I saw an article today a recent poll of Canada's most admired brands
, and somebody noted that Tim Hortons had fallen from 4th last year to 50th this year.
Given the steady decline of quality in their produces over time, I am surprised that they were that high as recently as last year. It took them crapping all over their employees in Ontario after the province raised the minimum wage for people to finally start waking up to the fact that it's just not a good brand any more.
I know that some claim it's trendy to hate on Tim's these days, but for me it's been a "frog in the blender" kind of thing ... or wait, maybe I'm thinking of a frog in a pot of water on the stove, or some other kind of frog abuse. Anyway, their product has been in slow decline as they've steadily shaved quality and increased prices over the years. My dislike for Tim's - aside from their cheap, leaky cups, sub-par edibles and crappy coffee - is the fact that I can still remember them when they were pretty good. Not great, but pretty good.atara
and I stopped there a couple of weeks back while were out shopping, and I decided to treat myself to one of their iced cinnamon rolls. When I was working downtown, we stopped at Tim's every morning when we commuted in together, and those were one of the things to which I would treat myself about once a week. While they were not up to the level of decadence you get from an iced, sticky bun you might find in a boutique outlet at a public market, they were nonetheless pretty good. My only complaint with them was that the icing often stuck to the paper sleeve in which they packed them for takeaway.
I tried to manage my expectations based on the substandard quality of the rest of their baked goods (they have all-but de-appled their apple fritters, removed all pretence of actual fruit from their "fruit explosion" muffins, etc). My reasoning was that it is pretty hard to screw up a cinnamon roll. But they did. As I was chewing on the disappointing little spiral of pointless calories, I said to atara
, "I used to really like these things, but if the first one I'd ordered had been like this, I don't think I'd have bought it again." And I shan't. Sadly, this rings true for most of their products these days.
Our guild beat this expansion of WoW, and I decided to celebrate by transmogrifying my gear into something a little more druid-like. That said, I'm told that I have a slightly odd perception of what other consider to be druid-like.
As you can see, I shelved my priest in favour of my druid for this go of it. Our guild is tripping over priests in this expansion, though lately we have become even more overrun by druids. That was not the case when I first swapped toons, but what can I say? Druids are a lot of fun to play this time around.
I keep promising myself that I will stop neglecting LJ/DW, and when I am out, or at work, I am constantly having those "I should post about this
when I get home" moments.
Then when I get home, I post a cryptic tweet about it, or do a tepid, watered-down FB entry about it and move on.
I guess part of the problem is that nothing particularly interesting or newsworthy has been happening lately - at least nothing noteworthy enough to warrant a long-form post here. Sometimes I forget that short posts here can work too.
In seven days I will be in a position to give six-months notice on my intent to retire. I guess I had better start doing some research into that, since there are a lot of things I need to start getting in order. Since I am in the employee share-purchase program, I need to arrange for those shares to be transferred out of the program. I need to figure out how to extend my medical insurance when I retire, and find out what packages are available and how much they cost.
Before anyone asks, our universal coverage up here does not include vision, dental or prescriptions (though it should
in my opinion). I'll still be covered under atara
's insurance, but there is a benefit to having both of us insured. We can claim against one or the other if we start approaching caps, and each covers the other's deductible. Plus, as morbid as it sounds, we need to consider our long-term coverage if something happens to the other.
Is it just my perception, or have on-line recipe sites become really crappy? I can remember when finding a recipe on-line consisted of entering your search criteria, clicking on a promising-looking result, and finding the recipe. There were often brief introductions, such as, "I modified this from my grandmother's recipe, since pickled horse bladders can be hard to buy these days. I have substituted pork bungs, but just about any unappetizing meat product would probably work for this. Hope you and your family 'enjoy' this recipe as much as mine does." Following this would be, well, the recipe.
Now when you click on the results, it takes you to a blog with 5-7 pages of preamble that includes a full biography of everybody in the author's family tree, as well as a treatise on the science and socio-economics of pickled horse bladders, and an ontological justification for using pork bungs as a substitute. We get to read about the author's childhood ambitions, the inner demons s/he are fighting every day, the origins of the dish, its history as it was passed down through the family, and his/her debilitating guilt over modifying the recipe simply because pickled horse bladders are no longer sold rather than, say, raising a horse from a foal with the end goal of harvesting its bladder.
This would not bother me as much if it was interesting reading, but in almost every case, the rambling preamble is just a way to force visitors through several pages of revenue-generating ads before they get to the recipe.
