Just another morning in the big smoke

So this morning, heading into work for my second last day ever (but more on that later) when I see a truck trying to turn right onto Bay from the middle lane of Bloor St. I'm trying to figure out why this driver is apparently unaware of the rules of the road when I see that he is being blocked from the curb lane by a taxi which is parked across both the curb and middle lanes. I mutter something about cabbies and their craziness - which is something I know a lot about - and finish crossing the street. Then I see a middle aged man charge from the road into the GAP store on the corner. I assume this is the cabbie. Stereotypes are a bitch, aren't they? I peer into the store, trying to see what the urgent matter was. Did he all of a sudden decide that he simply had to have a new pair of khakis? Or is he looking for help folding sweaters? Seconds later, he comes back out, dragging a young man with him. The two of them are screaming and swearing at each other (though the swearing part is an assumption, as I didn't actually hear them. For all I know, they are just two members of the Loud Talkers Association.) all the while grappling with each other. Then the punches are thrown and the kicking starts. I'm transfixed. I don't quite know what to do. Pretty much everyone standing on this busy Toronto corner in the middle of morning rush hour is stopped dead in their tracks. Then, the young guy breaks free and takes off down the street, with the cabbie in tow. The young guy easily out paces the cabbie, but then a police car comes along, so he decides to charge into a hoity toity store to avoid detection. It works, at least initially, as the cabbie, who finally caught up, looks around in bewilderment at where he could have gone. I keep watching, trying to see what happens next, and then, realizing that my desk isn't going to clear itself, I head onwards to work. As I'm about to head into the building, I notice that the police car is now parked in the middle of Bloor, and the officer is bringing the young man towards it. They stand there chatting for a minute, and then the young man is ushered into the back of the cruiser. When I get inside the building, I turn around to see what else has gone on, but the cruiser is nowhere to be seen. I'm trying to decide if the reason I didn't even try to intervene is because I was so freaked out I just didn't know what to do, or if I'm so used to random craziness that I wasn't even fazed. I don't even crane my neck at the weirdos who scream on the subway anymore. Am I jaded?

Weekend Curling Update

I know you've all been breathless, a twitter with anticipation, waiting impatiently to hear what happened in Saturday Night Social Curling this week. And who could blame you? I don't want to say the fate of the world hangs in the balance, but I think we all know it does.

So without further ado, here's the curling recap for y'all.

Your valiant heroes took on team R (for Ridiculous, why even try?) and mid way through the game, yours truly was asked to make a takeout shot. And being the excellent curler I am, I did take out a rock. Actually, I'm being modest. I took out two. Unfortunately, they were both ours. That's right, with two team R rocks for me to take out, I managed to knock out ours instead. But, I took it pretty well. Instead of throwing my stabilizer, and cursing a blue streak (which I totally have never done. Honest.) I simply informed team R that now that they had seen my work, if they wanted it to continue, they needed to pony up some cash. They considered my offer while they threw their rock. Then it was my turn again, and they still hadn't gotten back to me. So I did the only thing I could do. I threw a perfect takeout and removed two of their rocks and had my shooter freeze nicely to the one that remained. Again, instead of rubbing my awesome domination in their faces, I simply stated that they hadn't gotten back to me so I was forced to assume they weren't interested.

After that, they didn't put up much of a fight. We won 8 - 1.

I'm not quite sure why this new found sense of maturity and good sportsmanship has overcome me, and I'm hoping it won't last. More than the actual victory, I enjoy the taunting. I want it back.

Losing isn't as fun as it is cracked up to be

I'm bitter.

For the third year in a row, I lost our family Oscar pool. For years, our family has been watching the Oscars together, and because gambling makes bloated award shows (and everything else) more fun, we started an annual pool. And I always won. And when I say won, I don't mean some pansy-assed, by the skin of your teeth, nail-biting till the end win. Oh no. I mean complete and total domination from the word go, where any semblance of the outcome being in doubt was obliterated without me even breaking a sweat, utter humiliation for the losers kind of win. It got to the point where we had to change the rules, because apparently me winning all the time isn't as fun for other people as it is me. And I'm such a good winner, who would never rub it in anyone's face, so I have no idea why that would be.

What do you mean the sarcasm detector is going haywire?

Anyhow, since the change in the rules, I've been much less successful. And I seem to have lost the killer instinct. Even when I know what will win, if I don't actually want the person/movie to win, I can't bring myself to cast my vote for it. Like this year, I knew that American Idol contestant Jennifer Hudson was going to win, but having seen her performance and having seen the other performances, I just didn't want her to win. Not that she wasn't good, but I just couldn't in good conscience vote for her over Cate Blanchett. As far as I can tell, the Oscars are still given out for achievement in acting, not singing. I don't know if singing has an award ceremony - note: the Grammys don't count because they reward sales, not talent. See: Peas, The Black Eyed.

