Christmastime in the Emerald City

Your Score: Katharine Hepburn

You scored 26% grit, 33% wit, 38% flair, and 16% class!

You are the fabulously quirky and independent woman of character. You go your own way, follow your own drummer, take your own lead. You stand head and shoulders next to your partner, but you are perfectly willing and able to stand alone. Others might be more classically beautiful or conventionally woman-like, but you possess a more fundamental common sense and off-kilter charm, making interesting men fall at your feet. You can pick them up or leave them there as you see fit. You share the screen with the likes of Spencer Tracy and Cary Grant, thinking men who like strong women.

Find out what kind of classic leading man you’d make by taking the Classic Leading Man Test.

Link: The Classic Dames Test written by gidgetgoes on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

{July 26, 2007}   YES YES YES!!!!

Your Score: Cookie Monster

You scored 35% Organization, 50% abstract, and 52% extroverted!

This test measured 3 variables.

First, this test measured how organized you are. Some muppets like Cookie Monster make big messes, while others like Bert are quite anal about things being clean.

Second, this test measured if you prefer a concrete or an abstract viewpoint. For the purposes of this test, concrete people are considered to gravitate more to mathematical and logical approaches, whereas abstract people are more the dreamers and artistic type.

Third, this test measured if you are more of an introvert or an extrovert. By definition, an introvert concentrates more on herself and an extrovert focuses more on others. In this test an introvert was somebody that either tends to spend more time alone or thinks more about herself.

You are more sloppy, both concrete and abstract, and about equally introverted and extroverted.

Here is why are you Cookie Monster.

You are both sloppy. You might not always know where everything you need is. Perhaps you don’t even care. Hopefully you don’t shovel food into your mouth at least.

You both are partially concrete and abstract thinkers. Cookie Monster knows what he wants (cookies!) and he consistently works toward that goal. However he comes up with imaginative and unusual strategies in pursuit of that goal. You have a good balance in your life. You know when to be logical at times, but you also aren’t afraid to explore your dreams and desires… within limits of course.

You are both somewhat introverted. Cookie Monster might not have the most sophisticated syntax, but he does have some friends. He is close with Ernie. You probably like to have some time to yourself, but you do like spending time with your friends, and you aren’t scared of social situations.

The other possible characters are
Oscar the Grouch
Big Bird
Kermit the Frog
The Count
Guy Smiley

Hey, don’t be a grouch! If you liked the test, let others know by rating it below. Feel free to vote for your favorite character too.

Link: The Your SESAME STREET Persona Test written by greencowsgomoo on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

{July 26, 2007}   YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!
Genghis Khunt
Random Brutal Sex Master (RBSM)

We almost called you Brutus the Uterus and attached this picture:

But we figured you wouldn’t understand, and rightly so. We don’t understand either. So you are Genghis Khunt: master of man, bringer of pain–riding your way to conquest after conquest.

Your sexual avarice is legendary. You’ve already had an unusually high amount of experience, and, still you look for more. You intimidate many. You make no apologies.

Your exact female opposite:
The Sonnet

Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer

Personality-wise, you’re carefree and relatively easy-going. You don’t plan things out ahead of time; you tend to live in the moment. Of course, this can cause some damage when the moment happens to include a screaming orgasm with his younger brother. Hence the ‘brutal’ tag we’ve given you.

But you know what, take five seconds to lock the doors, and you’ll be fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little sex, or a whole lot.

AVOID: The Slow Dancer (DGLD)
CONSIDER: The 5-Night Stand (DBSM), The Hornivore (RBSM), The Playboy (RGSM)

Link: The Online Dating Persona Test @ OkCupid – free online dating.
My profile name: : KoalaRaspberry

{July 26, 2007}  

Your Score: Longcat

81% Affectionate, 50% Excitable, 44% Hungry

Protector of truth.

Slayer of darkness.


Longcat may seem like just a regular lengthy cat, but he is, in fact, looong. For proof, observe the longpic.

It is prophesized that Longcat and his archnemesis Tacgnol will battle for supremacy on Caturday. The outcome will change the face of the world, and indeed the very fabric of lolcatdom, forever.

Be grateful that the test has chosen you, and only you, to have this title.

To see all possible results, checka dis.

Link: The Which Lolcat Are You? Test written by GumOtaku on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

{July 26, 2007}   Fail, fail, fail.

So at work I stamp the mail for clients in one of those uber-clunky wonder works that prints on a professional mass-mailing type stamp. Makes it look all professional, as though your company were a large and established one, as opposed to one comprised of four people sitting in a triangular room with nary a fake plant. We charge for this convenience, naturally. Cost plus twenty percent. As it is I who stamps the mail, it is I who also records who has used postage and how much. Our go-to girl then collects my report, adds the twenty percent and slaps it on their monthly invoice.