Fortunately, there is a Chrome add-on for this. Somebody posted a link to it in the Instant Pot sub-Reddit after another user bemoaned this trend in recipe sites. The add-on detects when you have visited a recipe site, and it scrapes it for the ingredients and instructions. It pops up a concise summary of the recipe in 1-2 printable pages.
It's not that I don't care about the poster's life history, and the messy side-effects of their botched operation last year, but sometimes I just want the recipe.
- Tags:beans, retirement
- Music:The Alan Parsons Project - If I Could Change Your Mind
I am just waiting for atara
to finish unpacking groceries and then I am off to take over the kitchen so that I can make some "baked" beans for my lunches this week. Ever since we got the Instant Pot
I have been looking for excuses to try and pressure cook things. I found a recipe for Boston-style beans that looks very simple, and quite good. The last time I made this style of beans I did it in the slow cooker. I am curious to see how different they come out with what is effectively the totally opposite cooking method.
On Friday we had a chat with the guy who handles our mutual funds. I told him of my tentative plan to retire this year. he ran our number and told me that I'd be crazy not to. He assured us that if I had setting up a plan to retire young, I'd gone about it the right way.
I admit that I spend way too much time on Reddit. I don't follow a huge number of subs, but I've come to notice quite a difference in the flavour of the subs, and specifically the type of person each attracts. There are three that stand out for me though in terms of their crowd.Most Snobbish
r/coffee is a sub that I only joined recently, but it did not take me very long to realise that I am not even a shadow of a coffee snob compared to some of the folks in that sub.
Typical post: I got my latest overnight order in from Individually-picked-artisenal-beans.com last night. I burr-ground enough for one cup this morning, and spent thirty minutes picking through it to remove any grounds that were the wrong size until I had exactly 10.6 grams of grounds. I heated 8 ounces water to exactly 185 degrees Fahrenheit and I and processed it for three minutes and eighteen seconds in my inverted, reverse-osmosis Italian vacuum press. The resulting cup had a slightly off-putting, burnt cherry undertone that made me dump the whole thing down the drain in disgust. Can anybody help me with this? Is it possible I accidentally brought the water up to 185.5 degrees, or was it a mistake to let the beans sit in their shipping bag overnight? Most Hipster
r/music is a sub where people seem to hate anything that anyone else likes.
Typical post: Most popular song from a relatively obscure 90s indie band.
Responses: I liked that band until they got radio play. :-(That was their worst song, but I would listen the fuck out of [obscure song with no mass appeal]That song was okay I guess, but [bonus track of the band burping and grunting] is my favourite driving tune of all time.Most Pretentious
r/photography is the sub where the best camera is the one in your hand
. Does gear matter? No. A good photographer can take amazing photographs with toy, plastic GI Joe camera.
Typical post: Here is a blog explaining all of the reasons why you suck as a photographer. The used, $30,000 lens I ordered arrived today and boy am I excited to try it out on a wedding shoot.I'm doing a wedding shoot tomorrow and they have a few specific requests for pictures. Am I justified to tell them to shut up and let me do my job?I took a few pictures of my girlfriend yesterday [posts a few heavily-processed shots that are clearly meant to show off the girl rather than his photographing skills].Not that gear matters, but I am thinking of upgrading from [$100,000 camera body] to [$200,000 camera body]. Does anyone here have experience or advice with it?
Our water heater is acting up ... again. Everything seemed fine when I had a hot shower yesterday morning, but when I went to wash dishes later in the afternoon the water was only hot-ish. I checked the breaker, and all seemed well, so I let it be and by evening it was pushing out hot water again.
This morning atara
complained that the shower turned cold on her after a few minutes. This is the same behaviour it exhibited when the lower element died a couple of years ago, which leads me to suspect that the replacement element is likely at fault. It has probably been long enough that it is no longer under warranty, so I guess I'll have to get somebody out this week to replace it again. When they fixed the lower element earlier, they put in a 1500 watt element to replace the 1000 watt element that had been there. It's a 2000 watt circuit, so if anything, the lower element should have been under-driven. If it failed again this soon, I can only guess that it was faulty. Bugger.
The past month has been a series of ups and downs at work. In one week I was informed that I would be required to complete Locomotive Engineer training this year, and I was to arrange the best time with my boss. Later that week I noticed I got a modest bonus on my pay cheque for something cryptically described as a "CEO spotlight". I knew that my name had been put in for an award, but I'd expected to hear something before having a weird line item show up on my cheque.
