The Definition of an Important Conversation

Scene: Nick is sitting at the kitchen table, using the laptop. Christene is on the couch watching TV. 

The phone rings.

Christene: Hello? ... OK, one second.
Christene rushes to the kitchen table. 

Christene: Nick, I need to use the computer for a second, can I sit down?

Nick: Uh, yeah, alright. What website do you want? 
Christene: Shoedazzle.com
Nick: You've got to be kidding me. I'm not getting up for that.

End scene.

:: An intelligent discussion on riots, and how to prevent them ::

Scotty: What did you get for your birthday, Canucks tickets for the next four rounds?
Me: Ha, no, I got a watch. But going to games cuts into my rioting time anyway.
Scotty: You're the third person who has said that to me today.
Me: Haha.
Scotty: It's pretty bad when you have to have anti-rioting commercials.
Me: I know, so dumb. I mean, listen, if I'm gonna riot, I'm gonna riot*. I'm not going to pull the gas-soaked rag out of the police car gas-tank just because I suddenly remember that Kevin Bieksa told me not to.
Scotty: I know... I can't be responsible when I'm liquored up.
Me: No, of course not. If you were down there last year, every cop would have been Boston Crabbed to death.
Scotty: How fitting, too.


*Dear law enforcement and other Internet do-gooders: I'm not actually going to riot. Chill out.

:: 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.

:: This is what I'm dealing with here, people ::

Last night, driving home from dinner, this is what Christene decided to talk about (completely out of blue, of course).

Christene: You know, I could've totally dominated on American Gladiators.
Me: Uhh... what?
Christene: American Gladiators. The show. I would've dominated. Especially the part when you hit the gladiator with one of those giant Q-tip things. I would've been like (insert whooosh-sounding sound effects and some arm movements)... I would've kicked ass, take that Lace!
Me: Giant Q-tips? You mean the joust?
Christene: Yeah, whatever it's called. I would've won. I'd have been good at that other thing, too, where they strap you in that harness and you jump from the different platforms - what's that, the gauntlet? (editor's note: it's not the gauntlet).
Me: Are you actually saying these words?
Christene: Yeah, why?
Me: You think you would've won on American Gladiators?
Christene: Yes.
Me: Is this the same thing as the time you told me you'd definitely win at beer pong because once your team won Elementary School Sports Day, but then you completely sucked at beer pong?
Christene: Also, when I was about 18 I won two out of three games of laser tag! I lost the first one, but then I came back and killed everyone in the next two.
Me: Seriously, this is what you're bringing to the table? Elementary school sports day and laser tag?
Christene: It's all I have!

:: Somebody got their medical degree from Hollywood Upstairs Medical College ::

New Year's Resolution be damned, I am eating an Egg McMuffin this morning. Why? Because despite my annual pronouncement that "This is the year I'm getting in shape!", there was a 2-for-1 coupon in the paper, and my resolution this year is also to save money.

And hey, a deal's a deal. (And in my defence, I didn't eat both of them. I gave one to my boss.)

So as I'm sitting here at my desk, one of our company's sales reps walks by and says quietly, "You know, that stuff'll kill ya."

Couple things wrong here. First of all – shutup.

Even if I'm shovelling pure lard into my mouth, or shooting heroin into my veins, nobody – least of all, me – asked you for an opinion on my lifestyle or health choices. Nobody.

But while I am willing to concede that a) she was only kidding around and b) simply making conversation (which, by now, you should all know that I hate - see here, here and here if you are not yet entirely convinced) there is a bigger problem with her unsolicited health advice:

The reason she walked by my desk was so she could go grab her jacket off the coat rack.

Because she was going outside in the rain to have a smoke.

And if you're wondering whether or not I called her on this little bit of hypocrisy, well, you don't know me very well, do ya?

:: 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. 

:: Brain freeze ::

Yesterday afternoon, I sat at my desk and ate a big bowl of ice cream. Somebody I work with had bought a big tub of it, put it in the lunch room freezer and told some of us to help ourselves. I went and got some and came back to my desk.

Being that my desk is in a high-traffic area right near the lunchroom door (the office equivalent of getting a table near the washroom), there were no shortage of people – from other departments, and therefore not initially told of the ice-cream bounty – walking by and making comments about my ice cream.

