This weekend we had several Brits (and a Canadian!) visit our house, and eat our food.
I’m convinced British people are suspicious of me. QUITE suspicious. Methinks it’s the way they roll their eyes at me so violently they accidentally throw themselves out of their chairs. That's convincing. I’ve been this bizarre 80s-John-Hughes-movie-ish Anglophile since about age 8; when other kids were all up in Kirk Cameron’s grill and plastered their walls with Charlie Sheen Tiger Beat fold-outs, yours truly had her very DARK N DEEP wedding to Martin Gore laid out. I am only one step ahead of staring longingly into my UK friends eyes and asking them to "say that again. HA HA! You called the shopping cart trolley! SAY IT AGAIN! You! Are! So! Much! Clever-er! Than! Us!"
Oh yeah, and a Canadian. On Friday night, the Brits and the Canadian and the USof Aers and etc. spent a long eve full of jolliness, gathered around the hearth discussing such topics of importance as the live-action Transformers movie, and when Vikings were going to get their due already. (Pirates were the new robots, which were the new monkeys, which were the new ninjas. It’s Viking time, already.) We should have had wassail, and a singalong; it was just that charming.
Speaking of Canadians (segues: not my bag):
Tim and I used to have this email thing that was called Canadian Death Match. I’m pretty sure we stole the idea from Fametracker or something. It involved us emailing back and forth about which Canadians we’d like to see fight. (Note: Tim, email me. I have a lot of good new ones. Sarah McLachlan vs. Mike Meyers!!!!)
His favorite was always Brandon Walsh (err, whatever his name was?) vs. Anne Murray. I fancied something involving Alanis Morrisette, only because she totally could have used her hair as a sort of evil Mortal-Kombat style weapon, choke her enemies and shit.
What’s yr favorite Canadian Death Match?
Also, Nabob: welcome, and uh, I love you. I’m sorry your soccer season was cancelled. But now you have time to MAN-BLOG. You are brave.