Last week I had such a rough go of it at work that I had both my boss, and later my director call me at home in the evening to apologize. Then I got a letter from the CEO the next day telling me that I was doing a wonderful job.
I know that they like me there, and I like the work I do and the people I work with but ... I am tired of working for a company where my bosses feel the need to call me after hours to say they are sorry. I've seen this place go from a flawed company that I could still recommend as a decent employer to a place where I actively steer people away from applying. I knew we were in for a rough ride when we had a change of CEOs a few years back, because the guy coming in had a nasty reputation. There was a steady exodus of people higher up in the ranks who suddenly found opportunities
with other career paths, or abruptly decided it was a good time to retire. They
knew what to expect.
Our new CEO took that as an opportunity to replace them with people who embraced bullying and intimidation as a viable management style. Even though he is gone, his own replacement shows no sign of addressing that. About the only thing he has reversed from his predecessor is to go on a hiring spree to help fill some of our decimated ranks after his predecessor's incomprehensibly deep cuts. Even if we get some of our numbers back, we will never get back the valuable knowledge and experience we lost.
Anyway, as I have said (or at least alluded to) in earlier posts, I am 90% sure I will be pulling the pin later this year. I want out of this toxic environment. I'm too young to just slide quietly into inactivity, so I will have to find something productive to fill my time. Either I will find some part-time work to fill the void, or volunteer to work as a cat cuddler at the Humane Society. I think I would be pretty good at that.
- Tags:water, work
- Music:The Rhythm Divine - Moments In Love [Dorian Gray Dub]
I am down to 158 working days before I could potentially pull the pin for good in my job. It feels a little odd to be saying that - especially since I'm only 55. I don't feel that old, and I'm assured that I don't act that old, but in just a few months I'll pass the magic 85 years of combined age and service, which will make me eligible for a full pension.
To say that I have mixed feelings about this would be an understatement.
On the one hand I really enjoy the work I do, and I like all of the people I work with. I have worked closely with many of these people for more than twenty years in a lot of cases, and it's going to leave a weird hole in my social life when I go.
At the same time, I just got notified that they are going to send me for engineer training again this year because I have already partly completed the program. I am also getting repeated notifications that I need to renew training as a car inspector/mechanic. Nothing thrills me like the thought of getting sent off to work 12 hour night-shifts in sub-zero temperatures.
I am also a bit unimpressed with the working conditions. Our department is on a slow skid into becoming a coding sweatshop. It goes in fits and starts, but the ultimate target I see on the horizon is of a place where I no longer want to work. I also will not miss the turns on 24/7 call - especially since they removed the small financial stipend that went with it. It is not the money that bothers me, but the principle of it. The small allowance was an acknowledgement that we were putting our lives on hold for a week or more at a time to be available. It was just a mean, insulting cut because it saved the company very little money.
It is an act very typical of our current department president.
Anyway, I am rehashing things that I'm sure I've already said here.
Some of you that I follow here have retired, with varying degrees of recency.
How has it worked for you?
Was it a good decision?
What did you do with your life?
Are you bored?
I guess my biggest source of reluctance in pulling the pin is that it will change a lot in my life, and change is scary. I really don't know what I will do to fill the hole my job leaves behind. I'm afraid of feeling useless.
- Music:Slainte Mhath - Attack of the Flying Slugs
I hope the couple of you still reading LJ/DW had a lovely Christmas and a pleasant New Year.
We had a quiet Christmas at home, and then flew out to the coast to surprise Mom on her birthday. She is in her 80s, and her health has begun to slide in the past few months, so we wanted to do this before all we could do was regret not doing it.
Even though I booked the tickets a couple of months ago, I could only find a handful of flights to and from Victoria. The two best (and only moderately obscene in price) were a flight that left Winnipeg at what-the-fuck o'clock in the morning, and a return flight at noon the following Tuesday. Westjet either had flights at really inconvenient times, or flights that departed at a reasonable time, but took 8 hours because they had stops in Regina/Calgary/Vancouver or Saskatoon/Edmonton/Vancouver. Also, the flights were painfully expensive on both airlines.
Normally I prefer to fly on Westjet because they have given me fewer problems over the years, but I went with AC because of the timing. When I looked at how much we were spending, I realized I could upgrade us to business for about the cost of what our checked luggage would be (which is free for business class), so I decided to treat us for the flight. I have not flown business class since the mid-90s, so I wasn't sure what to expect. We discovered that they still give you meals in business, and the quality has improved a great deal since the 90s. The food was not just passable, but really good.