So, it doesn't look like I'll be changing this downward trend anytime soon. But on the bright side, my mom, who won the pool for the first time ever, left me a message rubbing her victory in. She's coming along nicely.

Hairstyle court is now in session

I never thought I'd write about Madame Spears. More than that, I never thought I'd defend her. But here we are. Through the looking glass people. I know, I'm scared too.

I don't see what the big deal is.

Okay, she has done many, many, crazy and questionable things. So numerous are her moronic actions that if we were to put together a list of them all, to save space (and our fingers from cramping) we could just put an infinity symbol.

But shaving her head? Isn't one of them.

Hear me out. I know people think it shows she is off the deep end, but it is just hair. It will grow back. Will she look back on this as one of her best decisions? In comparison to marrying K-Fed? Hell yes. Overall? Probably not, but that doesn't matter. Haven't we all made idiotic decisions in regards to our hair? My father claims to this day that I was out of my mind to dye my hair black for Halloween in OAC (hey, I was Cleopatra - dirty blonde was just not going to cut it!), and I'm not particularly proud of the period of my life when I sported the 'Rachel' (I know, I know. I'm shocked I'm putting it in print too. One day this admission will disqualify me from all but the hottest and noisiest jobs.) but my hair grew out, the colour faded and I've managed to live a productive life.

It's just hair. It grows back. It fades. It isn't permanent. No matter how it looks, it doesn't hurt anyone (well, except for hair from an executed murderer, which when transplanted onto another person will take over that person and go around murdering more people, or so The Simpsons has lead me to believe.), unlike casting your vote for a certain president or driving while drunk. Anyone who can honestly claim to never have made a slightly off the wall decsion about their hair can put their hands up. And yes, your skunk-streaks do count as a craptacular decision. See? Ms Spears ain't alone.

So really, lay off poor old crazy Brit for the head shaving for she has done far, far worse. And if you still feel the need to get on her, do it for her apparent lack of parenting skills or putting out albums that rot your brain.

And now, here's John with the sports update

We won 5-2. I made a couple of pretty good shots, and I was extremely mouthy. It was a good night all round. The only bad part was that I had to buy my own beer. You can't win 'em all, I guess.

Non-competitive? I can be the most non-competitive person around!

So, as usual, I have a curling draw tonight. That's right. I spend my Saturday evenings curling. I'm super cool. Wanna fight about it?

Anyhow, I'm getting ready to go curl, so I check to see who we're playing tonight. It turns out it is an old teammate. This put a huge smile on my face. Why? Well, I love curling. I love everything about it, from the freezing conditions, to the small margin for error, to the precarious balancing on ice, to the drinking afterwards. Not to mention the hot bartenders. But if I'm being honest, what I like most is when I can throw cutting insults (all in good fun! I did learn that good sportsmanship is important!) at my opponents. And this works best when I know the person, and can be sure that they won't take offense when I tell them I'm going to crush them like a bug, or that we shouldn't even bother playing the game, or that because I'm so nice, I'll only beat them by 8. This is a bit in contrast with the whole "Saturday night social curling" thing, where anyone can play, no matter the skill level, and it supposed to be fun, but so far, people have been quite understanding. I'm quite the yappy player, and keep the smack talk going throughout the game. You could say I'm the Sean Avery of Saturday night curling - though I'd like to think I'm a bit more talented than he is. At least in terms of yapping ability. He probably gets more groupies than I do, and the role of NHL pest probably pays better than social curling... But I digress.

So, in closing: Team N (for No chance in hell) - prepare to have your hats handed to you tonight. We are going to mop the floor with your sorry butts, and any shots we don't make will be because we pity you so much. I mean, I've seen teams suck before, but you are the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked. You are going down my friends, so you may as well give me your drink orders now, just to speed things up afterwards. Prediction? 6-4 for us.

And we're under the table...again

One night, a few friends were sitting around in their local establishment, drinking beverages of an adult nature, and making various witty comments, as they usually did instead of whatever they were supposed to be doing. Everything was going along as it normally did, when one of them, due to a combination of alcohol and unusually slippery velvet seat cushions, slid right off the bench on which she was seated and underneath the table her friends were still all seated around. So as to not call undue attention to herself, she stayed seated and tried to play it off like she had done it on purpose. Her friends were not fooled, and, as was the style at the time, began to mock her. They dubbed her "Under the Table Mabel", and to show her how much they cared, never let her forget it.

As you may have guessed, that classy broad was me.

I have managed to climb out from under the table, but I got to thinking - why? Wasn't it much better when I was under the table, surrounded by friends, making smart ass remarks, drinking copious amounts of booze? Hell yes. So I'm heading back under. Metaphorically, at least.

Won't you join me under the table? Just a bit of advice. Be careful not to smack your head, and try to keep your arms and legs inside the confines of the table at all times. And for the love of god, don't bogart the gin.