:: Being an asshole vs. financial savings ::

Almost every single day at work, between about 9:10 and 9:45 a.m., I walk to the nearby Tim Horton's with a few colleagues. We do this a) because we like coffee and b) because it gets us the hell out of the office for a few minutes, for a little mini-break.

We've had this schedule for about 2-3 years, and we like it. But of course, our schedule is by now well-known to the rest of the office, which causes conversations such as the following about once every month or so:

"You guys and your Tim Horton's runs... Ya know, if you drank the office coffee or brought it from home, instead of going there every day, think of all the money you'd save!"

And of course, this same exact thing happened earlier today.

Now, a couple things....

First, when the person who tells me how much money I could save if I could just control my caffeine addiction is a smoker, well... that's just the best. No matter how much I like the people I work with, I will never pass up an opportunity to call people on their shit. That means you, Smoky – next time you chide me on my expensive habits, I'd appreciate it if you did so while you were outside hackin' a dart. (Because I like irony.)

Secondly, don't tell me how much money I can save. Don't you think I know how much money I could save? I mean, I'm not an idiot. I can do simple math. Every time I go into Tim Hortons, I am not surprised that the employees there expect money in exchange for the coffee they hand me. Things ain't free. I get it.

I know that $1.78 every day adds up. But just because I'm aware of it, doesn't mean I want to actually do the math and be presented with the cold, hard numbers. Don't you think if I cared about the final tally I would've stopped years ago? It's not like I'll be shocked by whatever the actual number is, shape up and change my ways.

I'll probably just shrug my shoulders, offer a "Hmmph" and get on with my day, safe in the knowledge that at least I don't have a heroin addiction.

But let's get back to today, and my morning confrontation with Mrs. Math Whiz (who, by the way, smokes, and has delighted us with this same conversation numerous times).

"Think of the money you could save..." she started.

"Yeah, I know. I'd save a lot of money. But you know what I'd spend it on?" I said. "I'd take all that coffee money and buy the world's best earplugs, so I wouldn't have to listen to people tell me to what to spend my money on anymore."

"Either that, or maybe I'd take up smoking."

:: Minor annoyance of the day ::

People who say they "seen" something.

For example, the woman I just heard, who told somebody that "I seen that yesterday."

No, you fool, you saw something yesterday. You ain't seen nuthin'.

:: Shadenfreude ::

Shadenfreude is described as, to the best of my knowledge without actually looking it up, taking pleasure in other people's misery. You might be surprised to know that I do this a lot.

I bring this up now because at the moment I am sitting in the boarding area of the Bellingham Airport, waiting for my flight, in an hour or so. We got here early - go figure - and as we walked into the terminal, it was the last boarding call for a flight to Vegas. And there is not much funnier than watching people scramble to make their flight.

We saw, in a matter of just a few minutes, three guys race through the doors yelling "last three for Vegas! Last three for Vegas!" and also two older women get chastised by the employee at the counter for being late. They blamed the border lineups. They were awful this morning - we waited an hour; Peace Arch border was apparently a 3 hour wait.

But still, I have no sympathy for em, really. They knew they had a border to deal with, they knew - or should have known - it'd be busy on a Saturday morning. Leave early, like we did.

In the end, everyone made the flight, it seemed. Except about 10 minutes after the plane left, we saw two couples come in, late. They looked stressed, angry, frazzled and unhappy.

They missed the flight, and despite my jerky ways, I felt bad for them. I mean, I feel bad for anybody who gets Vegas taken away from them like that, whether it was their own fault or not.

As they frantically tried to rebook flights for later in the day, I heard the airline woman say the following:

"OK, there's four of you and we have four flights. I can get one of you on every one..... oh, and two of them are tomorrow. That'll be an extra $291.09."

That's when it became funny again.

(See you in a week. Disneyland awaits!)

:: Kill 'em with kindness... or cancer ::

I've been dealing with a lot of banks, lately. Too many, in fact. 

I'm currently in the process of switching banks from Coast Capital to TD, and then a third, RBC, is handling our upcoming mortgage. So, that's three banks with the ability to piss me off at once. And as everyone knows, banks have a way of pissing people off.

Also, and perhaps this is the most important point, anybody who knows me is well aware that it does not take much to get on my last nerve (See previous post, titled 'The Complaint Department, for further proof).

Anyways, the reason I'm leaving Coast – my main bank since I was eight or nine years old – is because they kept screwing me around and giving me the round-around when I tried to get the loan for my truck a year and a half ago. But secondly – and most importantly – they really jerked us around with the mortgage we almost had with them. I may have written about this before – it's probable, actually – but here's the Cole's notes of it: 

They approved our mortgage without problems about six weeks before the closing date of the deal. Then, four days before the deal was set to close, they said, "Oh, sorry, we finally got around to actually checking out the details, and we can't do it (for one pretty lame reason, but a reason nonetheless). I was furious not because they rejected it – there's lots of banks out there, after all – but because they waited 'til the last second and left us scrambling like idiots. 

So today, as I attempt to move my accounts, I went to Coast Capital – albeit a different branch than the one I'm mad at – to get some void cheques/banking info, which are necessary to make the transfer. 

The teller asked me, out of curiosity more than anything else, why I needed the forms. I said it was because I was closing all my accounts. 

"Oh, do you mind if I ask why?" she asked.