Unfortunately, the meals were the highlight of the trip.
The first hiccough occurred when we were getting ready to go through security in Winnipeg. We had our boarding passes on our phones, but when we got to the kiosk, we discovered that atara
could check us both in with her phone, so I just jammed temporarily mine into the front pocket of my hoodie (or bunny hug
as they call them in Saskatchewan. I don't know why I bothered to add this bit of trivia except that I love that name for it.). Just before we put our luggage on the conveyor, we removed our winter outerwear and stuffed it into our checked bags so that we would not have to deal with it on the plane. In retrospect that turned out to be unnecessary because the flight crews had a coat check on the plane. It was only when we were standing in line at security that I realized I'd left my phone in my hoodie when I stuffed it into my suitcase. Fortunately I had my Surface and iPod in my carry-on, so I was not terribly concerned about it.
When we boarded the plane in Winnipeg, the flow of passengers boarding the plane trickled to a halt shortly after we were seated. There was no word from the flight crew for the next 30 minutes while we sat there at the gate and fiddled with what electronics we had remembered not to stuff into our checked luggage. We learned that there was a mechanical problem with the plane when atara
overheard the flight attendants talking on the phone with the gate agents. All told, by the time they got the issue resolved, finished boarding the plane, and got through the line for de-icing, we were about an hour and fifteen minutes late getting into the air.
We were scheduled for a 90-minute layover in Vancouver, so we knew it would be tight at the other end. The plane made up time on the flight, and since we were at the front we were some of the first ones off. We jogged to the departure gate of our next flight, and got there with fifteen minutes to spare. We noted that our flight was a half-hour delayed anyway, so it seemed to be working out in our favour. While we were waiting, it managed to accrue another half hour of delay, and they started announcing that the next flight had been cancelled. By the state of the departure lounge, it was clear that they were having a bit of a challenge getting flights out to Victoria.
When we went to board our plane to Victoria, Air Canada dropped another fun bombshell on us.
"There's someone else in these seats."
Apparently when they noticed that our flight out of Winnipeg was delayed, they pulled all of the Winnipeg passengers heading to Victoria (at least a dozen of us) off of the 9:00 flight and put us on the 10:00 flight.
The flight that they had been announcing the cancellation of from the moment we'd arrived at the lounge. Apparently, they had sent me a text message about it while we were in the air, but my phone was in my checked luggage, so it did not do us a lot of good. It looked like most of the other Victoria passengers from our flight were also caught by surprise. We checked with their service desk, and it seems that while we had been waiting to board, they had filled up the next couple of flights with all the other folks who had been on the cancelled 10:00 flight. By this point it was getting on toward 10:30, and he wasn't sure what he could do to accommodate us. He gave us a couple of $10 meal vouchers and told us to come back at around 11:30 and he'd see what he could do. We'd been fed on the plane, and neither of us were especially hungry, so we walked most of the way to the other end of the airport, and then returned and hung out in the departure lounge until 11:30.
"Good news! I've managed to get you two seats on the 12:30 flight. You won't be sitting together though."
We assured him that we were not too concerned about being separated for a 20-minute flight, and we took our new boarding passes. The flight was late arriving, but we sat at the end of the lounge by the departure gate and watched them unload the luggage from the inbound flight, then pull up and begin loading. We relaxed a bit when we saw our bags loaded into the back of the Dash 8.
Then the grounds crew began milling about, and a couple of technicians began fiddling with the plane. The process went on for some time until one of them came up to the departure lounge and spoke with the gate agent. She told us that they had found a problem with the plane and were sending off for a replacement part. She promised us that the delay would probably be about half an hour at most. About fifteen minutes later the technicians returned, and we saw them fiddling around in the cockpit of the plane. After a few minutes of this, they came out and spoke with the ground crew.
The ground crew considered what they'd said, and then began unloading the luggage again.
We were not the only ones who had noticed what was transpiring because a few others in the lounge spotted it, checked their phones, and then made a beeline to the gate agent because AC's website had just marked the flight as cancelled.
The gate agent went into damage-control mode.
"As some of you have noticed, the web site is showing this flight as cancelled. Please don't leave the gate area yet as we are trying to arrange a replacement plane for this flight." A good number of people left the gate area and headed over to the service desk to lodge their complaints, but we stuck around until she came back on about five minutes later and said, "Never mind, it's cancelled. Please talk to the service desk to make alternate arrangements."
