:: Two old people talking about TV ::

A few minutes ago, somebody here happened to make some exaggerated grunting noise for some reason or another. After said noise, another person said, 'That sounded just like that tool guy, you know, from that old show?"

She meant, of course, Tim Allen – he of the trademarked but lame grunting noise – and his old show from the '90s, Home Improvement. But she couldn't remember the name of it. Thankfully though, a third person decided to help.

And after a two-minute brainstorm/discussion – in which help was enlisted from at least 2 other passersby – this was the conclusion:

"Oh, I know the show – it was This Old House."

"Yeah, that's the one."

"It had that guy in it... Tim something."

"Tim Allen!" 

And then, as if a 3-minute conversation about a subpar, outdated '90s sitcom wasn't bad enough, this: 

"I like Tim Allen, he's really funny. He's like Bill Murray."

Now let's just back the Comedy Caravan up just a second (see what I did there? Home Improvement watchers will get it). Tim freaking Allen is not like Bill Murray.

Sure, Allen has his charms – he sometimes funny, and I usually like him (and I still love The Santa Clause). But he's not Bill Murray. Bill Murray is a comedy legend, whereas Tim Allen is so well-thought of by most people that his show is – as evidenced by the previous conversation – often confused with a long-cancelled do-it-yourself show hosted by Bob Vila. 

Bill Murray was in Caddyshack.

Tim Allen was in Who is Cletis Tout?

Tim Allen was in Wild Hogs.

Bill Murray was in Groundhog Day, Ghostbusters and The Royal Tenenbaums.

Rest assured, Tim Allen is not Bill Murray.

Even if hopelessly unhip 50-sometimes think otherwise. 

:: Note to self - Pay Attention ::

On weekday mornings, I very rarely leave myself much time to get ready, because I'd much rather sleep for an extra few minutes. I usually shower the night before, too, thus giving me an extra 10 minutes of beautiful, beautiful slumber.

And, in my hurried state, I often leave "making lunch" until the last minute. And considering, in our current living arrangement, that contents of said lunch could be in any one of three fridges (kitchen, extra fridge in utility room, and a wildy-unorganized beer fridge in our basement), making lunch quickly is sometimes a challenge. Add in the fact that I'm a) still dead-tired and b) sometimes it's still pretty dark in the basement, and I'm lucky I eat lunch at all.

Cut to today: my usual five-minutes-to-go-before-I-leave lunch scramble, and I open the bar fridge to grab a Coke Zero. I grab a can, chuck it in my bag, and run out the door. 

At noon, I open up my bag to get my lunch, and there is no Coke Zero to be found. But what is there? Why, there's a Bud Light, of course. 

In my haste to get to work, and in the low-light of the basement, I grabbed a dark-blue can of beer instead of the black can of Coke. Genius.

I relayed this chain of events to Christene, and she said she's come very close to doing the same thing numerous times – and she wakes up at 4 a.m., so here chance of error is even greater, because, with it still dark out and the rest of the house still asleep, she does nearly everything in a dark haze, including trying to sort through a fridge that contains a scattered collection of Coke Zero, four different kinds of beer, Palm Bays, Gatorade, Diet Coke with Lime, Diet Cherry Coke, apples, oranges, and God knows what else.

But she's still never brought a beer to work. She did, however, offer a solution to my workday gaffe:

"You should shotgun it!"

Good idea maybe, but I think that kind of shit is frowned upon in an office setting.

:: No hiding ::

Every December, I make the same damn mistake.

Each year around this time, we gather everyone in the office for a large staff photo. This photo is used in the paper during the Christmas season – usually in some sort of ad, saying "Merry Christmas from the staff at...."

The trouble is, more often than not, I forget that picture day is coming, despite getting at least a couple days warning. And because I forget, it usually means I show up to work looking like a scrub – instead of a button-up shirt and nice pants, the picture is usually taken on the day I'm wearing jeans and a hoodie, or something. (The worst was last year, when I forgot – again – and wore a toque to work because of a blizzard. Had I remembered, I'd have brought some hair gel to fix my mop of hair. Instead, I had terrible "hat-head". Plus a hoodie.)

