Win! Or was that Lose?
If I were a man, my behaviour towards my apartment would be easier to reconcile as I have limited furniture and stuff in general, my walls are bare and I haven’t washed the floors in three months. In short, I live like a male college nerd, minus the nudie posters in the bathroom.
However, the times, they are a-changing.
You are reading from the blog of a soon to be owner of a couch. After 9 months of living solo (plus 3 months with my last housemate) I have decided to do something out of character and get some sort of seating that is not the queen size inflatable mattress in the middle of my living room floor.
To do it in my own awkward and slightly irreverent way, I have got a couch from a friend of a friend*, who I have yet to meet, and am buying his sofa, that I have yet to see. I’m putting all my faith in Jez that he’s not misspent my $350.
Also - I, on a whim, bid on a couple of paintings at a gallery on Saturday. I won!! Huzzah. They’re super cute and (me thinks / me thought) a bargain at $170 for the pair. Until I went online and found them for $75 each of 3 for $200, so that kind of sucks. (I got gub and neutron…gub is my favourite)
*This might turn out to be an urban legend couch…it happened to a friend of a friend of mine … true story!
Panic in the Laundromat
Confession: I am a lazy laundress. I don’t like the communal laundry room in my apartment building (2 washers & 2 dryers for 40 units!) because, frankly, I am a lazy, lazy person and I don’t enjoy scheduling a night to do my laundry. I would much rather toss in a load before work, forget about it for 2 days, then have to re-wash 4 times to get the smell of mildew out of my t-shirts.
BUT
It became necessary for me to do my laundry since I *almost* had to resort to the bathing suit bottoms for lack of clean drawers. Erm…almost.
I’ve worked out a system to minimise the cost of laundry day ($2 wash, $2 dry) and maximise the efficiency by staggering loads and using the dryer once for two washes. (Summary 2 wash = 1 dry). I just have to time it right, and since my preferred dryer runs for a looong time, I rarely have any issues.**
Last night, though, someone fucked with the system. And if I ever find out who it was, we will have a discussion about laundry etiquette before I mash his face into dirty underwear whilst making him wash his mouth with liquid laundry detergent.
I went down to do the swap, only to find my dryer usurped by a load of mans clothes. He stole my dryer, and by extension, my money. I found my clothes sitting in a slightly damp heap on top of the dryer.
I contemplated putting food dye or a couple of damp tissues in to teach him a lesson, but dismissed it as silly (I wouldn’t want to permanently damage my favourite dryer), so I turned the machine off. Put my second load into the vacant (!) dryer and gave the world the finger, with a message to pass it on the thieving asshole.
I had a slight attack of the guilts when I picked up my last load, so I turned his machine back on. Which gave me a thrill because he’ll wonder forever about that dryer and it’s lack of drying ability, hopefully leaving me and my damp clothes to a clean and happy (and dry) future.
** How OCD was that paragraph??
I dare say Old Cock:
On my walk to work this morning, I saw a real live, honest to Jiminy deerstalker!! I imagine that the man who was wearing this lovely hat is an English gentleman, as a Canadian man only actually stalks deer, in camo apparel lined with day-glo orange.
Swagger Like John Wayne:
A friend invited me to take a yoga class with her on Saturday, and because it’d been approximately 42 years since I’d done any exercise, I decided to go. Ohmygad, two days on and I’m still sore. I’ve been broken by Hatha.
During one part the instructor had us do this move: Squat and place our hands on the inside of our feet, so both the feet and the palms were flat on the floor. In this position, we were supposed to take a turn around the studio, because the Taoists think that doing this ungainly walk for 10 minutes a day is the key to perfect health***. I did a small circle, realising with alarm that I would most certainly be the last person to complete the circuit, so I did a teeny circle and went back to my mat (hoping that I did a passable job of faking it). The whole thing was (a) far too reminiscent of school gym classes (where I tried to fake it but always got caught), and (b) not very yogi at all of me, but I can honestly say that this girl doesn’t care.
***Google let me down on that, too. Suspect that she made the whole thing up, sadistic bitch.
-Anna
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Kitchenland Nightmares
I am, for the most part, completely useless in the kitchen.
Last week, I attempted a vegetarian stroganoff with tofu, and it was hideous. Disgusting, even. To be fair (to me) the recipes were ‘healthy’, which stroganoff isn’t, so much. So, what I created wasn’t really stroganoff, but it wasn’t really edible, either. Instead, it was a congealed mass of egg noodles, low fat yogurt and tofu with spices.