When we got to the service desk, there were nine people in front of us (I counted). Almost as soon as we got there, I overheard one of the agents say, "We can take seven more and that's it." Great.
When we finally got to the front, the service agent spent a very long time hammering keys before she said, "OK! I've got you on standby for the 14:30 and 15:30 flights. We might be able to get one of you on one of those flights. I've got you seats on the 17:30 flight for sure." We tried to be polite with her because the problems were not her fault, but we were a bit pointed with her when we asked about the odds of the 17:30 flight being cancelled, given we'd had three flights pulled out from under us already.
I also pointed out that even if we did not get bumped from, or have the 17:30 flight cancelled, we could hop in a cab to the ferry and be at our hotel before that flight even arrived. We'd been planning to do some shopping in Victoria - which is why we'd left Winnipeg so early - but it was already shot by by now. She offered us a taxi chit that would get us to the ferry (we'd be on our own after that), and gave us the number to call after our trip to get reimbursed for the Victoria flight. Then she instructed us to collect our bags at carousel number four.
We got to the carousel and split up. Her instructions had been a bit vague. atara
took them to mean that we should wait for our bags to arrive on the carousel, but I had a hunch she'd meant for us to speak with the baggage agents there. She went to the carousel, and I got in line to speak with a baggage agent. It is just as well I did, because there really had not been a plan on her part beyond telling us to head up there. When I spoke with the agent, he said that it would probably take a couple of hours to get our bags up there (they had hundreds of them set aside because of all the cancellations), and that we would likely miss a sailing or two if we waited around for them. He took down the details of where we were saying, and promised that they would be forwarded to us there later in the day.
We made the ferry where my brother (who had also come out from Calgary to surprise Mom) met us on the Victoria side and drove us to the airport to pick up our rental car. The agents there had been very understanding, and held the car an additional 8 hours for us past when we had booked ourselves to pick it up. It was a bit awkward for us because even though Victoria is a much warmer clime than Winnipeg, it is
winter there. We had a light jacket between the two of us (I'd kept that out of my checked luggage because I suspected we would probably be boarding on the tarmac in Vancouver). I let atara
have my jacket because I deal with the cold a little better than she does, but that left me with just a long-sleeved shirt that I had donned for the flight because it has pockets.
Our bags did not arrive later in the day.
We surprised Mom with dinner, and then got back to our hotel to a disturbing lack of luggage. The hotel gave us some emergency toothbrushes, toothpaste, a hairbrush for atara
, and the worlds worst disposable razor and shaving cream for me. No, really, this razor was awful. Cruel. It made no pretence of cutting through stubble, rather, it's blades had a special gripping action that pulled the hairs out by their roots. That was far and away the worst shaving experience of my life. Also, the bristles of the emergency toothbrushes were coming off in our mouths as we brushed. Definitely not keepers.
When we retired to our room, we logged into Air Canada's baggage tracing system to learn the fate of our luggage. Their site showed that it was last seen arriving in Dallas Fort Worth, with an estimated delivery date sometime in the year 2200. atara
was beside herself because, among other things, my phone was in our luggage.
Then she had an epiphany.
"Wait, your phone is in your luggage
! Let's check your movement history in Google and see where your phone thinks it is."
We checked, and it showed arriving on a Victoria-bound at about 19:00 and being toted to the far end of the airport.
They finally got around to delivering our luggage early the next afternoon. We got tired of waiting and drove up to the airport to pick it up in person. They could not find it there, and they assumed it had gone out for delivery, even though it had not been logged on the delivery sheet. We had passed their courier on the highway going the other direction. As we were leaving the airport again, the hotel called to let us know that our bags had just arrived.
The flight home was uneventful. The dinner in business class was as delicious as the breakfast had been going the other way.
- Tags:flight, vacation
- Music:Fletcher Henderson - New King Porter Stomp
After failing to produce anything the past couple of months, here is my (sort of) annual Plonqmas story.
I Drink Alone
“I drink alone,” crooned the gravelly voice of George Thoroughbred from the bluetooth speakers on top of the fridge. Plonq’s tail tapped sympathetically in time with the music as he bustled about in the kitchen, organizing cans and boxes in the order they’d need to be prepared for dinner. As the song came to a close and cross-faded into 40 Oz. To Freedom, the snow leopard paused and glanced thoughtfully at the speakers for a moment. The two previous songs in his playlist had been Brass Monkey and Have a Drink On Me. A tiny, self-aware portion of his brain struggled to notice a thematic link between the songs, but his dominant hemisphere mewled, “Didn’t I just hear this one?”