On the plus side, there's usually about 20 people in the photo so I'm able to hide behind bodies and stay out of the way. Which is my usual plan of attack when I forget to look presentable.

This year, however, not only did I forget, but I also threw out any chance of blending into the background. That's because, when I got dressed for work this morning – completely ignorant of the forthcoming photo op, remember – I chose from my closet one of my better golf shirts. Which just happens to be blindingly bright orange, with thin white stripes.

We took the picture this morning, and though I tried to hide in a middle row, and behind some people with large heads, I am still the brightest thing in the frame. By a fucking country mile.

And speaking of country miles, you can probably see me from that far away, so bright is my shirt. Or if you can't, just check the paper in a week or two.

Can't miss me.

:: Me fail English? That's unpossible ::

As some of you know, I have started scouring the MLS listings for houses, because I would like to – in an ideal world – sell my townhouse and buy a house in the spring or summer.

Over the past month or so, I have spent far too much time reading all the listings, and after awhile, the descriptions all begin to blend together and sound the same. It seems like every house is in a "great neighbourhood" or has "wall-to-wall laminate" or has a "great backyard for entertaining."

And while all these different blurbs are not exactly original, at least they make sense. I know what is being offered. As opposed to this one listing – for a delightful little rancher – that I found today. This realtor (or whoever wrote the blurb) describes the house in the following way:

"Quiet street, hardwood floors and big lot blend together for a very good time."

Really? That's your sales pitch? Really?!

Let me get this straight. This house is on a quiet street? Excellent. That's good – I'm with ya. But it also has hardwood floors that - and correct me if I'm wrong – blend together with the lot?

Are there no walls to this house? Are you selling me a circus tent? I don't understand. If I'm about to fork over $474,000, I better get some damn walls, that's all I'm saying.

And one more thing. This hardwood-to-lawn-because-there's-no-walls concept makes for a very good time? This statement is truly the most baffling of the bunch.

I don't get it – I thought I was buying a house. I don't necessarily want a good time, I want a nice place to live. You know, a spacious backyard, updated kitchen, maybe a nice deck. Advertising a house as a "good time" just doesn't make a lot of sense to me.

Are you selling me an event? Are you telling me that I am going to have a lot of fun buying this house? Or do you mean that I'll have an excellent time in the specific area where the hardwood meets the grass?

You've got a lot of questions to answer, real estate agent.

For starters, you can start by telling us why your MLS posting reads like it's a classified ad for an escort service that's been translated from English to Mandarin and then back to English again.

:: The ironing is delicious ::

One of my co-workers in on vacation the next two weeks. As such, other employees are monitoring his e-mail in case anything important/time sensitive arrives while he is away (also because the "out of office" reply function on our company e-mail addresses has been broken for some time).

Last week, a woman e-mailed my absentee co-worker with something quasi-important, and another employee here responded to the e-mail, explaining that the employee was away, and that one of us would be able to help her instead.

Rather than thinking of this as a logical solution, the woman flew off the handle and complained that her e-mail was private and intended for absentee-employee's eyes only and how dare we read somebody else's "private" e-mail. My boss then explained to her that, in an office, with a work account, there is no such thing as "private" e-mail and that even if we here in the office aren't checking, the IT guys in the big building miles away could be checking it remotely if they so chose.

Once she calmed down and realized she was in the wrong, she attempted to send an apology e-mail to the employee here whom she originally lambasted. 

But instead she accidently sent it to our direct competitors because she clicked on the wrong address in her e-mail program.

I swear to God, sometimes I don't even have to come up with witty endings to these stories. Sometimes they just write themselves.

:: A glass half-full approach ::

Forget that the odds of winning this week's insanely massive $370 million lottery in the United States this week is 1 in 200,000,000, this one dude - a gambling addict named Barrie Green from California has a much sunnier approach. I don't know if he's hyper-optimistic or just plain retarded, but it's an interesting way of thinking. (Chris, do not use this line of thought to increase your Sports Action habit. The odds are still shitty).

"I realize I don't have a chance, but nobody's got a chance. So the way I look at it, I have a 50-50 chance – either I win it or someone else wins it."