Again, to be fair (to me), it was the day of the flaming, intolerable tooth pain and, potentially, I suppose, could have coloured the dining experience. In any case, that recipe has been exiled to the never, ever again pile.
One area where I do tend to be proficient in the kitchen, however unlikely that might be, is baking things. I can usually turn out a decent cake or batch of cookies.
I typed a really self-righteous post glorifying my baking skills over the weekend, while I had a cake baking, and it turns out that it was slightly premature. The cake in question, a moist yellow cake, was fucking atrocious. Not due to the recipe, but the supposed baker.
Steps to baking fail:
1.Not having a mixer, stand or otherwise, of the electric variety, I had to use my body as such
2.Being lazy and not being bothered about actually spending 70 minutes creaming the butter and sugar
3.Not understanding the significance of having the rack in the right spot in the oven
4.Using the timer on the stove to time the baking properly.
The recipe called to cool the cake in the pan for 10 minutes, then wrap it in cling film for the rest of the cooling time. Trying to wrap a still very warm and very crumbly cake is an impossible feat, as I found out. This is he area where I excelled: throwing mostly inedible cake all over the kitchen during cling film wrapping theatrics.
After giving a slice to my neighbor, the new official taster, we determined that the cake was really, really unusable and that I should, perhaps, destroy what was left of it. So I did, but with a tear in my eye, from the concrete-like shards that pierced my skin as it shattered in the bin.
This left the dilemma of needing to make another of the super moist (ha!) yellow cake for the birthday Hodge for tomorrow (now today - lazy posting).
I would like to state, for posterity, that creaming butter and sugar with a dinner fork is a wonderful way to ruin perfectly good shoulders. And fore arms. And wrists. But, it is done. I baked a perfectly edible cake that is very, very moist, though still quite crumbly - which seems unlikely, but is true none the less. And it is delicious, particularly when paired with the chocolate cake that turned out perfectly (the first time)!
However, because there certainly wasn’t enough cake failure in my recent past, I had to do a quick cover up when Hodge stopped by unexpectedly. The tea towel disguise bonded to the cake and they stuck together like glue. Only a minor disaster this time, and I’m still using the cake, cloth fibers be damned.
Beating well after each addition, AM
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Lofty Goals
I had a dream last night that I won an award (from the Ace of Cakes crew) for this blog.
The prize?
A book about Venezuela, signed by…me! (seriously! Also, what a random prize for my subconcious to award, well, anyone.)
WIN!!
-AM
The prize?
A book about Venezuela, signed by…me! (seriously! Also, what a random prize for my subconcious to award, well, anyone.)
WIN!!
-AM
Friday, January 22, 2010
Conversations:
She: I love, love, love the Earls in North Vancouver!
He: Yeah, that is a sexy one, isn’t it?
She: It really is, the epitome of what Earls should be.
He: All of their girls are hot.
She: They are, like, like, so hot. Much hotter than the girls downtown. OMG, check out this top!
They: looking at mesh top circa 1987, murmuring pleasure at its singular awesomeness.
She: Yup. Earls in North Van is the best.
He: It is.
Postscript:
He & She: bad ass septogenarians. Get on wit' your bad selves!
He: Yeah, that is a sexy one, isn’t it?
She: It really is, the epitome of what Earls should be.
He: All of their girls are hot.
She: They are, like, like, so hot. Much hotter than the girls downtown. OMG, check out this top!
They: looking at mesh top circa 1987, murmuring pleasure at its singular awesomeness.
She: Yup. Earls in North Van is the best.
He: It is.
Postscript:
He & She: bad ass septogenarians. Get on wit' your bad selves!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mouth Rape – warning…some graphic content involved:
To preface, I don’t mind going to the dentist, as such, but I loathe the lectures about proper dental hygiene from the 14 year old hygenists. They are the sole reason for my irregular visits to have my mouth checked and teeth cleaned, and by extension, my bad teeth. How’s that for the North American-style passing of the buck?
