day 10431: sometimes i wish i was just a little wittier...
That way, when a guy bumps into me from behind while I'm standing on the street corner waiting for the light to change, turns, glares at me and says "Excuse me..." glares at me again, and says "Excusssse meeeee..." I can say, "Hey, no problem, asswipe-with-the-problem-walking-straight... just make sure that it doesn't happen again."
Instead of just standing there staring at him in utter confusion and then finally stammering, "Um. Excuse me?" while two tourist onlookers watch and giggle.
Then when the tourists turn to you and say, "Excuse him..." you don't look at THEM in utter confusion and say, "Whatever..."
Heck... I'm still confused. Did he want me to say "You're excused?" cuz things like that just don't come out of my mouth and fcuk that, he was obviously the one who walked into me in the first place...
I took Triscuit to susur for his 37th birthday dinner. Initially, I had wanted to take him here but some idiot who is obviously a hell of a lot more financially secure than I am, booked out the WHOLE ENTIRE RESTAURANT… grrr… frustration. So I settled for second best.
Actually, I gave him a choice… susur, scaramouche, the fifth or george. I was secretly hoping for george, but the fact that I refused to give him the names of the restaurants and only described it as an “awesome, amazing, highly recommended restaurant that is part of an exclusive women-only club” scared him off. Women that don’t like men scare him. Just as men who don’t like women scare him.
Too bad… the food would have been fabulous there.
He picked the place I described simply as “asian fusion.” It’s safe… it’s familiar… it’s not the place with the “best view of the city” or the “funky elevator ride".
susur, though, was good. At the time it was amazing. But in hindsight, status was reduced to “good-to-very-good”. And all because I can’t remember the fourth course of the seven course tasting menu… IT HAS COMPLETELY SLIPPED MY MIND… horror of horrors… was my meal not memorable? Egad.
Don’t get me wrong… all of the dishes were incredibly well presented. The restaurant is white and barren, with artwork and visual appeal relegated to the food presentation. Visual appeal enhances the food experience… some of my dishes were too pretty to eat. I had to force myself to dig into the succulent Cornish hen with the currant jam glaze. Mmmm…
The dishes were tasty, but inconsistent. Some of mine were better than his. Some of his were better than mine. I think there was only one dish that neither of us cared much for… until we slathered on some of the sturgeon caviar they had garnished the dish with. But then, hey, I’m just a sucker for fish roe… I’ll love anything with caviar…
he: cucumber crab rice roll/ poached soya custard/ radish topped with guacamole me: same except with salmon tartar topped with crème fraiche and salmon roe instead of the soya custard
favourite part: radish topped with guacamole… very refreshing… very tasty. There is actually an unexpected flavour burst in your mouth
he: rack of lamb/ 3 sauces: mint chutney, spicy peanut, and 1 I can’t remember/ white asparagus/ something else I can’t remember me: Cornish hen/ red currant glaze/ roasted apple slices and beets/ asparagus/ topped with hazelnuts
favourite part: mine rocked… his was so-so… we couldn’t figure out what one part of the dish was (i.e. the part with the lamb bone stuck in it for presentation)… it could have been a lamb meatball.
he: beef carpaccio/ shaved foie gras/ arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette me: foie gras four ways: seared foie gras/ foie gras in a sweet pastry with rosemary and red currant jelly/ slice of foie gras on melba toast/ foie gras reduction with Madeira jelly served in a shot glass
favourite part: seared foie gras and the beef carpaccio. The searing brought out the fatty taste and texture and made it melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Rich. Oh-so-yummy…
least favourite part: foie gras reduction… it tasted like CHOCOLATE… oh so wrong…
he: I really can’t remember me: I really, really can’t remember
least favourite part: I can’t remember it!!!! WAHHHHH!!!
Oooohhhh… I remember now!!! Mmmmm… it was really good… lichee fruit/melon sorbet/ damn… forgot the last thing… may have been asparagus…
he: red mullet/ miso sauce/ calamanci lime me: salmon carpaccio wrapped in a cream cheese nori rice roll/ 4 sauces: crème fraiche, wasabi, mustard, ??/ salmon roe/ crispy cookie thing that looked like a funky bracelet
favourite part: the red mullet was scrumptious, but a little salty. The calamanci lime would be amazing in a gin and tonic… has a faint hint of tangerine to it.
he: lobster/ dungeness crab wrapped in a cabbage roll/some weird sauce/ something else I can’t remember me: poached lobster claw/ dungeness crab on top of a bed of heirloom tomatoes/ tomatoe concasse/ lobster roe sauce/ radish/ sturgeon caviar
favourite part: sturgeon caviar
least favourite part: the rest of the dishes… this course was a little bland with not much substance to it. I’m a huge fan of crab, but it was underwhelming and unimpressive. But then again, I really don’t like lobster claw either…
he: cold asparagus soup with tiny bits of white asparagus/ white asparagus and apple salad me: the same
favourite part: the asparagus salad really rocked. The mustard seeds underneath the apples really gave it a zing and an oomph!
he: raspberry sorbet/almond cherry tart/ passion fruit mousse me: molten chocolate banana cake/ sambuca caramel panacotta/ banana rum ice cream
favourite part: mmmmm… dessert… need I say more?
