Artist's Conception)
My fifth grade teacher once told me that I’d never amount to anything. Her exact words? “Mi Neurosis, you’re never going to get an ‘A’. You’ll scrape by, but you’ll never accomplish anything. You’re not a good student.”
Of course if she were to say that to me today, I’d politely request that she address me as Counselor Mi Neurosis and then ask if I could borrow a level to make sure my diploma is perfectly horizontal.
I miss this place. I’ll be back in a couple more weeks. Just gotta get through exams.
Speaking of which, I’m at my peak understanding of sovereign debt management so if anybody has any questions, now’d be the perfect time…
(P.S. Let’s go, Rangers Canucks Ducks ‘Canes Pens!)
She was holding up one finger behind her back, but I guessed three. So I couldn’t gamble my way out of my week-old promise to take the afternoon off and monitor the plumber that was coming over to fix the leaky drain in our kitchen.
I’m not so naïve as to think I actually lost fair and square; I’m pretty sure she was holding up three—but that’s cool. I mean, if our positions were reversed, you better believe I’d pull a fast one on her. She’d be all “two!” and then I’d quickly extend an additional finger and be like “Three. Sorry, bitch. That’s twelve times in a row. You know what that means. *unbuttoning my pants* We’re going to a buffet.”
But that’s neither here nor there. I lost. I’m over it. I’m much more upset with the plumber. It’s not that he didn’t do a fantastic job, but, well… it’s like this:
We have two bottles of dish soap on our kitchen counter: a half-finished bottle of grapefruit and a virgin bottle of lavender bergamot.
Though my girlfriend might try convincing you otherwise, I am NOT an idiot. I know plumbers get dirty. They handle flux, hot slag is always raining down on them and more often than not, they gotta reach in, have a fiddle about and fish stuff outta clogged toilets. They need to wash up. I get it.
What I don’t get is why this particular plumber, when it came time to wash his hands, opted to reach for the unopened bottle. Why would he do something like that? A GUY CAN’T HAVE TWO BOTTLES OF SOAP ON HIS COUNTER WITHOUT SOMEBODY THINKING HE’S HOSTING A SOAP BAR? This isn’t the Ritz. We use ONE bottle of soap at a time in this house. ONE.
Then he had the nerve to give me the stink eye after I suggested he use the other bottle of soap.
Fucking hedonist plumber. I bet he bathes in seven different kinds of soap at home.
I was in the vestibule of my friend’s apartment building waiting for him to buzz me in.
In there with me was some other guy. I don’t know how long he was waiting but I can only assume it was for quite some time because as soon as my friend buzzed me up, he grabbed the handle, pulled the door open…
…and walked right on in.
Can he do that? Is that allowed? The whole thing seems very fucking wrong to me. What kind of man appropriates another man’s right of entry?
If you’re the one that’s buzzed in, you are the one charged with the responsibility of opening the door. It’s in the Torah. The Circle of Life, goddamnit. Sorry. That’s from The Lion King. Disney, Deuteronomy…it doesn’t matter. It’s codified somewhere.
What an affront to our collective folkways. I’ve watched Fox News; I know there’s a culture war going on in America…but this guy didn’t look Mexican to me so I don’t know what his problem was.
What was he thinking? That I was going to walk in then slam the door behind me before he had a chance to make it to the lobby? Or that I’d lean against the door with all my might in an attempt to lock him out as he tried to strong-arm his way through? I would’ve held the damn door open for him—which, I might add, is a courtesy he DID NOT extend to me. What a piece of work.
It was MY door to open. Not his.
Or do I have it all wrong? Is this what we’re doing now? Tell me. I’d love to know.
You’d think my mind would be elsewhere on the eve of my family’s arrival, but I just can’t help it.
I don’t think Her knows the difference between the number zero and the letter O.
At least it doesn’t seem that way. I’m looking at a cheque she cut for some person named “Oliver”. The “O” in Oliver looks exactly like the two zeros in 2008.
2OO8.
Nobody’s ever corrected her? That’s not good—or fair. When I was in the 5th grade, my teacher forced me to write out “I will improve my cursive penmanship” 500 times because it wasn’t “slanty” enough. How has SHE been getting away with this? Well, it ends right now.
Actually, she’s asleep. But I’ve half a mind to wake her up and tell her how wrong she’s been.
In the morning, I guess. If I can hold it in that long.
We really didn’t have much to do in way of preparation for my family’s arrival tomorrow, so we spent the afternoon opening a few gifts we received from some friends of ours over the past few days. Mostly stuff for the home: an immersion blender and a really cool lamp.
But there’s one gift that’s left a very bad taste in my mouth, given to us by our mutual friends (and favorite couple), TM & MM.
A framed photo of the four of us.
I’m confused. What exactly is the gift? The $3 frame? Or the photo?
Where’d they get that photo, anyway? It’s not theirs. It’s my girlfriend’s. I remember her asking a kind passerby to take a snapshot of the four of us.
What’d they do? Steal it off her Facebook, turn it black and white in Photoshop then give it to us? IS THAT RIGHT?
What a shitty gift. I hate them.
Her: (sitting down next to me and sighing) Just got off the phone with my mom.
Me: Why the sigh? Flight’s been delayed?
Her: They’re not coming. My uncle is in the hospital again.
I don’t want to sound like a dick, but…THANK YOU UNCLE SHLOMO!!
This news couldn’t have come at a better time. I was worrying myself sick these past few weeks, thinking that THIS would be the year that our families would finally meet and ruin the holidays.
But her unkie Shlomo and his poor physical health saved the day.
Don’t look at me like that. He’s going to be FINE. This is a guy that’s been on his “death bed” SIX TIMES IN THE LAST YEAR ALONE.
I wish I had that kind of will to live. If I come down with so much as a sniffle, I’m on my knees begging that dark hunter to take me away.
S’official. My girlfriend is friends with the strangest people in the world.
We were at a “party” last night.
There was music: Oingo Boingo’s “Gratitude“. Looped continuously. For four hours. Then an inexplicable and abrupt shift to what I think was an Astrud Gilberto number—played only once—before the speakers fell silent for the remainder of the evening.
Nobody danced and nobody spoke to me save for one girl:
Some Girl: You look sad.
Me: I’m bored.
SG: Don’t be sad!
Me: Okay, I won’t.
SG: Thanks.
And some guy was wearing a sun hat with drawstrings. I get that kitsch is in, but a sun hat? Really?
We were somehow among the last to leave.
Needless to say I won’t attend another party that’s hosted by one of her friends ever again. In fact, it’s paying instant dividends. When was the last time I got to enjoy a quiet Saturday night alone?
It’s 2:36 in the afternoon. I’ve been awake for, oh…I dunno. 25 minutes now?
I drank a carton of eggnog and 1/8th of a bottle of brandy for breakfast… and I think I’m going to drink another half carton right now.
I hope I get really fat. That’s how you know if you had a good holiday. Fatness is the litmus test.
I’d also like a robe. Nothing fancy. Just something I can drink eggnog in.
This is the life. Absolutely nothing is on the docket. I could even go back to sleep if’n I felt like it. I think I might just do that. I know that as the vacation drags on, I’ll be looking forward to the resumption of classes so I might as well enjoy the holidays before they start making me sick.
But before I go…
A special thanks to Jane from Lost in the Hostile City who was so kind as to give me the Superior Scribbler Award:
S'an honor just being nominated.
I was actually awarded this back in late November…but I loves me some delayed gratification.