I had a dental appointment yesterday since I’d had a toothache (haha – liquid, dripping pain) the night before, brought on by a wonderful loaf of French bread and cheese. Which is pretty sad itself since I'll be associating intense pain with french bread and smoked cheese for a time, I'm sure. I told the dentist this (not about regretting that it was bread and cheese, just the facts) and he came up with:
MY OPTIONS:
- remove the tooth (the very last one)
- root canal with a crown and post
PROFESSIONAL RECOMMENDATION:
- remove the offending tooth
I have been a bit bewildered for the last 24 hours, solely due to the quick decision (approximately 18 seconds) I had to make regarding its status in my mouth. Upon reflection, I know that I would have removed it in any case, because it’s apparently a ‘useless’ tooth – with a cavity, and no lower tooth to keep it in place* - but I can’t help but feel a teensy bit bullied into having it out. I made the call, but trying to decide if you should keep your damaged tooth with an expectant dentist and his assistant waiting for your answer with their heads cocked and syringes of novocaine in hand is unnerving.
Is this weird? They asked if I wanted to see the x-ray. Of course, I'll finally get to see the result of wearing a lead apron. They asked if I wanted to see the tooth. I hesitated, but in the end, how could I not. Then they asked if I wanted to keep it. Uh, no, but...thanks?
Later that evening:
I was watching tv, eating room temperature tomato soup that was so not satisfying, when KB called, which began the flow of blood that would not stop. I looked like a cage fighter, bloodied mouth and all, which was pretty cool, but on the second hour of bleeding, I had some genuine concern that I would bleed to death, alone, in my apartment and no one would find me until the scent of decay alerted passerby that something was wrong…
I'm fairly alarmed about having teeth removed with no intention of having fakes put in. In my case, there would be no point, but how fucking hill-billy is that? I might have to start eating road kill and marry my brother if they find me out. Fingers crossed that those wisdom teeth will come in soon.
It’s fine now (but I managed to get mouth blood all over my cream sheets, so that’s annoying), I did come into the office today, but am planning on taking the afternoon off because all my good drugs are gone. And that is as good an excuse to watch a movie as anything, no?
* I had the lower one removed years ago from a tragic pillow fight incident.**
**haha, not really
Further cementing the notion that this just ain’t my week:
I find it impossible to peruse a grocery store in an orderly fashion. I will walk kilometres in grocery stores, even if I have a list, because that’s how I roll. Inevitably, I spend a lot more time shopping for groceries than I would like to, but, there you have it…I just can’t shop any other way.
During one of these trips earlier in the week, I managed to slip (it was more of a skid and slip) in the produce section. It was about as graceful and comedic as a slip can be, I have no broken bones and I didn’t even spill the milk or break the eggs. But, worse than that, I had a witness…gah…a witness that I see regularly. The shame, the shame!
It was so slippery, I thought I must have stepped into an oil slick or puddle of greasy water, and I was so very surprised to find that it was a spinach leaf that tripped me up. A fucking spinach leaf. I was completely undone by a speck of green on the lino.
The highlights of this unfortunate incident:
The very concerned, very masculine Olga that asked me in a deep, gravelly, breathless voice if I was ok. (I was)
The look of shock on Hodge’s face when he realised that I was not where he expected me to be, rather on the floor in a yoga-esque position, 3 paces behind him.
And the confused expression on both Hodge and Olga’s faces when they searched for the giant puddle of cooking oil that was my undoing. ‘Ummm…there’s a bit of green there…?’
Oh…remember the dream.
-remember to floss twice a day, A
To preface, I don’t mind going to the dentist, as such, but I loathe the lectures about proper dental hygiene from the 14 year old hygenists. They are the sole reason for my irregular visits to have my mouth checked and teeth cleaned, and by extension, my bad teeth. How’s that for the North American-style passing of the buck?
I had a dental appointment yesterday since I’d had a toothache (haha – liquid, dripping pain) the night before, brought on by a wonderful loaf of French bread and cheese. Which is pretty sad itself since I'll be associating intense pain with french bread and smoked cheese for a time, I'm sure. I told the dentist this (not about regretting that it was bread and cheese, just the facts) and he came up with:
MY OPTIONS:
- remove the tooth (the very last one)
- root canal with a crown and post
PROFESSIONAL RECOMMENDATION:
- remove the offending tooth
I have been a bit bewildered for the last 24 hours, solely due to the quick decision (approximately 18 seconds) I had to make regarding its status in my mouth. Upon reflection, I know that I would have removed it in any case, because it’s apparently a ‘useless’ tooth – with a cavity, and no lower tooth to keep it in place* - but I can’t help but feel a teensy bit bullied into having it out. I made the call, but trying to decide if you should keep your damaged tooth with an expectant dentist and his assistant waiting for your answer with their heads cocked and syringes of novocaine in hand is unnerving.
