Last night was all kinds of hilarious fun. After a day of hanging out in PJs, watching The Sopranos, and going to what turned out to be a super exciting Blue Jays game, I set off to meet up with Treava, who was visiting from Victoria, and a few other Hitched gals. And though only Debbie and I showed up (damn the rest of you!), we showed her some good times.
Thus I present: A Toronto Hitched Photo Montage!
Our dear guest, looking saucy early on in the evening. I actually found her at the top of the stairs coming in, conveniently enough.
We waited for a table for no more than two minutes when we discovered that Debbie had already arrived and was holding one for us. Kickass! FYI: Debbie had a great outfit on and her new haircut ruled.
I was pleased as punch to be hanging out with such fun gals. You can tell by the fact that I'm doing a virtual pirate eye with hair.
In any case, the night went on! We talked endlessly, snacked (somehow avoiding nachos), had a few drinks -- all was well. Debbie had to leave around midnight as she had to take transit to get home. Treava and I decided to finish our drinks. And that's when all hell broke loose.
A strange boy sat at the table next to us and asked: Ladies, can you talk to me for a minute? Are you in love?
Treava quipped: Well, yes. But not with each other.
The boy continued to blather on. He raged against the machine as follows: I think I'm in love but she's no good for me. You know how you always want to marry rich?
We looked at each other, snickered, and responded that, no, we didn't.
At this point he confessed that his beloved was "poorer than a churchmouse", thus his conundrum. How gauche. He also pointed out to us that every girl at the bar was just looking to marry money, so why was it wrong that he wanted that too? We shook our heads.
He kept unbuttoning his shirt to ask: Am I burned? Am I burned? Am I burned?
I think we both threw up in our mouths a little at one of these points.
Then he began his diatribe about how he was a poet, and that he hated Hart House because his alliterative masterpiece didn't win a poetry award of some sort. Then he recited said poem to us. As a non-poet, I can't tell you if it was indeed a masterpiece, but man was it entertaining.
We forgot to take pictures of this fiasco.
Next up was meeting the friend contingent. Two girls came and sat with us -- we don't know if they knew the hairy poet, or if they were just exceptionally drunk, but man they had a lot of talking to do.
Are you really married? What's it like? I'll never find a good guy! Are you really married?
They were young and silly but we liked them just the same.
Suddenly, it was 3AM and the place was closing up. The bartender made us leave. We were terribly sad. But then it occurred to us -- we could continue the silliness at an eating establishment!
Our initial thought was to get pizza, so we jumped in a cab to head for some bad food when it suddenly occured to me that Chinatown was open 'til 5AM.
Oh yes. That's right. We did Excellent. We did scandal in style.
The best thing about this place is the multi-level layered plastic on the tables.
Here's our valiant attempt to eat a good mixture of their treats.
And here's our sad result. Please note that there's very little gone from any plates. Har. Luckily, Treava is staying at a B&B with a fridge, so she is set for the week in terms of snackery.
Thus our night was over. We watched the waiter turn our tablecloth into a plastic bag full of napkins, dishes, and utensils.
I threw Treava in a cab (here's hoping she got home okay!) and threw myself in the one behind it. I have not stayed out that late in a year, I'm sure.
It ruled. We had way more fun than was reasonable for what looked like it should've been a pretty quiet Saturday night.
So I've talked forever and a day about this weird woman at my work who once thrived on shrieking "Carrie Fuckin' Bradshaw!" and continues to love asking very young boys how old they think she is ("He totally thought I was 25, he couldn't believe it when I said I was 41!") and talking in circles relent-lent-lent-lessly. She dresses in skintight capris and strappy shoes and beachy tops. She wears different shades of brightly coloured eyeshadow to match her outfits and hot pink lipstick. I'm pretty sure she shops at le chateau despite being old enough to know better. She walks around the office repeating the same story at every single door 'til her tragic listener emails a coworker demanding an "urgent phone call". She carries her lunch every single day in a Holt Renfew bag because she shopped there once. You're getting where I'm going with this: she's a bit of a weirdy. Anyway, she's now taken it a step too far.
The other day as I was driving into our parking garage, I saw her behind me. I ignored her and went in, forgetting about it. Two minutes later, she was making a beeline into my office. She saw my car, she asked if it was new. I said we'd gotten it a while ago and she followed up with the fact that she loved it, it was so cute, she was thinking about getting one. Le sigh. I respond that, oh yeah, that it's a decent car, good on gas, cute, etc. And then she says:
"Well, I like yours. I think I will get the same one! The same colour and everything, I really like that colour! I am going to call this weekend!"