The short feline cursed the flaky shuffle mode in Spotify and stretched up to tap the next button on his phone. He distantly noted that it skipped to One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer, but the bulk of his attention was on his Christmas card. As he had been fumbling with the phone, the cat had bumped the card with his knuckle, and rather than just obediently falling over, it sailed off the side of the fridge and fell down into the gap between the refrigerator and the stove.
“Ack!” he exclaimed as he crouched in front of the stove and shoved his hand as far into the gap as he was able. He managed to pinch his middle and ring fingers on the card, and he gently extracted it from the trap. He shook off the cobwebs and wiped it carefully on his apron to remove a small smudge of grease from the back. He opened the card and read it again.
“Dear Plonq, hope you have a lovely Christmas in 2013
The cat had carefully crossed out each year and updated it every Christmas. Mom did not send out cards anymore, and had not even recognized him on his last visit, but Plonq liked to keep the tradition going.
Christmas was all about traditions.
He got up on his toes and carefully stood the card back in its place on the refrigerator. As he was placing it, he could not help but read the magnetic whiteboard on the freezer door. It had been wiped clear of all but a dire warning from the Christmas past. “Do not leave the turkey to thaw on the counter for five days.” The feline’s stomach knotted at the memory of the previous year’s fiasco. The worst of it should have been what he later came to call, “The Boxing Day of Projectile Everything.” Sadly, that was only the start. One might say that hindsight is 20/20, but the cat cursed his past self for eating turkey sandwiches with what were – now, at least – predictable results for the next week.
He hated wasting food, but in retrospect he admitted that there were probably logical boundaries that, once passed, would allow him to throw out the leftovers without guilt.
Fortunately, the warning had lost its importance after his life-changing encounter with a turkey vendor at the local grocer. He patted the room-temperature bird in its tight, polyethylene wrapping where it had been sitting on the counter for the past week. He remembered the encounter, and how his initial reaction to the vendor’s claims had slowly shifted from disbelief to awe and delight. This bird was the answer to every bad Christmas he’d ever experienced.
“Granny Kate’s Famous Fowl” proclaimed the label that arched over a colour picture of a perfectly browned, crispy-skinned, steam-gushing turkey on a platter. In smaller text curved convexly under the picture it said, “Discover the Christmas miracle of GMO turkey that is scientifically proven to please!” The pack was emblazoned with starbursts, each espousing the magnificent properties of the bird.
“No refrigeration necessary before cooking.”
“No oven required.”
The vendor had explained how the wrapping was lined with insulated foil that kept all the heat and goodness on the inside while it cooked. All he needed to do was peel open the vent on the top of the bag to prevent it from exploding, and pull the tab out of the back to begin the cooking process. It was, in a word, Plonq-proof. “Well, ok; two words,” he thought, barely containing a purr. He grabbed the bottle of merlot on the counter and raised it to take another swig, but he caught himself at the last moment. He gave the bottle a swirl, and realized that he was down to a quarter of a bottle. He had been planning to save it to have over dinner, but it had been too enticing sitting on the counter among the meal fixings. The cat shrugged and took another swallow of wine; a Chardonnay would probably go better with the turkey anyway.
He leaned closer to read the cooking instructions and then glanced at the time. If his mental math was right then it was nigh time to start cooking it. Plonq tore away the strip covering the vent, and then took another swig of wine to steel his nerves. For good or ill, it was now the moment that he had been eagerly anticipating, yet vaguely dreading ever since he had purchased this marvel of engineering. He rested one hand on the bird’s rump, put his other index finger through the ring and pulled firmly on the tab. After a moment of resistance it slid free of the bird and hung flaccidly and, dared he think it, anticlimactically in his hand.
Nothing seemed to happen.
Plonq blinked and stared at the inert turkey sitting in its platter. The fact that neither he nor the turkey were on fire at that moment was a victory in itself, but he could not suppress a mild feeling of disappointment; he had been anticipating, well, something. He leaned close and pressed an ear to the bird. At first he could hear nothing over the strains of Gin and Juice blaring from his fridge top, but eventually he could make out the faint liquid hiss and pop of a reaction starting. He stood again, shrugged, and finished the merlot in one swallow. There was nothing for it but to wait.