Pretty simple, really. Because, as with most mail, when clients drop off their bundles, each envelope generally has a neatly pre-printed return address with their logo. Or, failing that, a handwritten return address. Or, if they are sending a personal letter with no company name, they will stick on a post-it note so that I will know who to bill.

One company, on the other hand, does not understand this concept. A piece of mail was found amongst the pile, with our address in the top left corner, but no company name. It could belong to any of the companies here. So, I placed it on my countertop in hopes that someone would recognize it as theirs. This way I would know who to bill for the fifty-two cents, and I would know who to smack for being an idiot.

I did not end up smacking. I ended up being flabbergasted at an even greater display of idiocy. Our go-to girl relayed this story to me, as I was on lunch at the time.

The client in question wanders over to drop off more mail, sees the envelope sitting on the counter, and looks at it with dismay. She stabs her finger pointedly at the general vicinity of stampage. “This is ours!” she says.

“Um, yes,” says our go-to girl. “You didn’t put your company name on it. We need to know who’s it is so we can bill you for it.”

“Oh,” she says. “But our address is on it.”

“Yes. Everyone here has that address.”

Go buy your own stamps. Dummies don’t deserve professional looking mail.

{July 19, 2007}   Another Night in My Fair City

So my entries generally tend to be angry. This is mostly because I’m having too much fun living life to bother writing about it. I only write when I get angry because it generally keeps me from breaking things. I can’t afford to buy new things, you see. But once in a while, something will happen that amuses me so greatly, that I feel the need to share it, if only to remind myself of it later.

A few nights ago, my friend Talea and I were invited out for a quick beer on our way home from work. We obliged and had a lovely chat. Upon standing up and heading back to the subway, we both found ourselves unexpectedly inebriated. Two beers is not very much. Two beers consumed very quickly after having not eaten since noon…is. Suffice it to say, the ride home was fun.

We conversed about the girly things in life and growing up, and the differences in her small-town family and my let’s-talk-about-everything slightly white trash family, giggling all the while. Subway rides are good for that, especially when you don’t care who’s listening.

Now, one may think this would make me a hypocrite, as I normally hate overhearing other people’s conversations on the subway – I thank my overly polite Canadian upbringing for not having enough courage to yell SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! GOD, NOBODY WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR YEAST INFECTION OR BORING JOB, OR YOUR STUPID HIGHSCHOOL BITCH-DRAMA. SHUT UP!

However, I do enjoy overhearing conversations when they are genuinely funny. Overhearing two boys, just enough younger than me to be called boys, casually remarking that anybody who can’t follow the ‘walk left, stand right’ rule on the escalator should be physically assaulted is the sort of thing that makes my day. Here in Toronto, we are likely to strike up conversations with complete strangers on topics such as these. At any rate, I think our conversation was rather enjoyed by the people around us.

About two-thirds of the way home, I noticed Talea’s thumb was rather oddly bent backwards over her index knuckle. I began to inquire as to the manner in which she had accomplished this. Was she double-jointed? Because I am, I informed her, and promptly began to snap my left thumb backwards at horrible angles. No, she said, she wasn’t double-jointed, and would I please stop demonstrating the fact that I was.

From this point on, we continued the self-testing barrage of physical anomalies and quirks. Talea eventually brought up the Vulcan sign. Can you do this? she asked, and began demonstrating as follows: beginning with ones pinky and ring fingers spread far from the middle and index fingers (a la Vulcan), then switching, so as to bring the middle and ring fingers together, spreading the index and pinkies as far away as possible (like a ‘W’, though not quite the ridiculous ‘west side’ sign).

Try this, and then switch back and forth rapidly. Apparently, some people can not do this. I found no difficulty whatsoever. Neither did Talea. Soon around us, we began to notice other subway patrons attempting this same maneuver. Included in these apparent festivities were a slightly-middle aged man and his son. Look, said Talea, that little boy can’t do it!

I was flabbergasted, and continued to make these gestures rapidly, unable to understand what was so difficult about it. The man and his son laughed. Like Vulcans! the man said. We are making like Vulcans! Broken English is so amusing.

So eventually we arrived at my station and I stood up to exit. Well, not my usual station, I had to take a faster way home, expecting company (to go drinking, no less!). I got off at the Yonge-Bloor interchange. I generally dislike this station. Rather, I hate it with a passion. It’s noisy, it’s crowded, it’s smelly, it’s poorly designed, and all the freaks come out to play and run into each other. But whatever; I was in a rather giddy mood, and I’ve learned to position myself along the cars when getting on the train so that I’ll be closest to where I need to be when I get off the train. So it’s no big deal. I waved good-bye to Talea, gathered up my belongings, and left.

