The weekend

Ah the weekend. So brief, so fleeting. So full of food that it makes it difficult to button my jeans. Friday started out nicely – I went for a wonderful Indian dinner on Davie with a good friend, followed by the movie Babel. Prior to this week I think the last movie I saw in the theatres was Crocodile Dundee or something. This week I saw TWO movies at the Paramount. Crazy, crazy shit. Babel was good; a thinking movie about communication and ostracization. It was a bit tense and sad, but such is life I suppose.
On Saturday Michael and I went bowling (!) with Big D. I had a surprisingly good time, though my arm was sore for two days afterwards. I am now an expert in consistently knocking down the two pins on the left. I don’t understand how people that bowl a lot are not malformed and misshapen, like those crabs that have one big claw and one puny one. You know the ones I mean, don’t be coy. I felt strangely compelled to start quaffing White Russians and I periodically barked “shut the fuck up, Donny!” to Michael. The six year olds having the birthday party next to us started to cry. Big D made numerous references to his bowling teammates being butterballs. How that fits into bowling I’ll never know, though it made me think of “turducken”. I haven’t thought of a turducken for a while…To top off the bowling extravaganza Michael and I went to the gym, where I ran 10km on the treadmill. Nothing says “oh my god, this is horrifically boring and arduous” than running 10km without actually going anywhere. With people staring at your beet red, sweaty face. And laughing.
Sunday. Sunday it all went horribly awry. Yes, I returned to Joey’s. Now, I will preface this by saying that it was for a friend’s birthday: I did not choose the restaurant. I was a little unsure if I would even be allowed back, considering the heated argument that I had with the manager the last time I was there. Good times. Irregardless, I do believe fun was had by all. Especially me, since I didn’t get home until 3am Monday morning. A wine glass was smashed. We attempted to see how many people could fit into a four door sedan (the answer is six, if you wish to know your friends intimately).
This segues nicely into my sleeping pattern on Monday: I got up at 9:30, had some breakfast, watched a little TV and then went back to bed until noon. I can totally still party like I used to.
And then, to top off an otherwise stellar few days, I received an email from my income tax teacher. I had written a quiz last week and as I left the classroom with bloodshot eyes, having ripped tufts of hair from my scalp, muttering under my coffee-breath about CCA recapture, I had the sinking feeling that I hadn’t done so well. As I am neurotic and obsessive and knew that I would spend the weekend re-hashing the quiz over and over in my mind I decided to email my teacher to find out just how badly I had bombed. She replied back that I received the highest mark in the class! Yay! I am not a degenerate failure! And the highest mark was apparently 11/20! Holy mother of god, that’s 55%. That SUCKS! She then proceeded to say that people had failed to read the questions correctly before answering. You know what? If the highest mark in the class was 55%, that means that almost everyone failed the quiz. And since I don’t drool incessantly, can manage to tie my own shoes, am able to cook dinner without burning my apartment to the ground, and rarely need water wings when I have a bath yet somehow managed to score a paltry 55%, I am led to believe that perhaps it was not the students’ inability to READ per se, but rather an issue with oh, say, the prof?
But, as my friend’s brother pointed out to me over the weekend: I am bitter and opinionated. And stupid too, apparently!