The turkey claimed that it would be done in thirty minutes, so the cat quickly set to preparing the rest of dinner. He opened the cranberry sauce and slid it carefully out into its dish, pumping a victorious fist in the air when he managed extricate it in a single, unbroken cylinder of jelly. He flicked the switch on the kettle to begin heating water for the instant potatoes and gravy, and then dumped the frozen vegetables into a microwave-safe bowl. Plonq nibbled on his lower lip while he looked around for the next thing to prepare, but other than putting the vegetables into the microwave and dumping the buns into a bowl, everything was set for now. He noticed that the turkey was now quite audible, and its bag was beginning to balloon. He gave a curt nod and another self-satisfied purr before he retired to the living room to sit by the tree and rest while he waited for the water to boil.
Any thought of relaxation vanished when he stepped through the kitchen doorway and saw the pile of mittens on the sofa.
Ack! The mittens!
There was a note on the mittens reminding him that the donation period closed on Sunday at 17:30 so that they would have time wrap them and give them out to the homeless the next day. A surge of panic welled up in his gut as he looked frantically between the mittens, and the wall clock that read 17:00. He had been meaning to drop them at the shelter all week, but every day had brought a new, satisfactory excuse for inaction until now he had exactly thirty minutes to deliver. Plonq had promised them the mittens. They were counting on his mittens. If he did not come through with his promise, there would be a lot of cold paws on Christmas Day.
There was still time! Plonq dashed to the closet for his hat and coat, which he quickly shrugged on over his apron. He dug through the detritus at the bottom of the closet until he had uncovered the wheelbarrow that he had been meaning to move to his storage locker for the past couple of years. He grunted wryly at how his procrastination had paid off for once. He quickly packed the mittens into a big mound in the wheelbarrow and wheeled it out to the kitchen. He opened the back door, and as the icy December air swirled into the kitchen with a billow of snow, he closed the door again and sheepishly dashed off to the bedroom for pants.
He returned to the kitchen wearing pants and boots, ready for a second attempt at the outside world. The turkey on the counter caught his attention before he made it to the door. Its bag was fully inflated now, and it was belching steam out of its vent. What had caught his attention though was that it was starting to emit sounds that bordered on alarming. Plonq let out a mew of indecision. On the one hand, he had to deliver the mittens. On the other hand, he was loathe to leave the bird unattended in his kitchen, especially when he saw that the bag was bulging and distorting in places as if the turkey was thrashing around inside.
He stood, mesmerized and paralyzed by indecision until the only logical course of action suddenly clarified in his head. He quickly burred out a well in the middle of the mittens and temporarily donned a pair of them to protect his hands. They were held together by plastic tie, but he could separate them enough for his purposes. Plonq carefully picked up the bird and maneuvered into the well he had created in the mittens. The steam gushing out the top scalded his muzzle, but he barely noticed it in his frantic state. As an afterthought he tossed the unopened bottle of Chardonnay into the wheelbarrow as well.
The little snow leopard opened the door, wheeled the barrow out onto the back porch and closed the door behind him. He heard the kettle shut itself off as he was leaving and noted that he would need to boil the water again on his return. Dinner would be late, but he had an important promise to keep. He gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow with clenched knuckles and slowly walked it down the back steps, watching mittens bounce out over the sides with each step. There was a tense moment when he thought he was going to lose the turkey on the third to last step, but he eventually reached the sidewalk. He ran back up the steps to gather up all of the mittens that had escaped, and then he grabbed the wheelbarrow and began jogging toward the collection centre.
The turkey had begun to pulsate, belching out blasts of steam from the wheelbarrow in front of him as if it was a locomotive, driving him down the road. For all its alarming sounds and appearances, it was starting to smell very good. The icy air burned his normally sedentary lungs, and his shins began to ache from the strain of ploughing the wheelbarrow through the growing layer of snow on the sidewalk, but Plonq persevered. He arrived at the collection centre with five minutes to spare. The cat doubled over, hand on his knees while he panted and regained his composure. The smell of cooking turkey had been driving him nearly mad with hunger all the way from his apartment. About a block from the shelter, a little plastic spire had slowly risen from the vent hole and released a small flag that sprung open to reveal the word, “Done!”
Once his panting had relented a bit, Plonq wiped his muzzle on the sleeve of his coat, and pressed a button next to the door that was labeled for deliveries. Somewhere in the warehouse a farty-sounding buzzer blarted out his presence to those inside. He didn’t have to wait long before the door cracked open and let out stream of light and steam.