Is this weird? They asked if I wanted to see the x-ray. Of course, I'll finally get to see the result of wearing a lead apron. They asked if I wanted to see the tooth. I hesitated, but in the end, how could I not. Then they asked if I wanted to keep it. Uh, no, but...thanks?
Later that evening:
I was watching tv, eating room temperature tomato soup that was so not satisfying, when KB called, which began the flow of blood that would not stop. I looked like a cage fighter, bloodied mouth and all, which was pretty cool, but on the second hour of bleeding, I had some genuine concern that I would bleed to death, alone, in my apartment and no one would find me until the scent of decay alerted passerby that something was wrong…
I'm fairly alarmed about having teeth removed with no intention of having fakes put in. In my case, there would be no point, but how fucking hill-billy is that? I might have to start eating road kill and marry my brother if they find me out. Fingers crossed that those wisdom teeth will come in soon.
It’s fine now (but I managed to get mouth blood all over my cream sheets, so that’s annoying), I did come into the office today, but am planning on taking the afternoon off because all my good drugs are gone. And that is as good an excuse to watch a movie as anything, no?
* I had the lower one removed years ago from a tragic pillow fight incident.**
**haha, not really
Further cementing the notion that this just ain’t my week:
I find it impossible to peruse a grocery store in an orderly fashion. I will walk kilometres in grocery stores, even if I have a list, because that’s how I roll. Inevitably, I spend a lot more time shopping for groceries than I would like to, but, there you have it…I just can’t shop any other way.
During one of these trips earlier in the week, I managed to slip (it was more of a skid and slip) in the produce section. It was about as graceful and comedic as a slip can be, I have no broken bones and I didn’t even spill the milk or break the eggs. But, worse than that, I had a witness…gah…a witness that I see regularly. The shame, the shame!
It was so slippery, I thought I must have stepped into an oil slick or puddle of greasy water, and I was so very surprised to find that it was a spinach leaf that tripped me up. A fucking spinach leaf. I was completely undone by a speck of green on the lino.
The highlights of this unfortunate incident:
The very concerned, very masculine Olga that asked me in a deep, gravelly, breathless voice if I was ok. (I was)
The look of shock on Hodge’s face when he realised that I was not where he expected me to be, rather on the floor in a yoga-esque position, 3 paces behind him.
And the confused expression on both Hodge and Olga’s faces when they searched for the giant puddle of cooking oil that was my undoing. ‘Ummm…there’s a bit of green there…?’
Oh…remember the dream.
-remember to floss twice a day, A
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Thrill of the Zipper
The Mumbler has a business trip. He’s leaving shortly, or so he promises. I’ve heard all of his zippers being zipped, unzipped, re-zipped, ad infinitum. Every time I hear the zip on one of his many bags, I am buoyed, but am deflated again when I realise that he is still at his desk, on the phone or elsewhere inside the hallowed walls of this office. He’s only going to be gone for one day, but it will be the sweetest day in this new year of this new decade.
Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).
I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.
I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.
I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*
I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.
I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.
I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.
I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):
Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!
Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?
M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?
WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.
M: …***
Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.
Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****
From the very depths of a hopeful hell,
Anna
*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’
**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.
***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.
**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.
Tomorrow, I will be spared of his presence in the office, specifically my office (coffee mug in hand, signalling to me that he intends to be stay awhile, even as my heart sinks [and my fists ball up into impotent white stumps]).
I will be spared of his incomprehensible and utterly devoid of humour anecdotes, which only reinforce his standing as king of the asshats. He can grin until his face paralyzes and becomes gangrenous, every word-like utterance that passes his thin, lizard lips hardens my intense dislike of his mumbling ways.
I will be spared expending valuable emotional energy attempting to translate what has come out of his mouth into actual human words from the dialect of a yet-to-be discovered animal hidden deep in the wilds of Borneo.