Unsurprisingly, as it is a main exchange station where the good majority of any train will depart, the Vulcan enthusiasts got off here as well. I however, even in my tipsy stupor, had moved on to other thoughts, such as what I would order for dinner with my friends, and would my apartment be clean enough. They, on the other hand, were still on this Vulcan kick.

It really wasn’t about Vulcans. I’ve never really even seen an episode of Star Trek, save for a few The Next Generation episodes. The hand gestures were a test of ones dexterity. But no, to them, I had opened a can of Vulcan whoop-ass. Vulcans! they cried enthusiastically to the unfazed passerby of Freak Central Station. All Vulcans get off here! Vulcans, all Vulcans!

Okay, thought I. Now things are a little too strange for comfort. I scooted ahead with my head down, trying to get far enough ahead of them that they wouldn’t be able to call me back to delight in our apparently shared enthusiasm for the geekdom of yore. I rushed ahead blindly. Obviously, this will always be a mistake, when surrounded by the odd, the fat, the elderly, the weird and the generally slow. I nearly ran smack dab into a little old lady in a blue dress and a wig, fishing through the garbages and no doubt smelling of urine.

Oh bloody hell, I muttered to myself. At this point, I could only be amused. I darted further ahead, still aware of the nigh-approaching neo-Vulcans with their flashing yet inept fingers. Down the stairs I went to the westbound trains, figuring I might as well look forward to whatever shopping-cart pushing oddity awaits me below.

After all, when I figure out how to double the admission to the Yonge-Bloor station solely for it’s freak appeal, the TTC is going to be indebted to me forever.

For those of you not wanting me to search out your addresses and pay a visit to your garage with gasoline and a match, please take heed of the following when calling my business centre, or stepping foot into my underpaid reception area.

1. Do not ask me to take a message for you because you don't want to speak to someone's assistant. I don't know what the fuck you are talking about with your forms and your affidavits, because I literally just answer the phones. Speak to the assistant, that's what she was hired for. 

2. I don’t have a clue where your lawyer, tax consultant, fucking gardener for all I know happens to be at this moment, and I certainly don’t know when they’ll be returning. Don’t ask me where they are, and certainly do not ask me to go get them. Or ask, but do not be offended when I reply “Oh, certainly! Let me leave my desk and ignore everyone else’s calls because you say so! Fucking princess.” 

3. Do not fall asleep in my reception area. I don’t care how comfortable our couches are: nobody wants to have you lean on them, or stare into your ugly maw while you snore. The first time you do this, I will press my magic button and make the courtesy phone next to you ring. I leave it on high for a reason. Do it again and I will come over and hit you. 

4. Do not come up to my desk, comment on how you like my glasses, hair, sarcasm, etc., call me ‘baby,’ and ask if I’ve had lunch yet. I am not swayed by your moves. I am particularly unswayed when your moves cause you to drop items on my desk. You lose. Get out. 

5. When you arrive for an appointment and I ask your name, reply with your name and preferrably a “thank you, miss.” Do not begin to spell it for me. I don’t care how it’s spelled. I don’t care if it’s Kathy or Cathy, it’ll sound the same when I phone whoever it is you’re seeing. And guess what: Mohammed is not that uncommon of a name, nor is it’s pronounciation difficult for anyone who isn’t a moron. 

6. When I transfer you to someone, and you get their voicemail, leave a message. Do not call me back to inform me that they didn’t pick up and wonder what to do. I don’t care. This is what voicemail is for. Don’t you dare have the gall to say “You transferred me to a machine. I need to speak to a real live person.” I did not transfer you to a machine. I transferred you to their office. A machine is what happens when they are not there. Not there, meaning unavailable. Meaning you can’t have them, no matter how important you think you are. A real live person is what calls you back when you leave a message on the machine. What you’re telling me is that you want them now. You want instant gratification. To this I simply say: No. You can’t have it. If you want instant gratification, open a can of Pepsi. If you want your lawyer to get you off your DUI charge, or your immigration lawyer to get your border-hopping husband out of jail, or you need directions to some sort of meeting, you are just going to have to leave a message and wait. 