I proceeded to ignore her and type while she continued to go on and on and on in circles. In my head, I am seething. In fact, I'm questioning my own taste. Then I remember that she's done this before -- she consistently acts as if she's discovered bands people have been listening to for years. She got really angry with me for insinuating that Death Cab for Cutie were American, as she started listening to them in LUN-DUN (her pronunciation, not mine) on her 40th birthday. I find my mind wandering around her bevy of annoying traits 'til she exits to visit her next victim.
Anyway, she tells me today that she has her test drive appointment this weekend and "we might have matching cars next week!"
What the eff? I am so bloody irritated. I know that a gazillion people have this car and it's not exactly unique -- in fact, it's altogether trendy. And it's not like I invented the damn thing. What's my issue? Well, that one is mine. You don't see me buying the exact same something as someone else I see daily. I may love something of someone's, ask where they got it, and get something similar -- but it won't be identical. (I indeed did get a fun laptop bag after admiring Jen's, but mine is a different style and colour -- from the same store, from the same designer, but not the same.) Copying someone's exact car is effing weird. And annoying. Times a thousand. Dude, the last thing I ever want to be is your twin.
I swear to god, she's like the really, really jackassed character on some wacky sitcom. If she ever quit, I would truly run out of things to talk about.
I stole this from Treava because I don't have anything productive to say today.
Accent: Not so much, especially when you consider that I'm from Cape Breton. People always ask why I don't have one when I tell them this little fact, and I point out that, even as a child, I was an un-fan of vocal inflections. Instead, I choose to yell-talk. Good times.
Booze: Beer. Preferably red.
Chore I Hate: Mopping floors.
Dog or Cat: Dogs. But I prefer neither for me, I hate the hair on things.
Essential Electronics: Laptop and iPod.
Favorite Cologne: Ick.
Gold or Silver: White gold.
Hometown: From Port Hawkesbury to Fort McMurray to Port Hawkesbury to Antigonish to Halifax. Now setting up shop in adorable Toronto.
Insomnia: Nah.
Job Title: Account director, grad student.
Kids: No thank you.
Living arrangements: I live with a boy in a cute loft downtown.
Most admirable traits: Work ethic, friendliness.
Number of sexual partners: I married the best of the lot.
Overnight hospital stays: Just one, when I had appendicitis this February.
Phobias: Hamface. Birds. [Please note: You can find effing ANYTHING on the internet. How did I google hamface and find the picture to the left? What sicko did this? I have to post it because it's so random and grody.]
Quote: Oh god, I never have anything clever enough for these things. I will update this later.
Religion: My dad told me to never discuss it in mixed company.
Siblings: One little sister.
Time I wake up: 6-6:30AM.
Unusual talent or skill: Convincing people that my ideas are their ideas.
Vegetable I love: Yellow peppers.
Worst habit: Procrastinating.
X-rays: I don't remember ever having any.
Yummy foods I make: I don't make a lot of food. Anything I make is yummy by default of being the closest thing I've got to a miracle.
Zodiac sign: Scorpio.
So now that he's no longer working in the boudoir, I've got one happy husband. Though it's a small-ish room, he finally has a unique space to dedicate to his office-y needs. Given the fact that this is a Foxy-free zone, it was quickly decided that it would be dedicated to more than techie stuff. One corner of it has been crafted into something he's always wanted -- a home recording studio. He's been obsessively and compulsively -- in the words of the Peanut -- "making [his] music". He has all kinds of fun with it, which I love.
So a few weeks ago, I came home to discover that he'd been fooling around with his equipment and recorded a cover of one of his favourite songs by one of his favourite UK bands. He played it for me and, I must say, the boy is certainly not without skills. Instrumentation, vocals, backup, and percussive bits and pieces were assembled by this kid over the course of about a day. The only thing missing was the drums and, while he does play, he can't set up here (until he gets the coveted electronic ones for practicing). While he was somewhat forlorn over it, I pointed out that it was great as it was. And that was that.
Right?
Of course not. My husband is a crazed perfectionist. He's not one of those people (like me) who starts something, gets bored, and lets it go. Next thing I know, he has somehow ended up getting the band's original drummer to bring the whole thing together. In Scotland. He put together an international collaboration of sorts. Over the web.
Now come on!
How can a girl not crush on that?