“Hello?” said a tentative voice as a bespectacled badger poked her muzzle around the edge of the door and peeked outside. At first she fixed on the frost-rimed, icicled muzzle of the snow leopard standing out in the snow, then her eyes roamed over small mountain of mittens. “Oh. Oh! It’s the mitten guy!” she said excitedly. She threw the door wide. “Come in, please. We were worried that you had forgotten.”
“Sorry,” said Plonq as he wheeled the mittens awkwardly through the door. “I’ve just been running behind all week. I hope I brought enough.”
“That’s more than enough,” said the badger whose nose was working overtime, “but why do they smell so much like roasted turkey?” By now, the smell had drawn over the rest of the crew who had been sorting donations. Their arrival was heralded by a chorus of voices.
“What smells so good?”
“Did we order food, because I’m starving?”
“It smells like Christmas in here.”
“I thought we were going for sandwiches later.”
To his horror, Plonq saw the slavering crew approaching behind the badger, eyes fixed on the wheelbarrow. There was a tall, gangly young fox wearing an ironic, camo sweatshirt and a tattered toque. Following him was an equally short, elderly ermine in a dowdy sweater and loose-fitting jeans. Bringing up the rear were a rotund cheetah with her head shaved in a reverse Mohawk and an astonishing number of ear studs, and a grizzled old goat.
“You brought us … a turkey?” said the cheetah in hushed amazement.
“And wine,” said the badger, snatching the bottle out of the wheelbarrow and presenting it for view. Tears welled up in her eyes as she clutched the bottle to her ample bosom and turned back to the stunned snow leopard. “Bless you sir. We usually feel kind of forgotten on Christmas. This is a really special thing you’ve done for us.”
Tears welled up Plonq’s eyes as he watched his turkey wheeling away in the hands of the cheetah. “I, uh, ya, I guess,” he stammered, craning to watch over the badger’s shoulder as his precious turkey disappeared into the break room. His empty, yearning stomach tried to spur him into action, but he could not think of any action he could take at this point which would not make him look crass. He turned at the feel of a tap on his shoulder, and found himself facing the tall, gangly fox.
“Thank you,” said the young fox. He wiped a tear from his eye, and then suddenly wrapped the snow leopard in a tight, foxy hug. He released the cat, grabbed his hand and pumped it several times. “Thank you,” he repeated. “It’s because of generous people like you that I don’t let cynicism take over my life.”
He turned to the old goat and clamped an arm around his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get it while it’s hot.”
“I don’t do meat,” bleated the goat sourly, but he let himself be led back to the break room.
Plonq watched the last of them leave, and stood silently by the exit, trying to derive some Zen-like enjoyment from the lingering smell of his bygone turkey.
They’d said something about going for sandwiches; that implied that there was a sandwich shop nearby. The little cat sighed. He adjusted his coat, cinched his toque down tighter and turned to open the door. “Perhaps they have turkey sandwiches,” he thought with a flicker of hope.
With that, the diminutive cat stepped out into the night.
Routine Sunday morning, rising late and naughtily skipping church to lounge about in my underwear and drink coffee. A scrambled eggs and soysauge kind of morning, where a shave and shower is the acme of my ambitions for the day.
It is a slow, luxurious shaving day involving a thickly lathered brush, and thoughtful, methodical sweeps of the razor. Rinsing reveals that I have shaved too high on one side, and the small sideburns are now unbalanced. Was it a casualty of this morning, or on a less relaxed day when haste trumps finesse? Should I fix it by trimming the other side to match?
Memories return of the young hair stylist at a recent, trendy hair salon geared for the millennial crowd, admonishing me for having shaved far too aggressively in a time when sideburns have fallen back into fashion.
I could shave the other side to match, and my nascent sideburns would slowly wither away one erroneous millimetre at a time until I shaven myself another admonishment from the next barber.
I chose to leave it be, as facial hair is a marvel in erasing our mistakes over time; I shall use the electric trimmer to bring them even as my error grows itself away.
And for the nonce I shall own the asymmetry.
- Music:Daft Punk - Beyond
I know that things have become politically grim south of the border when I can't even derive any schadenfreude from it.
If I could find a silver lining in the ongoing dumpster fire in US politics, it's that it makes me realize how normal and rational the political arena is (so far) on our side of the border.
A child predator is currently poised to win an election in one of the southern states because folks there have sunk so far from political sanity. They have demonzed their political opponents to the point where they will side with a child molester just because he is one of theirs.
It raises the frightening question about just how far they are willing to shift their moral compass out of blind tribalism.
I wonder if US politics have hit rock bottom, or if they are only just beginning the slide.