This was incredibly annoying, as you may imagine. Then, it just got plain stupid.

Guy, leaving lunchroom: Hey, I didn't see any ice cream in there!

Me: Well, it's in there.

Guy: Where was it?

Me: It's ice cream, where do you think it was? I've give you a hint – it wasn't the microwave.

Guy: Weird, I never saw it.

Me: Did you look in the freezer?

Guy: Well, no, I didn't.

Me: Can't imagine why you wouldn't have known about it then.

These are the people I work with.

:: She was spouting cliches a mile a minute ::

I just overheard a woman on a phone call. In the span of no more than two minutes – and that's probably being generous – she said the following things about a person who was the subject of the phone conversation.

"She's bigger than life."

"She's got a mega-watt smile."

"She just lights up the room."

"She'd give you the shirt off her back."

So yes, this woman is probably a fantastic person – not to mention potentially topless – but what I am more concerned with is the fact that the person on this end of the line is apparently completely unable to form and express unique thoughts.

I mean, I work in sports, so I hear cliches all the time – about taking it one day at a time, giving it 110%, etc – but that's different. (I don't know why or how it's different, so don't ask, but it just is).

It's probably the same reason I hate – HATE – when I hear or read (lookin' at you, Facebook statuses) people spouting some cliche phrase and pass it off as wit or a deep thought*. It's not. It's lame, and does not make you intelligent. It makes you lame.

*Today's annoying example: Somebody on Twitter posted that lame quote about how "yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery and today is a gift. That's why they call it the present." Good one, jackass – real fucking original. You think that up all by yourself?

:: Delayed response ::

Witnessed a very Seinfeldian moment today at the office. However, unlike Seinfeld, the moment was annoying rather than hilarious.

More than two hours ago, one co-worker made some faux-angry remark about how, if our department kept screwing up – thus directly affecting his department – he was going to send some people after us/get us in trouble, etc.... It was said in jest, we all chuckled, blah blah blah, end of moment.

And then we all moved on with our days.

One guy though – who is something of a socially-awkward rube and has been mentioned here, here and here– just couldn't let the moment die. What he also couldn't do, unfortunately, was come up with an on-the-spot, witty remark. Like I said, he's not that quick.

So, two hours pass, and he wanders back to the guy who made the fake-threats, and said, "Remember earlier when you said ....." and then proceeded with his hilarious comeback that he'd spent two hours crafting in his brain.

Couple problems. The first of course, is that two fucking hours passed. But secondly – perhaps most importantly – is that his finely crafted bit of hilarity was awful. Like, one of the top-5 lamest "jokes" I've ever heard.

Worse than a "dad" joke. Hell, even worse than a bad "dad" joke.

And then upon the joke falling flat, he topped it off with what's sadly become his signature line: "Right? Riiiight???"

At this rate, all I can hope for is that he soon takes a new job at Tyler Chicken.

:: Definition of irony (sort of) ::

While sitting at my desk, which is adjacent to the lunch room, I was just forced to listen to two women, both in their late-40s/early-50s, bitch and moan – quite viciously, I might add – about their respective elderly mothers.

About how they try to run their lives even now; question their parenting skills; how they were terrible parents themselves and that's why all their children escaped and moved far away, and how all they do is complain and blah blah blah. It got so obnoxious and loud, I almost told them to shut up.

But I didn't. Because the thing is, I don't think these two realize that, judging by the way they just spent their lunch hour complaining and whining, in 20-30 years they will probably turn out the exact same way.

Old. Bitter. Angry.

That'll teach 'em for annoying me.

:: Conversation error ::

I know I've said this before, about a certain person I know, but in a vain effort to talk to somebody – Oh, please won't somebody pay attention to me! – asking a general, "So....?" without any follow-up, is not an acceptable way to engage somebody in conversation.

:: Annoying, obnoxious... take your pick ::

Today at work, in the span of three hours, the same person has inexplicably spoken three times in an exaggerated faux accent – an accent I can only describe as Jamaica/Eastern European – has made four terrible puns that drew absolutely zero response from anybody (because we've learned to ignore him) and then, when he got zero response from said puns, he looked around everyone and said "C'mon! C'mon!" like a bad stand-up comic who wasn't getting the laughs.

