My Conversation with Gas Company

Gas Company: "That service call will cost you one bajillion dollars."
Crabby: "No it won't, we have a service contract with you."
GC: "No you don't."
C: "Yes we do."
GC: "No you don't."
C: "Yes we do."
GC: "You cancelled it in writing six years ago."
C: "No we didn't."
GC: "Yes you did."
C: "We didn't live here six years ago."
GC: "Yes you did."
C: "No we didn't."
GC: "Is this Mrs. Henderson speaking?"
C: "No. It's Mrs. Crabby."

Pause.

GC: "Oh. Sorry. Our records must be wrong."
C: "It would appear so. When can you come fix my furnace?"
GC: "That service call will cost you one bajillion dollars."
C: "No it won't, we have a service contract with you."
GC: "No you don't."
C: "Yes we do."

Pause.

GC: "Oh. I see it now."

The National Post must have interviewed that guy for their feature story today, "Dumb is the new smart."

What's on my mind today
One of Mr. Crabby's highschool friends was murdered in 1990. The eventual arrest and conviction of her boyfriend Robert Baltovich was historic in Canadian criminal law, as it was the first time someone had been convicted without the recovery of the victim's body. Some of Mr. Crabby's other friends testified at his trial.

Baltovich was released on parole, pending his appeal - another landmark and historic decision by the courts. Evidence suggests that Liz may have been killed by someone else; you can read about it here.

It's upsetting stuff. I remember sitting behind her family at mass in Scarborough throughout the early 90s. People stared at them a lot, even in church. Will the outcome of this hearing bring her family peace? It's been 14 years since her murder, and they still don't have a body to bury.

Mr. Crabby tells me she was a lovely person, that she bought his used textbooks every year as she was one grade below him, and that she was a fast runner.

Up to No Good
While out to dinner with some good friends of Mr. Crabby's on the weekend, I crashed my first private function! While wandering around after our coffee and dessert, we found a new art gallery and decided to take a peek. Unfortunately, we were stopped at the door by a "closed for a private function" sign. Undeterred, I walked right in as though I belonged there. "Come on, come on," I urged them. Perhaps it was the tray upon tray of wine that drew me in.

It sure wasn't the art on display, let me tell you.

I've been to my share of AIDS fundraisers this year, so I was less shocked than the rest of my group to see polaroids of a guy, presumably the artist, grasping his astonishingly large thing. A young, pretty, "neophartist" type approached us eagerly. "Hi! Welcome! Do you know much about his work?"

"Not enough! That's why we're here," I answered.

The young and pretty neophartist went on and on about his vision, his commentary on we don't know what exactly. I did my best to look her in the eye, but with those polaroids on the wall just over her shoulder, well, it was hard. Very, very hard. And did I mention astonishingly large?

We stayed long enough to drink the proffered wine, and to express as much interest as we could muster without blushing, laughing, or looking guilty.