![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeWent to what is probably going to be my only Christmas party this year, thank goodness. Not that I'm completely antisocial, but somehow Christmas parties seem to induce a fair bit more drunkenness in my parents' friends than even that to whichh their usual fondness for inebriation leads them.
My godparents (one set of them, anyway, I have several because my parents are wishy-washy sentimentalists about their friends) throw this party every year, usually Christmas Eve. This year they held it a little early, which no one seemed to mind.
Caught up with the two sons, who are both happily married (not to each other). The eldest's wife is expecting their first child in May, which has everyone in the family in an absolute tizzy of joy and trepidation. It's quite charming, really.
Albert Millaire was there. He's an old friend of my father's, and some of you who actually know the Montreal theatre scene might actually have heard of him. Wait, what am I saying? Most of the people who read this will have no idea what I'm talking about. Anyway, he and my father naturally got into their cups and debated politics rather energetically with John Roberts, who is or was Liberal Minister of State or something to that effect. Mostly it ended up with my father and Albert (especially Albert) pontificating about today's lack of vision and how politicians were better in their days.
I had several painfully boring conversations with various members of the remnants of the Westmount "haute," and was finally able to tear myself away around midnight.
Let's put it this way: the highlight of the evening for me was early on, speaking with Judge Goldblum. After some pretty excruciating small talk (he had dropped that he was the Commissioner of Official Languages for eight years and I was trying to get him to talk about that) he finally asked me what I did for a living. Upon finding out that I worked in a call center, he told me this joke.
The phone rings in a man's house. He picks up the receiver.
"Oui allô?"
"Yes, hello sir, my name is [blank]. I am conducting a survey for Johnson University for my Masters. My computer randomly generated your number, so I assure you I have no idea who you are nor where you live. Since your privacy is 100% guaranteed, would you mind answering a few questions about your sex life?"
The man considers it, then finally accepts. The call begins much as these calls always do: the caller asks the man's age, level of education, marital status, etc.
"And now, sir, we come to the heart of the matter. How many times a year on average do you have sex?"
"Oh, I'd say a good three or four times."
"Three or four times?" The caller is clearly surprised at this. "That's not very much!" (clearly he's not a professional surveyor)
"Oh, ben, tu sais, pour un p'tit curé de campagne c'est pas mal."
(Oh, you know, for a small country priest, that's not bad.)
So you see what I had to put up with?
Regardless, it was nice to see the old guard again, even if all the truly elderly folk weren't around, which was a shame. They're a good sight more interesting than their kids.
Oh, and by the end of the evening John Roberts too had gotten far too into his cups and got rather grabby, thinking he was being very dashing and flirtatious. Disgusting old coot. ("No, Mr. Minister, I'd rather you didn't grab my thigh!")
*sigh*
Yeah. Well, at least I won't have to see him until next year.
My godparents (one set of them, anyway, I have several because my parents are wishy-washy sentimentalists about their friends) throw this party every year, usually Christmas Eve. This year they held it a little early, which no one seemed to mind.
Caught up with the two sons, who are both happily married (not to each other). The eldest's wife is expecting their first child in May, which has everyone in the family in an absolute tizzy of joy and trepidation. It's quite charming, really.
Albert Millaire was there. He's an old friend of my father's, and some of you who actually know the Montreal theatre scene might actually have heard of him. Wait, what am I saying? Most of the people who read this will have no idea what I'm talking about. Anyway, he and my father naturally got into their cups and debated politics rather energetically with John Roberts, who is or was Liberal Minister of State or something to that effect. Mostly it ended up with my father and Albert (especially Albert) pontificating about today's lack of vision and how politicians were better in their days.
I had several painfully boring conversations with various members of the remnants of the Westmount "haute," and was finally able to tear myself away around midnight.
Let's put it this way: the highlight of the evening for me was early on, speaking with Judge Goldblum. After some pretty excruciating small talk (he had dropped that he was the Commissioner of Official Languages for eight years and I was trying to get him to talk about that) he finally asked me what I did for a living. Upon finding out that I worked in a call center, he told me this joke.
The phone rings in a man's house. He picks up the receiver.
"Oui allô?"
"Yes, hello sir, my name is [blank]. I am conducting a survey for Johnson University for my Masters. My computer randomly generated your number, so I assure you I have no idea who you are nor where you live. Since your privacy is 100% guaranteed, would you mind answering a few questions about your sex life?"
The man considers it, then finally accepts. The call begins much as these calls always do: the caller asks the man's age, level of education, marital status, etc.
"And now, sir, we come to the heart of the matter. How many times a year on average do you have sex?"
"Oh, I'd say a good three or four times."
"Three or four times?" The caller is clearly surprised at this. "That's not very much!" (clearly he's not a professional surveyor)
"Oh, ben, tu sais, pour un p'tit curé de campagne c'est pas mal."
(Oh, you know, for a small country priest, that's not bad.)
So you see what I had to put up with?
Regardless, it was nice to see the old guard again, even if all the truly elderly folk weren't around, which was a shame. They're a good sight more interesting than their kids.
Oh, and by the end of the evening John Roberts too had gotten far too into his cups and got rather grabby, thinking he was being very dashing and flirtatious. Disgusting old coot. ("No, Mr. Minister, I'd rather you didn't grab my thigh!")
*sigh*
Yeah. Well, at least I won't have to see him until next year.