7. Do not call me and bitch at me because someone hasn’t returned your call. I understand that you are frustrated, and I have no problem if you ask me if somebody is on vacation or otherwise unavailable (then again, I usually don’t know – people have left the country for months without my knowledge.) But the moment you break out the attitude, you lose my sympathy. I’ve got control of your call, asshole. You might want to watch your manners. “I’ve left several messages, and this is unacceptable.” Okay, and this matters to me personally because…? Oh, you want me to take your name and number down. Right. Because that’s going to make them call back sooner. Somehow, me saying “this person was a snarky son of a bitch to me” is going to convey a stronger sense of urgency than you being a snarky son of a bitch in a recorded message. Here’s a clue, dickwad. A voicemail will not ‘accidentally’ lose your message when you tell it to ‘add it to the pile’ with a haughty snort. Fuck you. 

8. Do not tell me what country you are calling from. I don’t care. This is how technology works. You call, I answer. You don’t start saying “hello?” because I’ve already taken care of that part. You simply ask to speak with whomever you need. I then push a button and put your call through. I cannot tell them from where you are calling. I will not lean over my desk and yell down the hall “yeah, you better pick this one up, because they’re calling from overseas…yeah, becaue I know sometimes you just don’t feel like picking up the phone even though your business depends on acquiring new clients.” I put your call through. If they don’t pick up, you leave a message. Just because you are calling from Halal Abdul wherever, it is not going to make them suddenly appear in their chair.  

9. When in a foreign country, it is not always necessary or feasible to instantly learn the native language, even such a widely spoken one as English. It is generally advisable, however, to at least be able to ask if anyone does speak your language. I get many such calls: “Excuse me dear, is there anyone speaking Persian?” Or “Can I speak Farsi?” Or “Do you have Russian lawyers?” This is perfectly acceptable, and very polite. I don’t even mind an “um…sorry…can I? Um…Persian?” I know English is quirky. However, failing that, simply yelling your language at me doesn’t work. “Um…Russian? Yes, Russian?” will result in “One moment please,” while “FARSI!!! FARSI!!!” will result in “DEUTSCH! ESPANOL! POLSKI! CLICK-CLICK BLOODY CLICK PANCAKES!!!” Yelling at me does not make me spontaneously multilingual. 

10. Don’t show up for an appointment to see a career advisor, and complain when it’s five minutes past because you have to be at your half-ass McJob in half an hour. You’re learning how to get a real job, as indicated by your ability to get lost in the elevator on the way here. Time management skills, people. You learned this in high school. Sit tight and shut up. This is why you didn’t get that real job you were hoping for in the first place – because you’re an idiot. 

11. Do not show up at my reception area looking for someone who has moved out several months ago and then get upset when I tell you that they are not here. They are gone. “But how can I find them?” I don’t know; I’m afraid they didn’t leave any forwarding information. I’d help you if I could, but I’ve never even heard of them. It’s just a business centre. ”But I need to speak to them.” (Blank stare, as all sympathy dissovles.) They are gone. Not here. Gone bye-bye. “But how do I find them? I need to find them.” I understand that, but they are not here. I realize that they have several thousands of your dollars, but I can assure you that I do not. ”But where did they go?” Probably somewhere back through those doors you just walked through, and I’m pretty sure down the elevators and somewhere outside the building, if not the country. Good luck. Get out. 

12. Don’t show up to see someone about your traffic ticket, particularly when you’ve simply walked in off the street as opposed to making an actual appointment, and then ask me to page them after waiting less than ten minutes, claiming that you can’t wait very long as you’ve parked illegally downstairs. Also, do not complain if it turns out they are not in the office. This is what apponitments are for. Driving several hours to see somebody without calling ahead is somewhat of a crapshoot, and you’re an idiot for chancing it.  

13. Don’t show up to see your immigration consultant twenty minutes early, and wonder what’s taking him so long. Please also refrain from informing me that you’re in a hurry because you’ve left your wife and three kids in the car downstairs. This is why you are not allowed in the country. 

14. Well behaved children are acceptable. Loud, obnoxious children that climb on the glass table in disrupt other clients will be eaten. I’m vegetarian. But I will make an exception for your children. 

15. Do not show up asking to see ”that lawyer guy, I don’t remember his name.” If you’re here to see your lawyer and you don’t know his name, go home. You fail at life.  

16. Do not get mad at me because you have the wrong number. I answer the phone in the name of the company you’ve reached. I don’t care if InfoCanada has given you this number in response to your quest for some sort of hemorrhoid clinic, it is not the right number. You are wrong. Do not rudely inform me that you’ve called three days in a row and that this is the number you were told to call. You’re still wrong, and I’m pretty sure I know where I work. Thanks.

Keep these in mind, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, morons of all ages, and you just might live to survive my kind of Friday.

et cetera