What the Hell is going on?

Sheesh, I mention that Satan called and the next thing I know, the Blogger banner at the top of my blog page suggests that people who are interested in my blog might also be interested in:

"Related Searches: • satan • church of satan"

Thanks, Google.

Me, God or the Rabbi, none of us will answer your call, not at this number

Forgive me for not expanding on my Christmas story about drunken mothers, dirty old men and canapés. I have far more important entities to discuss: God.

Last week a woman called my house asking for him. "Hello, is God there?" OK, so maybe she was asking for 'Gad', but how would I know the difference? Either way, I could safely answer, "You have the wrong number."

It is an odd coincidence though, considering that last week, a man claiming to be Satan repeatedly called my friend's house to tell us he was watching us through the window and would soon be gnawing our flesh to the bones.

The world was blessed with caller ID for several years, that mighty feature really helped keep prankers at bay, but the curse of *67 soon followed. It's the balance of good and evil. In any case, the most dreaded of all callers beckoned me by way of an incessant ring-ring today.

My day began with some wonky auto-dialer with short-term memory loss. It just kept calling and beeping at me all day long. I started imagining that the auto-dialer had an otherworldly agenda, and was calling as part of a tactic to take over the developed world. It's duty was to drive the warmbloods crazy, household by household, using our own infrastructure against us. Or, I dunno, something. Finally, a real human called.

Initially, I was relieved, but only initially. Ultimately, I concluded that the most annoying man in the warmblood world had acquired my phone number. The aliens must've gotten to him already.

He asked to speak with the Rabbi. Apparently, about 10 years ago, the Rabbi could be reached at my number, which lead me to believe this man hasn't spoken with his Rabbi as often as he should. In any case, I get this request a lot. Usually telling the caller they've reached the wrong number is sufficient. This time was different. I was asked to look up the Rabbi's phone number, instead. After assuring the man that I haven't a clue how to get in touch with the Rabbi, he scolded me: "Well, what kind of Jew are you then?"

"Actually, I'm not Jewish" I told him, and he seemed surprised. With a real desire to get to the bottom of this situation, he cleverly asked, "Well then why do you have the Rabbi's phone number?"

"Wellllllllll, it's not the Rabbi's phone number," I said, "It's my phone number."

"Well then shouldn't you at least know his number in case people call you who need to talk to the Rabbi?" he demanded.

"No, those people should look his number up themselves," I answered, now incredulous.

"Are you Sephardic? You sound Sephardic. You know what? I think you are an Orthodox Jew," he concluded, and I wondered what, exactly, he was trying to say.

"I am not Jewish, I'm sorry."

Now, completely annoyed, he raised his voice a little more and said, "Do you even know the Rabbi? Well, do you?"

"No!" I was relieved. We were finally making progress, I thought. Then, he asked the next question.

"Do you even know what he looks like?"

"No! No, I don't! I am sorry, I have to go now." I couldn't take any more.

"I think you should changed your phone number if you aren't going to give people the Rabbi's phone number."

"You know what!? The next time you talk to the Rabbi you can tell him that I would like it if he didn't give my number out to you," I yelled. He'd pushed me too far.

"You know I really thought you were Sephardic."

...click...

My mom does coffee with the angel of death

All hail the "Supreme Pessimista!" Bow down to her, resistance is only met with a heavier arsenal. All attempts to protect oneself from the avalanche of depressing news will be thwarted by dismissive "mmm..."s and "yes, well as I was saying..."s and "so anyway..."s. Or worse, a defensive, "Well I just thought you should know!"

How can so many terrible things happen to people she knows over the course of a single week? How can my mom know it all? My mother, I've realized, is a dark humourist, my dark humour muse. I have a feeling a disproportionate number of entries in this journal will be about that. Please bear with me on that, I'm coping.

Instinct doesn't always translate well

I am a person who truly believes in first impressions. When I first meet you, I'll receive information processed subconsciously that will then cause a very discreet physical reaction. Every time I meet with you after this, I'll have that very same reaction. It's subtle, but it's powerful.

Sometimes this feeling comes as an unpleasant taste, other times as a shiver and most often ennui. We can call this "instinct."

If you're a creep, don't expect me to get into an elevator with you. Don't ask for my name. Don't ask why I won't tell you what it is. Don't expect me to make you dinner at my house. Don't ever touch me without explicit permission. In fact, I may never want to see you again. If it's really bad I won't want YOU to see ME again.

If you're wonderful, I might try to communicate your wonderfulness to you and soften the ol' eye contact, listen to your stories even if I am thinking I should really be doing my homework instead, and laugh at even your lamest jokes.

This sounds like a great, fool-proof system...but every system has its security issues. The kryptonite for "instinct" seems to be alcohol. Or more specifically: Ladies' Night. You see, in Quebec, Ladies' Night means that all women can drink as much as they want, for FREE. This usually makes the bars more popular with men than women. I assume this is not because women are easier after a sip or seven too much, but rather that their instinct is faulty, or absent.

If we've been drinking, my instinct departs for safer grounds and I find myself in the strangest of situations. The most recent of which involved having my neck unexpectedly bitten by a 20-something francophone Quebecois big-attitude wannabe-punk named "Rose" with a tattoo on his, well, on his entire torso and part of his face. How did I not see that coming?

I'll blame it on the language barrier.

Mental m@sturbation

The only thing cooler than getting an 'A' on a project that sucked up 2 weeks of time and resulted in eye strain, is getting an "indisputable A."

Mmmmm.