(Each pun was set up the following way, as they all are... Somebody mentions something, and he responds with "So what you're saying is..." and that's where the awful play on words happens. It's awful.)

Also, he's burped at his desk about 16 times since 9 a.m., which is both classy and obnoxious, not to mention a little bit gross.

I just thought you should all know these things.

How not to be annoying...

There are plenty of ways, of course. But for starters, when somebody asks somebody else a question – keeping in mind that nobody asked you, you're just sitting nearby – do not butt into the conversation by saying, "Well the short answer is..." 

.... and then proceed with a really long fucking answer that, in actuality, doesn't answer the question at all, lengthy or otherwise.

And once your way-too-long "answer" is complete, certainly don't continue the conversation (long after everyone has moved on) by adding your opinions and theories on the matter to whomever is still within earshot. 

Because here's a short answer for ya: Nobody cares!

:: Lunch lady ::

Recently, my company reshuffled some of its operations, which meant we got a few employees in our office. 

One of them, a woman in her mid-40s, we all know, as she worked out of our office a few years ago. She's a great person – very bubbly, funny, and we all like her, and are happy to have her here. Trouble is, turns out she's a "lunch talker." And I don't mean that in a "she talks to you when you're both sitting in the lunchroom" kind of way, which of course, is perfectly normal.

No, she is a "lunch talker" because she just simply cannot walk past a person eating something without commenting on it. I guess that actually makes her a "lunch commenter" or a "lunch observer" but whatever. You get the point. 

"Mmmm... that looks good."

"Salad, eh? 

"Is it lunch already?

Aside from answering 'Yes' to all three of those queries, what else can you really say? It's just a case of someone wanting to make conversation for the sake of it, or because they just love the sound of their own voice, or both. 

And it's even more of a pain in the ass for me because at least three out of five weekdays, the desk at which I sit is directly in her path. I could probably avoid it if I chose to go hide in the lunch room, but don't even get me started on the conversations I'd be subjected in there*.

(*How bad is the lunchroom? If I have to do any prep-work or microwaving of my lunch – anything that will keep me in there longer than the two seconds it takes to grab it from the fridge and go – I wait until every last soul is out of there. That's how serious I am about avoiding this inane, uninteresting conversations. And if that means I have to wait until 2:30 to eat my lunch, so be it.)

So yeah, I'm in a bit of a pickle here. I'm gonna have to start eating lunch in my car.

Doors locked.

:: Minor annoyance of the day/week/month ::

In my line of work, we have two deadlines per week, Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons. The exact same times every week.

One of my colleagues here has worked here for 23 years. Almost every Thursday for the past month or so, he asks me the same question:

"So... when's deadline today?"

Part of his asking is simply because he can't get enough of talking to people – he's the same guy who tries to rope people into conversations as they're about to leave for the day – but another part of it is that he simply doesn't know.

If, after more than 20 years in the exact same job at the exact same place, I am unable to remember on a week-to-week basis one of the primary tenants of my profession, it's probably time to look for a new job in a new line of work.

I mean, 20 god damn years.

:: Way to pick your battles ::

In the past, I've written extensively on a few of the women who work in our building who are burned-out hippie, left-wing feministas.

I have also recently written of the bathroom situation at the office; now the bathrooms are locked and keys are required. A little while ago, the two subjects met in some kind of office/blog-fodder perfect storm.

The keys hang on hooks near the door, and were made easily identifiable by large, over-sized key chains. One half of the key chains, "MEN'S" is scribbled in black Sharpie, for it is the key to the men's washroom. On the others, it says – you guessed it – "LADIES"

Makes sense, no?

Well, these labels were just brought to the attention of one of the aforementioned co-workers, who either never noticed it before or hasn't peed in six weeks. Not surprisingly, she's upset. She says the term "ladies" is demeaning. It should say "women" she has argued.

I don't know whether she's right or wrong – and frankly I don't care. But in the grand scheme of things, I mentioned to her that perhaps what is written on the bathroom key wasn't that important. Just go to the bathroom and stop worrying, I said.

