I’m a loser baby!

Left work early in order to try out for Jeopardy. And, I failed.

(There were about 72 other people in the room and only about 10 got called on to the next round. And, on the other side of the room was a tall man with a ponytail and a low voice who I know I know from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where. It was distracting.)

Apart from the possibility I just got stuff plain old wrong (but I didn’t feel like I did), I essentially choked. I could feel myself waffling. I wrote down the ones that were either on the tip of my tongue but remained out of my grasp or where I waffled stupidly. (The format is 50 straight questions on a videotape like in the show — blue screen with the category above and the question in a form of an answer. There’s eight seconds between each question. Rumor has it (because they won’t tell you when you take the test) you have to get 35+ correct to go to the mock game round.)

Who wrote Madame Bovary? My gut, my first instinct the word that came off the top of my head — Flaubert. But, I thought no, it’s not Flaubert, he wrote that thing about the chick and the bird, think, French author, French author. It’s too obvious, Flaubert wrote everything, Hugo? No. Dumas? the other Dumas? NO, NO. I wrote in fucking Balzac. I actually have read Madame Bovary within this decade. It’s author – Flaubert. That is when my confidence started to slide.

Who wrote “Private Lives?” This one I got write, Noel Coward, but I went home unsure and had to look it up.

Whose only novel was The Picture of Dorian Gray? Easy I think, I know this one, I love that story. But nothing goes on the page, No-Thing. Blank. THINK. My thought process goes something like this, yeah, picture, and it’s not a usual novelist, maybe it’s a poet. Hmm, Pope, yeah Pope. When I got home, I realized why I pulled that wrong answer out of my ass. It has something to do with the weird place in my brain that I store High School English and poetry. We read Browning’s “Last Duchess.” We read Pope’s “Rape of the Lock.” They have become one with some kind of picture of a woman on the wall. Which all has nothing to do with Oscar Wilde, who I have adored, and who wrote Dorian Gray. I even tried to stay at the hotel in Paris a couple of years ago where Oscar used to live and write some of the time.

Where is Flanders? Instantly, I wrote down Belgium. But, no, wait a minute I thought 10 seconds later (after the next question had started), maybe it’s the Netherlands. Yeah, the Netherlands, that’s the ticket. I crossed out Belgium, wrote in the Netherlands. D’OH! The answer is, of course, Belgium. Fucking Benelux countries.

Israel PM slain in 1995? Yitzhak Rabin–OK, I got that one right. But, for an uncomfortable squirming period I was running the names of Jewish leaders through my head. I’m surprised I didn’t write in Golda Meir.

Author of Twice Told Tales and Mosses from the Old Manse? — I took a stab at it, because the category was something like 18th century American Lit. I threw down Hawthorne. Turns out that one was right.

There was something about not being just aliens and the Alien Act and another act passed in July 1798. I couldn’t figure that one out; I wrote unalienable rights, because I’m, like, stupid. I think the correct answer may or may not have been The Act of Sedition, which I have heard of and did happen in 1798.

This next ball of doubt and confusion embarasses me completely. You see for the past year I have kept company with a gentleman friend who hails from this part of the world. The question was what predominantly Muslim country is the island of Bali part of ?… ARGHHH, Southeast Asia, I know this, I know this, argh, think, what would M. say? What is it? He knows, I know, I’ve seen maps, I’ve seen South Pacific. Fuck. I throw down Malaysia, knowing with absolute certainty that is WRONG, but neighbors whatever country, whose name escapes me, it is. Sure enough, Indonesia is the answer, and it is indeed next door to Malaysia.

Those are the ones I wrote on my hand, because they were plaguing me and I had to know the right answer. Most everything else felt pretty right and cool, but we’ve justed established, what the fuck do I know?

I also know I absolutely got wrong: What planet did the comet Shoemaker Levy-9 hit? I wrote Mars; the correct answer is Jupiter.

I probably got wrong the thing about measurement that might have been “joule,” like I wrote, or “erg” or something else entirely. Don’t know.

I’m positive I got Bizet’s last opera, Carmen, right, I’m pretty sure about “fiber optics” and “polar bear market.” I thought I aced with “Frank Zappa,” as the last person alphabetically in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame; he’s not in it, and ZZ Top is the last. There was a poker question, where the answer was probably stud or hold’em (I can’t remember what they described). I floundered in my head for a poker term and came up lamely with “draw.” And, there was something in a Childbirth category about what shoots out of something, I don’t know what the fuck that was, I don’t think there’s any shooting anything. Turns out I’m dumb AND I don’t know where babies come from.

Well, that’s that. The good news is I called M. right after. He’s willing to go out with a dumb girl.

I also was out of work on one of the first real Spring-feeling days, so I walked around Copley and did a little shopping. All in all, not bad for a failure.

I didn’t buy a $500 black leather jacket at Neiman’s or a $10 shiny silver leather skirt at Lord & Taylor’s (but I might have to go back). I only ended up with clearance from the Gap. I think proving I am not just dumb but boring.

Playing hookey in the sun, almost makes being a Jeopardy loser worthwhile.

Almost.