I’m bored.

Truly madly deeply bored. The kind of boredom wherein you spend most of your time, with things you’re interested in, wondering how on Earth you could ever have been interested in them. And frankly I do not see the situation improving any time soon.

This is bad. This is very bad, not least because this particular level of boredom is one in which I have a tendency to snack, randomly but quite steadily, just for the excitement value. Which is ably assisted by the futility value. "C’mon," I coax myself, in this mood, "not much going on anyway, who’d even notice if you had that extra Twinkie?"

This is exactly what got me into the situation where I had to spend most of last summer losing the twenty-five pounds I’d put on that winter. And I am not going to be one of these yo-yos who just put the weight right back on again. I am not.

But, honestly, I can’t think of much else to do at the moment. Besides maybe work up a rage against ex-Green Bay, now whoever’ll-give-him-the-time-of-day QB Brett Favre for what the hell do you think you’re doing, boy, leading the Minnesota Vikings into the town where there’s still a Brett Favre Steakhouse? Sheez.

…OK, that was kind of fun. But doing it properly would mean going back onto the ESPN boards at gametime, and nahhhh. You want boredom, spend time watching grown men try and come up with new ways to call each other homosexual. Hint: they don’t often succeed.

In other news, I have been paging through the back numbers of I Can Haz Cheezburger lately. Thus discovering that there’s a low boredom threshold on cute (excuse me, ‘kyoot’), too. But I keep on keepin’ on, because this is about the only bookmark I haven’t reread six times. Even my dead-tree reading is a recap of the Elizabeth I-Mary Queen of Scots rivalry (the admittedly excellent Elizabeth and Mary by Jane Dunn), and not that we haven’t covered that material at Shoe Central more than, oh, eighteen times now.

Clearly, drastic measures are required here.

Uh… anybody got any they can spare?

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Oh, Sunday, Sunday how could you leave and not take me…

I’ve clearly been hanging around the sports sites too long. Not only am I thinking about trivia, it’s starting to arrange itself in bulleted lists:

–Football watch: 9-1, baby. The Packers cemented themselves as the Official Feel-Good Story of the 07-08 NFL season by dispatching the Carolina Panthers handily, if not exactly tidily, 31-17. By the time they hit Dallas in two weeks the sheer plucky adorableness buildup is going to blow the Cowboys off the field.
In my pleasantest fantasies, the victory over Terrell ‘C’mon, He Hasn’t Danced on the Star in Almost Two Seasons Now!’ Owens et al. leads to Brett Favre sweeping into the Super Bowl on a white charger and striking a victory for truth, sportsmanship and general niceness everywhere. Or if that doesn’t work, I’ll accept a chop block to Randy-freakin-Moss’ knees, you capice? More

Rah! rah!

OK, so I’m a little late to the 2007-8 NFL football season.

This isn’t news. I am late to any number of things, most recently all the stuff I promised Shoemom I’d have done before she returned from her weekender in New York. Funny, how dishes escape your consciousness, just sitting in the sink like that – I mean, they just look like that’s where they’re supposed to be, y’know?
Besides, years of soap commercials have convinced me that if they were really suffering they’d be emitting little ceramic cries of horror: “Mold! mold! aiiiiieeee!” But no, ours just stack themselves neatly, seeming as content as clams to be covered in, well, clams and stuff. I do not wish to blame the victim at any time, but there is clearly a lack of initiative in the case. I blame dependence on the godlike Mr. Clean, or possibly that goofy lady who gave Palmolive uppity notions.

…er, yes, I have spent the last few days alone except for a couple cats, why do you ask?

Thus it was, as a matter of fact, that my long-dormant instinct for American football was as recently revived – yeah, it was still talking to the TV, but at least the subjects were human. More or less. Jury’s still out on a few offensive tackles, also John Madden, whom I suspect Gund of replacing with a stuffed animatronic replica some years ago. More

Olympic ehngst

What a fabulous Winter Games this has been.

And I’m not just saying that because Todd Bertuzzi was the goat in the men’s hockey disaster. (Yeah, he’s done the NHL time for his crime. That still doesn’t make it right that he should be gunning for world gold while Steve Moore’s still struggling to focus on the telecast.)

No, it’s because, as I feel compelled to remind the readership at least once a week, I work for Hbc – OK, the Hudson’s Bay Company. They’re hoping to tactfully ditch the full name, thanks. On the same basic principles as KFC, except our coolness-preventing stereotypes are named Pierre instead of Sanders.

Let’s face it, ordinarily this job never ranks high on the Forbes 500 Coolest lists. I don’t even get to work on the potentially glamourous projects; all those are over at the Bay. Tell people you work for Zellers, on the other hand, and you inevitably become the sounding board for years of consumer gunginess, not infrequently involving bodily fluids.
“Oh, Shoe, it’s OK…” you are now thinking sympathetically. “At least your family and friends are supportive and proud!” Yeah, well, all props for thinking positively. At least remote acquaintances feel the need to murmur ‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, but…” before launching into the epic tale of Aunt Millie’s New Caftan and the Mystery Stain: “…we had to ask the girl twice before she’d get off the phone and tell that man to put the rottweiler back on the leash!”

Given this less-than-world-class rep, like most of you I’m sure – esp. including any of you who may be actual Olympic participants – when I heard that we’d snagged the contract for the official Team Canada clothing, my first reaction was: Oh God, Not the Stripes. I too cringed wholeheartedly at the vision of our athletes marching onto the world stage wearing the inspiration for the coat my Bay (er, Hbc) Barbie used to wear.

But lo, the design gods had evidently decided we’d been kicked around enough (what with the looming purchase by the Guy From Wal-Mart-ville and all) and graced our Olympic team with real inspiration. You’ve all seen the displays by now – or at least, you better have, or I’ll be forced to break that sealed online course labeled ‘Earning Your 00-Prefix’. They took those colours and made them sing. For the first time in possibly its entire existence except that time Pierre imported the dancing girls from Montreal, the Hudson’s Bay Company was positively oozing ooh-la-lah.

Thus for two weeks we were promoted to the ranks of Wealthy Corporate Importance. And let me tell you, it was sweet. The whole company gathered to watch the opening Parade of Nations. Endless shots of beaming international medal winners all dolled up in the same fantastic outfits currently occupying mannequins in our lobby. Constant intranet updates re: how Canada was suddenly the country to have emblazoned across your hat all over again… More