I will also be spared his need of conversational reciprocation, which (this does not make me proud, but is an essential coping mechanism that I cling to) has descended from actual sentences to yes, no, a simple grunt or furious wag of the head.*
I will be spared the stupid questions/requests (which take approximately twenty three minutes to translate and understand what exactly it is he is after, leaving him thinking that it is, in fact, me that is the moron, when it so clearly is him and his inability to form words. With his mouth. Like normal people.) that he so generously heaps onto my desk without a second thought, because he is very busy and important being busy and important.
I will be spared of hearing his travel itinerary for the next 8 weeks in all of their ever changing glory, due to his being very busy and important. I honestly do not care wether he has a six or eight hour layover in small-town-wherever (for the squillionth itinerary change), except that it means that he will not be here, tormenting me with his incomprehensible gibberish.
I will be spared of my intentional bad behaviour. Talking with my back to someone, texting, taking personal phone calls and making white knuckled fists of rage are not things that I usually do while conversing**. However, his lack of ability to read body language is nearly as sharp as his speaking ability, forcing my hand and requiring me to be increasingly drastic in my non-verbal cues. Short of me telling him (in no uncertain terms) to Fuck Off, I don’t know what more I can do to demonstrate that I do not wish to speak to him.
I will be spared his speakerphone which he insists on using at full volume. I don’t wish to hear the following conversation tomorrow, or ever again, for that matter (despite the effort to create privacy [?] by closing his office door):
Mumbler: Klefg Mmnomi!
translation: Hi Sexy!
Wife of Mumbler: Hi Tiger, what’s going on?
M: Prrrulg mennil ckronck druulger?
translation: what are you wearing?
WoM: ::giggling:: Nothing at all. Just waiting for you to come home.
M: …***
Instead, I will depart from my home tomorrow morning, feeling refreshed and light as a feather with a skip in my step, basking in the knowledge that I will have a quiet, peaceful day. I would rather be alone, worrying about serial killers or random acts of violence than share this office with him while wondering, ‘who hired this guy?’ I will not have to keep my office door shut, pretend to be listing to my ipod or on the phone and making many, many trips out doors to get some relief. I will be able to work at my leisure without the crippling fear and loathing that he will invade my sacred space for a ‘chat’.
Yes, I will love and cherish tomorrow with all of my being. I will marry tomorrow and carry its children. Tomorrow and I will be very happy together.****
From the very depths of a hopeful hell,
Anna
*I will need to abandon the head wagging as this seems to encourage him into prolonged interaction. This flies in the face of an action which is actually very similar to a shaking of the head, as in ‘no’; as in, ‘no, don’t talk to me, king asshat’
**Erm, except as evidenced by this post.
***I confess that I don’t know how the end of these “conversations” go. I make myself pretty fucking scarce (usually wretching in the toilets) because I don’t wish to actually have to fill the prescription for anti psychotics.
**** Until Friday, when he will clumsily destroy my carefully constructed fantasy of an office space filled with clear, crisp annunciation, and non retarded type folk.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Quiz FAIL
As Rick can attest to, I heart quiz nights. They are cheese to my French bread, peanut butter to my jelly, lube to my…whatever. I only discovered them a few years ago in Australia, because we generally don’t have pub quiz nights in Canada. Canadians much prefer bingo, which I used to enjoy until a series terrifying experiences at a fundraiser put me off any bingo playing for the rest of my natural life (but what happens in the seventh circle of hell stays in the seventh circle of hell…mother fucking B13!!).
I went to a quiz night last Wednesday at, what appears to be, the only quiz night in Vancouver, British Columbia, and possibly even Canada. I’ve been attempting to get into this quiz night for a few weeks, but it’s impossible to get a table unless you:
a) put out,
b) know people that know people,
c) can give really, really good head,
d) show up approximately four hours before it starts because, natch, they don’t accept reservations.
Hodge, being a Grade A Champion, headed out verrrry early (almost boxing day shopping early…he camped out there the night before…true story) and sat by himself, quietly getting pissed in the corner and holding onto a table for our group with grit and determination usually only demonstrated by drag queens and their wigs.
Our group was small since we’d had so many false starts and hadn’t yet managed to, you know, be quizzed, so no one had the faith anymore and stayed in biting their nails, washing their hair and individually plucking out arm hairs because, obviously, that’s more fun than a night out with me. When I’m disappointed. Again.