What happened was I got a long-winded response about feminism and why, exactly, it's not right to call a woman a lady.

It will come as no surprise, then, that my suggested alternatives – "Dames" and "Fellas" and "Chicks" and "Dudes" – were summarily and quickly dismissed.

That's the last time I try to help.

:: Common sense is all I'm asking for ::

Yesterday at work, I took a few minutes to go to my insurance provider and cancel my house insurance because I'm obviously no longer living in said house (Perhaps you've heard? I may have mentioned it a time or two on this very blog).

Anyways, I explained to the woman behind the desk what I wanted to do and why – again, because I'm moving – and it was all a very straightforward, simple procedure. You know the drill – sign here, initial there, take this copy, etc etc etc... No biggie.

But then the clerk says, "OK, so you're refund cheque will be mailed to this 208th street address."

I took a second to realize what she had said because it was so dumb. I mean, let's break it down: I came into the office for the sole purpose of canceling the insurance on my townhouse because – and I can't stress this enough – I do not live there anymore. And this woman has decided that the best place to mail $67 refund (editor's note: woo! big money!) is to the address I'm leaving?

Sorry, sweetheart, that won't do.

It was obviously no big deal – all I did was leave her a new forwarding address, and I know it was a Friday and people's minds aren't always 100% on their job, but this seemed like a pretty simple thing.

She knew I did not live at that address anymore. I just told her that.

It was just annoying, that's all.

:: Christene waits for her car to be fixed ::

Christene had about 45 minutes to kill the other day, while she waiting not-so-patiently for the Dodge dealership to be done with the quick-fix of her car's mirror. She was bored.

The following are messages I received in about a 45-second span.

"I wish a giant* would come along and write me one of those big cheques and pay for the car to be fixed."

"All the salesmen here are slimy douchebags."

"Seriously, I don't like them. If I had to work here, I'd drive one of the cars through the big glass windows."

"You know... just like the monster truck in Roadhouse."

Then, mercifully, a 10 second break...

Christene: The fixing guy just walked past me and told me that my car is almost done."

Me: The fixing guy? You mean the mechanic?

Christene: I suppose you could call him that.

The lesson here? Don't let your girlfriend break her car's side mirror. And if she does, maybe turn off your phone while she gets it fixed.

*full disclosure: Christene and I have an inside joke about giants. Usually she wishes "a giant would come along" because she wants to be picked up by said giant and moved to wherever it is she is too lazy to go.

:: Geez, I didn't see this coming... ::

Oh, wait. I did.

You may recall a few weeks ago, I wrote about the new bathroom policy in my office building – a policy that required a key to use the bathroom. I enjoyed my "private washroom" situation for about a week or so, until a few other people finally discovered it on their own.

Since this brilliant plan was put in place, there have been three keys floating around the office for each washroom. On Sunday, one of our male employees – who knows that the keys also open the handicapped room – tried to use the handicapped washroom, but the key snapped off in the lock, thus breaking the key and ruining the lock.

Down to 2 keys.

Then this morning, after building maintenance removed the broken key and apparently fixed the lock, I took one of the remaining keys and also tried to unlock the handicapped room. Of course, the lock was still broken, and the key got stuck in the lock. It didn't break, but it cannot be removed.

We are now down to one key, and the handicapped washroom is now not lockable. The holder of the remaining key (well, it's his department's key) tried to blame us for using the handicapped washroom.

"If you just used the proper washroom, this wouldn't have happened," he said.

This logic is flawed, to say the least. Doesn't matter if I needed to use it or not (full disclosure: I did not need the privacy of this washroom. I just felt like using it). The fact is that this washroom is available for use. It's not banned. Fuck, it's not even frowned upon.

It's a readily available washroom that I'm entitled to use. The problem wasn't that somebody used it – the problem was that the lock was broken and not repaired properly.

It's like somebody getting in a car accident, and then someone else saying, "You know, if you never left the house, this wouldn't have happened."

I can't wait until the third and final key goes missing. We'll all be pissing into coffee cups.

:: Time limit ::

Twice this morning, people I've been talking to on the phone have wished me a "Happy New Year."

Granted, today was the first time I've talked to them this calendar year, but still, isn't it a little late? At some point you've just got to cut your losses and move on.