At the end of it all, we were so stuffed we could hardly move... still. so. full...
I’ve never written about the softball team I joined with Co-worker Chic. I’ve “played” with them for one season… actually, I played the first game, was out of town on business for the second, and two days later, “hurt” myself… *
What I can’t do on the field, I try to do off the field. I am a great cheerleader. Or at least I try to be. I watched Bring It On, learned some moves, bought some pom poms from the dollar store, wave them around and cheer with all my might. I’m awesome, if I do say so myself…
I’m exaggerating. My pom-poms remind me of nipple tassels. My hip gyration antics resemble that of some second-rate stripper trying (without success) to not look excruciatingly bored. And on top of that, since I’m the only person not on the field, I’m the official scorekeeper. Yay… official scorekeeper meaning that I have to walk around with a clipboard and a pen marking down every base, out and point… and also meaning that I CAN’T USE MY HANDS TO WAVE MY POM POMS!
So I improvise. I stick the pom-poms in my pockets. One on the right, one on the left… though try as I might to do the J. Lo/Shakira booty shake, I always end up looking like a giant marshmallow shaking her “thang” on some cheap-hotel room vibrating bed.
But I still love my pom poms. So much, in fact, that an SOS call was placed to Triscuit reminding him to bring back the pom poms from the Ham where I had left them over the weekend. (His mother and I did a simultaneous pom pom stripper-esque dance while we brought out his birthday cake. Yeah, I wasn’t impressed either…I really need to take some pole dancing lessons).
Last night, I get to the baseball diamonds, plastic bag of pom poms in hand. It’s “playoffs.” I’m excited. I’m all ready to cheer my team on.
“Guys! Look, I brought my pom poms!” I’m super excited. If I haven’t mentioned before, I love my pom poms. I untie the knot, reach impatiently into the bag and yank out a fistful of shiny colourful plastic. All of a sudden…
… flying out of the bag… is my bra!!! Triscuit had neglected to tell me that he had packed my missing undergarment in with the pom poms.
… Up they fly through the air… and land with an earth shattering thud… on the bleachers… in front of half the softball team… the guy half.
For the rest of the night, Speedy Chicken Legs and Studmuffin (his nickname… not mine) would periodically come up to me and say:
“NICE POM POMS”
[ed. note: “hurt” in quotes, because there will never be any externally documented proofs of any so-called injuries… only my *ahem* doctor has any permanent records. My official comment is… “there is NO permanent damage…now stop asking”. Though, if you’re really curious, and really persuasive, I might tell you one day, but you’d have to swear up and down on all that you hold sacred that MY MOTHER will never find out. Because, yeah… sometimes I still fear her wrath.]
I had something to say today. I really did. But things got busy and now I forget what it was that I wanted to say. It was important and probably life shattering. That I know.
I spent most of the weekend chauffeuring people around and being really, really tired. I remember it being somewhat fun though… how about you?
Oh, and to that really, really, really drunk girl that Roomie picked up at the bar and invited to the bonfire... swimming in the middle of the lake when there’s a funky undertow and really large waves… that’s just not a good idea…
It’s tough being me. Out of extreme boredom, Co-worker Chick (henceforth CC) and I resorted to going to this... where we ended up having a wickedly fun time.
It was all for charity, so no comments about how sexist and degrading it might be. Because obviously, if the firefighters thought it was sexist and degrading, they wouldn’t have had so much fun doing it.
And trust me… they had a ton of fun…
And yes, of course, there was lots of dancing on stage… with the firemen...
Meaning: 1. a technological idiot; 2. a person of subnormal intelligence when it comes to technically related products or ideas; 3. a pseudo-technologically inclined person who thinks he/she knows what he/she is doing, but ends up screwing up the entire system because he/she is too stupid to ask for help; 4. a technologically inclined person who acts like an idiot.
Example: I am such a techron … it took me almost two years to figure out how to post pictures on my blog.
Example: He is such a techron. He freaking played freaking videogames the whole freaking night instead of coming over like he said he would. The freak.
I don’t know Denis. I can’t tell you what happened to him after my story ends. I can’t tell you what happened to him before my story even begins.
I just know that one minute we were laughing and drinking on the balcony, and the next minute, we were leaning over the railing peering anxiously at the parking lot below where Denis sprawled motionless on the ground; arms and legs akimbo.
We watched as he tried in vain to get up, watched as he stretched his fingertips upwards towards the sky, reaching for what we didn’t know. We watched the groups of people standing not thirty feet away from him, just watching him. We yelled down to them to see if he was okay. The man carrying the child made drinking motions with his hand. Denis, as it appeared, had passed out drunk in the parking lot.
