Saturday, March 27, 2010

In March

At the end of each month, I'm going to attempt to recap the miscellaneous adventures and going-ons I had that I didn't write about for whatever reason.

First of all, I smashed our car. Well, technically I guess you could say I smashed "Marty's car". Well, why the Hell is the parking path so narrow? It's like my new apartment challenges me to fail. You win, new apartment. Big man.

Anyways, luckily for me, I was on my way to meet a very smashed Marty at Canoe, a very nice restaurant in Toronto. How can you be mad over $50 steaks and wine that the douchebag waiter says "isn't sold anywhere"? And also, you're stupid drunk?

Side note: what kind of waiter says that? "you can't get this anywhere?"

"Really?" Cat retorts, "Even if I go to Tuscany to the winery where this was made?"

"Yes. Even then I doubt it."

You're so cool, Canoe Waiter.

Anyways, the next morning, Marty is left with a hangover, a smashed car, and the inability to be mad at me, because there's nothing worse than bringing up a past argument, and we already went over this all last night.


Another funny thing that happened was I made lifelong enemies with the staff at Futureshop where Marty and I bought a new tv, ps3, and God of War (see you later, Sunlight).

Look. Is it a big deal to ask for a discount if you are spending thousands of dollars in a store? Is it a big deal to then poll the floor staff on what they think the package is worth ("the ticketed price", they say), and then ask each individual staff what they could do for me (which was nothing every time) whenever my salesgirl turned around? What about when I escalated the matter to the store manager, who in a fit of desperation to get me out of the store and redeem the dignity of his staff, gave me his own discount? Is that a big deal? HM?

In any case, the next day, I realized I lost my phone and the culprit was Futureshop. I call and politely describe who I am and tell them my plight.

"Ohhh.. um.. right, right, yeah I totally remember you. Um.. hold on a second." (HOLD.) "Yeahh, we don't have your phone. Sorry." (CLICK.)

But she didn't even ask me one thing about the phone! Now, I'm not saying that they did find my phone and are doing all sorts of terrible things to rack up bills for me on it, but I'm not saying they're not, either. I guess we'll find out at the end of April.


Once in a while, I like to get dressed up like a fancy lady and do something I can't afford. Most recently, it was a benefit for WaterCan, hosted by Aveda. The ladies there were on a league of their own, bidding thousands of dollars at the live auction for some guy to clean up their backyard. Cat and I are trying to be cool, Daddy-O, and this works for a good chunk of the night... until goody bag time.

"Oh.. these are for us? Why, thank you, sir. Catherine, let us make way to the ladies' room. Excuse us, please." (curtsy)

Once we get into the washroom, we're like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus all the sexin' for money. "FULL SIZE AVEDA LOTIONS??" We shriek in delight, until the toilet flushes and we curtsy on out.

On our way out, I swear to God, this happens: An older, portly gentleman tells us he is the one of the producers for Sex and the City, and our group of friends looks perfect for a new program he is developing. We're still trying to be cool, but let's be honest, the closest I am going to be to Sex in the City is that camping scene in BrĂ¼no - "Vee are sooh like ze sex in ze seety gehls!!" That's me.

We humour this Crazy Old Man (I say humour, but really I was already mentally packing for LA) for a while, as he is pitching his new show. All of a sudden, this woman comes running down the stairs. "Harold!" She shouts as she hurries toward us, "Ugh, Harold! What the hell are you doing? Are you playing Producer again?" She gives us a look that she has clearly given many a group of young women before. "I'm sorry, he does this all the time. He just wants to talk." He laughs and shrugs, like a boy who just got caught. He is no producer for Sex and the City.

Afterwards, we head of to a nearby lounge, where a well-suited Bay Street crowd frequents. We break out the camera and play what I like to call "Supermodel Documentary Hour".

The next half hour or so goes like this:

"OH. MY. GOD. You look sooooOOooo good."
"No, you look so good."
"No, like seriously? Seriously, that colour is ahmaaaazing."
"You don't even understand how beautiful that dress is on you."

(The male half of our party roll their eyes and exit bar due to embarassment.)

"Wow. Like just WOW."
"I can't even believe how beautiful we look tonight."
"Right?? Look at this picture. Just look at it. Perfection."

I should inform you that not even one girl is in the bar. Not even one. Every single man in the bar is watching at us and laughing as we take glamour shots, in "candid" poses like Gazing Wistfully at the Candle, or my personal favourite, Somebody Said Something Hilarious:

This is basically what every single one of our 800 pics looks like.

Then two of our girlfriends come to meet us at the bar. The first words they scream in greeting: "OH MY GOD!!! HOW AMAZING DO WE ALL LOOK TONIGHT??"

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