At home last night, the door phone rang. I stumbled over to it, expecting the milliner to be on the other end, ringing me to let her in. Instead, it’s some woman, wanting to be let in so that I can sign a petition, agreeing to let some film company block our street next week. It’s all getting a bit complicated listening to this over the intercom, so I tell her to wait two seconds and that I’ll simply come down to meet her. Down the stairs I go, followed by Daisy.
Down at the entrance, the woman is there; ready to go into her spiel. She hands me an info sheet, I’m scanning it quickly, when, oh glory of all glories, I see what they want to film. Dead Like Me.
I do believe I wet myself then.
Squee! One of my favourite shows evah! So, this woman and I get to talking, I’m acting all fan-crazy about them filming on my street, how it was such a great show, how Jasmine Guy could put handcuffs on me any day, etc., when I suddenly remember: hey! Our dog! She’s named after one of the characters from the show!
Well, then, when she finds out, this woman tells me that I just have to bring Daisy around the set. So, sweetness! I might actually get to meet George and the rest of them. Funny though, I don’t know how Laura Harris would react to meeting Daisy Adair in canine form.
Update: Sigh, I guess not enough folks agreed to have the filming on our street, as it (the street) was strangely bare yesterday. The dog didn’t seem overly concerned, but seemed curious as to why I was weeping uncontrollably for hours.
But, apparently, history will be made on tonight’s Jeopardy. (Anyone think that Alex is starting to look like David Letterman?)
I’m thinking there’s a 3-way tie. I would love to think that they realised their mistake from this summer and that my audition was exactly what they wanted, but I’m not that deluded.
Observing the feline these past couple weeks, and here’s what I’ve noticed:
- He’s missing a canine, and has bad dental work overall.
- He’s a chirpy little thing, constantly complaining, but is vague about his complaints.
- He makes it a point to sleep between the milliner and I, ensuring that we not touch.
- Compared with Frances, he’s kinda, well, slow.
- He’s absolutely fascinated with soccer, going so far as to repeatedly whack at the TV. I think he roots for Aston Villa. (Hence my belief that he’s touched.)
- Finally, unknown parentage.
Conclusion? I do believe our cat is British. It’s a burden, but I’ll learn to live with it.
Last night, watching the train wreck that was the Seattle auditions of American Idol, the milliner turns to me and, despairingly, asks, “Why are most of the crazy ones all redheads.”
Of course, the sage (mmmm, sage) advise of Robert Benchley came to mind: “Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing.”
Unfortunately, my keen sense of tact did not get into gear, so I laugh uproariously.
Part 2: Caught the opening match of the FIFA world cup yesterday, Germany vs. Costa Rica. (There’s nothing better when you’re doing some repetitive cardio exercise, like biking, than watching soccer/football.) So, Germany pretty much dominated in all aspects of the game.
Including diving and acting like drama queens.
The world is all upside down when the Teutons embarrass themselves reacting to phantom hits, whereas the Latin players try to play with skill alone. So far, the Oscar for best acting during an athletic event goes to Germany. Granted, I haven’t seen Argentina or Brazil yet, so the jury is still out. And, let us not forget my favourites, Italy, whose players are so dehydrated by the end of every game from shedding gallons of crocodile tears.
It’s going to be a great World Cup. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday night, I’m driving with the milliner, to drop her off at some “do.” We arrive at a red light, behind one of those mutha-fucking huge Lincoln Navigators. As we’re waiting there, a piece of trash goes flying out of the driver’s window. The hell?, thinks I. Bunch of rich fucks, they’re a plague, but what are you going to do? But then! But then, another piece comes flying out, this time from the passenger window!
Fuck me, my moral indignation has been provoked. Engage the hand-brake, put the car in neutral, and go pick up the tissue by the side of the SUV, figuring those rich old fucks need to be humiliated a bit. Pick up the tissue, turn toward the passenger and declare, “Hey, you dropped something,” only to realise that these rich old fucks are…
Two guys, fairly well built, in their 20s. Um, yeah, uncomfortable. Anyhow, I strut back to my car, feeling all righteous and everything. Then, rich boy driver sticks his head out and yells, “Hey! If you’re not careful, that’s not the only thing that’s going to drop.” (?) Relying on my immense knowledge of the English language, I said nothing. First, because nothing witty came to me. Second, I’m kinda shitting my pants at this point. Oh, I could have replied, “Go back to the West Island and tell your daddy that he has a nice car,” but, as I said, nothing was coming to me besides “Oh, shit, I hope I don’t get beat up.”
What the hell were doing each throwing out tissue paper, anyhow? Mutual, um, satisfaction? It’s the only thing I could think of.
Since when do young rich boys drive Navigators, anyhow?
I finally caught an episode of Nigella Lawson’s cooking show yesterday, on the Food Network. I had always heard about her, and had seen her cookbooks in the bookstores, but never really considered getting anything of hers.
And then I saw her show. And? I experienced being an adolescent boy in the throes of puberty all over again, afraid to stand up in case, well, you know. I swear, she looks at the camera, runs her tongue over her lips, and goes, “ooo, I love that.” I swear, she gives new meaning to the term “food porn.”
Must. Get. The. Food Network.
Confession: it’s my goal, nay my dream, to appear on Jeopardy. I watch it almost religiously–i.e. whenever the spirit hits me and I’m not doing anything else at that moment–I use it to gauge my workout rhythm (if I can answer the questions aloud while biking in front of the tele, then I’m good), I get annoyed when contestants screw up simple questions (I mean, honestly, who doesn’t know that Ulaan-baator is the coldest capital in the world?) and, to top it all off, was rather jealous to see ex-Montrealer John Moore appear a couple weeks back, followed by sweet schadenfreude to see him not even make it to the final round. Loser. Heck, I even remember The Golden Girls episode where Bea Arthur tried to get on. And who can forget Cliff’s famous “Who are three women who’ve never been in my kitchen?” final answer in that episode of Cheers.
Anyhow, I get the Jeopardy newsletter, occasionally register for auditions, but nothing ever comes of it. But then, on Monday, I get me an email telling me that they’ll be holding an online test next Tuesday, the 28th. “Gosh,” I’m thinking, “I don’t know. I have yoga on Tuesday nights, and I’ll be at trivia the following week, so that would make two weeks in a row that I’ll miss.” Okay, I admit it, the yoga instructor is hott, and really nice, and I always feel like I’m disappointing her if I don’t show up. Of course, greed and an over-blown sense of self corrected my path, and I figured that I could take a couple weeks off. What the hell, with the millions I’ll make à la Ken Jennings, I can pay for my own instructor. So, I go online, start filling out the form and…
Am not eligible. It’s for American residents only. Dreams dashed, for now. All the 30-second anecdotes that I’ve stored in my mind for the little meet-and-greet sessions with Alex Trebek will have to stay there for a while longer. I guess I’ll have to earn my money the old way; I’ll simply buy more lottery tickets.
But mark my words, Jeopardy: you will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine.
Sweden beats USA in women’s hockey. This makes me very, very happy.