Tuesday, March 29, 2011

:: I fully agree with the statement below ::

Next month, Christene and I are going to a boozeless wedding – a friend of hers from her old job is getting hitched. The groom is a pastor, the bride is also religious, so that's why there is no booze, as is my understanding.

And while I must admit never having been to a alcohol-free wedding, it's a Sunday brunch-style reception, so it's not like I'd be getting loaded anyhow (probably). So I'm cool with it, and understand. I like weddings in general – they're fun.

What's less understandable is the wedding I was at a few years back. It, too, was supposed to be boozeless, until the bride's family was convinced at the last minute that it was a poor idea expect people to come to a Saturday night reception without alcohol. Brunch is one thing, but a conventional, Saturday-night party, without some of Grandpa's old cough medicine? Not gonna work, I'm afraid.

In the end, it was an expensive bar, which didn't open til late in the reception, and most people left when the dancing started (Again, religious beliefs. For serious). So yeah, it was a little boring.

Today, I mentioned these things to my brother, who some of you likely know is getting hitched soon – next year, I understand. Anyways, this is his "vision" for a proper wedding.

"I never understand why people wouldn't want (booze). I want my wedding to be the biggest, best party of people's lives. I want every single person to wake up the next morning and forget whose wedding they were at."

So yeah, you want to be invited to that wedding. Take a memo on your Newton.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

:: Moving Day ::

Today is the dreaded day after my parents moved into their new townhouse (which is really, really nice, while we're on the subject). And as is the case on Day 2 of the move, it's the day when things start to get delivered and different companies start coming by – maybe you ordered a new couch, maybe your cable needs hooking up, or the builders are coming by to fix one little thing.

Or in the case of my parents, maybe all at once. Through a miraculous feat of scheduling, it's been a parade through their new place this morning.

I just had this text-message conversation with my mom:

Mom: All our deliveries are coming fast and furious! It's crazy in there! (Moms love exclamation points!)
Me: Oh really? What's come today?
Mom: Everything – Telus, Sears, EuroRite Cabinets, the people to install the vacuum... it's crazy.
Me: Jesus Christ!
Mom: No, he comes on Sunday.

My mother, ladies and gentlemen!

Tuesday, March 08, 2011

:: Sometimes a bunch of pens is just a bunch of pens ::

To get to the washrooms on my office's floor, one must walk down a long hallway that we share with the other businesses on our floor. As such, you're bound to run into somebody you don't know and don't necessarily want to talk to, but of course, end up saying hello to/making small talk with. 

As you can probably guess, I hate that, because said conversations revolve around two things: 1) How 'bout this crappy weather, eh?!  and 2) This is such a looong hallway. (Seriously, the hallway length comes up more than you'd think.)

Today, as I reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner to where the bathroom door is, I noticed four pens lying on the ground. Four pens, that's it. Of course, some bozo I've never met has to – I mean, just has to – come around the opposite corner at the exact same time, also noticing said pens. 

I saw no reason to comment on the pens. They fell out of somebody's pocket. They're just pens. Big deal. Not so, however, for my new hallway friend. 

"Whoa, whoa whoa what happened here?!" he said in that over-exaggerated tone people use when they want to make a faux-big deal about something in an attempt to be funny. 

Now, I could understand this guy's remark if say, instead of four pens, the items on the floor had been a condom, sharktooth, vial of blood and a pen. But no, it was just four pens. That's it. The only way a stack of pens is remotely interesting is if it's an obscene number of pens; if 20,000 Bics lined the hall, I may have cared. But it was just four. Four pens. No shark's teeth.

I refused to take this fellow's bait. 

"Somebody dropped four pens, that's what happened," I deadpanned, before walking into the washroom to pee.

Mystery solved, douchebag.