But, our small group was solid. Me, who knows everything about anything, as long as it’s obscure and relates only to the reproductive habits of fruit flies. Hodge, who’s pretty damn clever for all his modesty, not to mention is musically sound for all those annoying music questions (as an aside, I have to say that hours of beer swilling did not improve his knowledge about, well, anything in general) and Bill Nye, the science geek, who holds no less than two masters degrees and one doctorate that are from actual and real universities, ::not:: from a college in the Caribbean.
I thought our group was pretty solid, knowledge wise. Bases covered…animal, mineral and vegetable, so to speak. Not to mention that I’d had a particularly trying day at the office and was just glad to be out, with people that I genuinely like*.
However, we very much came in last place. The first round was something to the tune of Us: 13, Everyone Else: 452. Yes, it was really that bad. And it didn’t get any better in the later rounds, in fact it got worse. The compere didn’t even read our final score because it was so unsettling to him. He didn’t think it was possible. We have undermined his faith in ::ahem:: intelligent people.
So, the only thing that we won that night was a two hundred dollar bill and a stab in the ol’ self esteem (located painfully below the right kidney).
That being said, I can't wait to get my ass handed back to me (again) this week. I've been studying up on random factoids, like, did you know that a piece of gum, when swallowed stays in your body for seven years?? Mmmhmm...And then I got distracted by this...which has been haunting me for the last two days. Why would you do that??
One of the (many) questions that unglued us:
What do kangaroos, anteaters and seahorses have in common? Answer me that smart people of the great unknown– and remember, there is no internet fact checking allowed, which leaves me a limp and quivering disaster. Apparently.
Good luck to ya,
-Anna Bananas for brains
*Right, have I got some tales for you. It has to do with a colleague of mine who I refer to as The Mumbler. He shall get his own post when I can stop rocking in the corner long enough to face the horror that is him.
I went to a quiz night last Wednesday at, what appears to be, the only quiz night in Vancouver, British Columbia, and possibly even Canada. I’ve been attempting to get into this quiz night for a few weeks, but it’s impossible to get a table unless you:
a) put out,
b) know people that know people,
c) can give really, really good head,
d) show up approximately four hours before it starts because, natch, they don’t accept reservations.
Hodge, being a Grade A Champion, headed out verrrry early (almost boxing day shopping early…he camped out there the night before…true story) and sat by himself, quietly getting pissed in the corner and holding onto a table for our group with grit and determination usually only demonstrated by drag queens and their wigs.
Our group was small since we’d had so many false starts and hadn’t yet managed to, you know, be quizzed, so no one had the faith anymore and stayed in biting their nails, washing their hair and individually plucking out arm hairs because, obviously, that’s more fun than a night out with me. When I’m disappointed. Again.
But, our small group was solid. Me, who knows everything about anything, as long as it’s obscure and relates only to the reproductive habits of fruit flies. Hodge, who’s pretty damn clever for all his modesty, not to mention is musically sound for all those annoying music questions (as an aside, I have to say that hours of beer swilling did not improve his knowledge about, well, anything in general) and Bill Nye, the science geek, who holds no less than two masters degrees and one doctorate that are from actual and real universities, ::not:: from a college in the Caribbean.
I thought our group was pretty solid, knowledge wise. Bases covered…animal, mineral and vegetable, so to speak. Not to mention that I’d had a particularly trying day at the office and was just glad to be out, with people that I genuinely like*.
However, we very much came in last place. The first round was something to the tune of Us: 13, Everyone Else: 452. Yes, it was really that bad. And it didn’t get any better in the later rounds, in fact it got worse. The compere didn’t even read our final score because it was so unsettling to him. He didn’t think it was possible. We have undermined his faith in ::ahem:: intelligent people.
So, the only thing that we won that night was a two hundred dollar bill and a stab in the ol’ self esteem (located painfully below the right kidney).
That being said, I can't wait to get my ass handed back to me (again) this week. I've been studying up on random factoids, like, did you know that a piece of gum, when swallowed stays in your body for seven years?? Mmmhmm...And then I got distracted by this...which has been haunting me for the last two days. Why would you do that??
One of the (many) questions that unglued us:
What do kangaroos, anteaters and seahorses have in common? Answer me that smart people of the great unknown– and remember, there is no internet fact checking allowed, which leaves me a limp and quivering disaster. Apparently.
Good luck to ya,
-Anna Bananas for brains
*Right, have I got some tales for you. It has to do with a colleague of mine who I refer to as The Mumbler. He shall get his own post when I can stop rocking in the corner long enough to face the horror that is him.
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