No one moved to offer him any assistance.
Fifteen floors up, we dialed 911.
We watched as people drove into the parking lot, swerved around him, and got out of their cars to go shopping. We watched as a couple came back from shopping, threw their bags into the back of their car, lowered the roof of their convertible and drove off. Another couple walked hand in hand through the parking lot. They looked at Denis, looked at the other people standing there watching Denis, and called for an ambulance again.
Still, no one moved to offer him any assistance. Everyone just stood there and watched Denis… watched as a piece of newspaper blew towards him and covered up his face… watched as he tried to reach up to brush it off, but only managed to raise his arm a few inches off the floor.
And then we had enough. Ed and Jen went down to see what they could do for Denis. Drunk as a skunk, or high as a kite, he did not deserve the uncaring morbid curiosity of his fellow mankind.
We watched for the ambulance. It took more than twenty minutes to come. Obviously, Denis was not a priority for them.
It turns out that Denis is epileptic. He was off his meds, and might have taken a little “something something.” He was reaching towards the sky because he couldn’t see. He was feeling around for the ground once he sat up because he couldn’t see that either.
It was probably a good thing. Otherwise, he would have seen all the people standing around watching him but not reaching out to help him.
day 10414: a story that happened once upon a time that i’d forgotten until just now
Once upon a time, say maybe two years ago, I was driving along Finch Ave. with my cousin. My cell phone rang. I picked up.
“Hi, may I speak to Michelle?” Wrong number… no “Michelle” here… no worries, better luck next time.
Five minutes later… “Hi, may I speak to Michelle?” Still wrong number… no “Michelle” here… sorry… I think she gave you a fake number… better luck next time, buddy.
Five minutes later…
“Hi, who is this? You sound cute. Let’s get together sometime.”
He called for another two months after. Sometimes trying three or four times a night. The worse part was that he had blocked ID so I couldn’t even screen his calls.
The funny part… “No, sorry I have a boyfriend,” didn’t work. He was all “Well, if he ever treats you wrong, just let me know and I’ll find him and beat the shit out of him.” If only I still had his number…
day 10412: one too many csi episodes and an overactive imagination
A couple of years ago, I spraypainted a few snowboards. A dragon for me, sun patterns for Sista, LOTR for Paul – they were awesome. But life happened and I got busy (plus, I lost all desire and urge to be creative when all of last summer’s crap went down), so as a result, another hobby fell to the wayside.
Last week, I finally took the airbrush course that I’ve been meaning to take since 2003. And now I’m obsessed. I have big plans for my new hobby. Three more snowboards – one for Paul and two for JB – and a motorcycle helmet… a motorcycle helmet that I got free through craigslist.org.
But it was funny. Not in a ha-ha funny kind of way, but more in a prophetic kind of way. Before I picked up the helmet (and a motorcycle tank, btw) I was filled with timid trepidation. I was concerned that I was driving to the middle of nowhere to find a stranger named Gio who promised me a helmet and a tank for free. So I told Triscuit to search my email should anything ever happen to me and I disappeared. Of course this was all pre-break…kind of…
He told me not to worry, and chances are the guy wouldn’t be a serial killer… and that I was just being the typical girl who was overthinking things. Yeah right.
I drove up to find Gio standing in the driveway holding an electric saw. He looked at me with intense curiosity. I introduced myself and we chatted a bit about my “work” and about my “plans” for the helmet.
Apparently, he’s an artist too. And he might be looking for a “painter” to touch up some of his stuff.
Um-hm? What kind of stuff? I’m just being polite. I really don’t care.
Life casts. He pointed up to the garage rafters where there are about half a dozen body casts made out of plaster of paris. Like the kind you see in those afternoon horror shows… Freaky…
I thanked him profusely for the free stuff and backed up real slowly out of the garage. Never turned my back on him, got in my car and drove away… really quickly...
day 10409: i think i was in denial all these years, but i've finally figured it out
Am I artsy or am I crafty? My to-do-before-I-die list as it stands today:
~ learn how to do motorcycle/car detailing ~ get my registered massage therapy license ~ circus school ~ learn to play the guitar... awesomely... ~ write a song... that people will be singing all over the street... ~ take singing lessons ~ blow glass (!!!) ~ do things with stained glass ~ sculpt with some kind of stone
Where the heck was riding a motorcycle, or climbing Petrero? Obviously in my delusional state, I need to re-evaluate my priorities...
On the day that you show up at work over an hour late because you didn’t feel like driving back from Ham the night before (and waited until 8:30 to leave, because you didn’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic…), make sure that you don’t wear a really, really short jean skirt to work.
Because Murphy ’s Law will dictate that you bump into the president of your monkeyco who just so happens to really hate it when employees wear denim and who is also a woman so she won’t be suitably impressed by your legs.
And yes, an emergency shopping trip at lunchtime is perfectly justifiable…