Oh boy, this was the moment I was waiting for. The chance for me to tell the bank – loudly – just how badly they had fucked me around, and that they could all go to hell. I didn't even care that it was a different branch, I was gonna let 'er rip.

I explained my reasons (politely, I may add. I was working up to the anger). And then, the real piss-off: the overly-polite teller agreed with me. 

"I don't have much dealings with the mortgage end of things, but you're right – they should've told you way sooner than that. I don't blame you for being upset," she said.

"No! You're supposed to disagree! I need ammo here! I want a fight!!!!" my angry brain screamed.

But I got nothing but pleasantries – a "sorry to see you leave" and a "have a nice day." Talk about taking the wind from my sails.

Anyways, with that out of the way – and more bottled-up rage than ever – I focused my attention on RBC. We need to finalize the mortgage and sign papers in a week or so, and my mortgage specialist – who had already previously disappeared for three months due to some type of medical leave – was, again, nowhere to be found.

I emailed. I called and left a message on her cell. I emailed again - this time a little more tersely, explaining that I couldn't wait forever, and that her lack of a response was unnerving, to say the least. Then I called again. And then one more time for good measure.

But still nothing. To quote noted philosopher Homer Simpson: "Urge to kill rising."

Finally, exasperated, I called the branch itself and complained. The woman on the phone apologized and said she'd get right on it. She said not to worry about it – she'd do all the legwork, get me an appointment and call me back when I had one. 

Not even 10 minutes later, I had an email from the formerly MIA mortgage woman. (What a coincidence.)

Again, I was ready to be angry. I opened the email.

"Hi there, sorry for the delay in getting back to you...." it read.

Damn right you should be sorry! 

"... but I just found out that my dad has been diagnosed with a very serious form of cancer, so I had to take a few days off in the last week."

God dammit. So much for being angry. I mean, I was still within my rights to wonder where the hell she'd been, but how can you possibly stay pissed off when that's the reason given? 

Now, the worst part – aside from the fact that some poor guy out there has a serious medical issue to deal with – is that I've still got all this pent-up anger and nowhere to unleash it.

Thankfully, we've got the first two games of our fall slo-pitch season tonight. The umpire at diamond 4 is probably gonna get an earful.

:: The Complaint Department ::

Last night, while sitting around making idle chatter with Christene, I rattled off – in the course of about 15 seconds - four consecutive complaints about completely different, random things. Christene stopped me before I could say anything else – which, let's face it, was probably about to be complaint number five – and marveled at the speed of which my complaints came. 

Not to mention the fact that I didn't even realize I'd complained at all. After awhile, it just becomes so common you don't pay attention. You know, like the Boy Who Cried Wolf but more angry.

"You should get a tattoo of a suggestion-box looking thing, and get the words 'The Complaint Dept.' written over top," Christen suggested. 

And while I probably won't get that tattoo, here's a list of things that've been pissing me off lately. 

1. The perma-garage sale on our street

Our next door neighbour is well, a li'l trashy. She is a single mom and lives in this house with her couple young kids – and despite the fact that she has no money, she refuses to get a job. Instead, she mooches off the system because, and I quote, "I just feel like it's more important to be here for my kids."

Commendable? Perhaps. But, newsflash, lady: Most of the day, your kids are in school. It's probably more important that they, you know, eat.

But anyways, rather than work like the rest of productive society, she spends her hours – hours which could be spent at a real job, remember – collecting free shit from road sides, driveways, and wherever else Craigslist tells her somebody is giving something away for free. She then takes the free garbage back to her driveway, where she has a garage sale.

Now, I've got no issue with garage sales - people have them all the time. But this woman has had garage sales EVERY SINGLE FRIDAY AND SATURDAY FOR FIVE CONSECUTIVE WEEKS. And this weekend will be six. Personally, I hate this mainly because a) I park on the street, and the never-ending sale means a never-ending stream of cars coming next door, thus making parking hard to come by; and b) get a freaking job.

I think by Week 3, it ceases to become a garage sale and becomes a business. If it wasn't for the fact that her kids would go hungry, I'd love to call the city and complain about an unlicensed business.

2. Whiny Facebook whiners

First off, I know that complaining on a blog about people who complain on Facebook is hypocritical on the surface, but here's the thing: When I complain, it's straightforward, angry, and often full of curse words. 

Fuck. Shit.  See? I can't help myself. 

Point is, when I complain – by whichever medium I choose – there is no ambiguity, no vagueness, and therefore, no reason for hundreds of people to ask "Ooooh, no, what's wrong?" just because your camera broke or think the world is against you or you "need a change."

Here's a change for ya: Shut up!

The difference, you see, is that I'm not complaining as a way to garner attention. I'm complaining because I'm an asshole and it's what I do.

Not everyone is like me, however. There are plenty of these attention-seekers. And while this is not exactly news to anyone with a Facebook account – friends lists are littered with over-the-top emo assholes, after all – it's gotten worse on my list of late. In fact, the next time I log in, I'm culling the herd of these people. (Note to friend's ex-wife: This means you. See the word 'ex'? This means I no longer have to pretend to tolerate you.)

Hmm, you know what? I guess there's really only those two complaints. Funny, I thought there was more. Oh well, I'm sure I'll come up some some more later. Either way, felt good to get those off my chest.

Have a good weekend, boys and girls.

:: I don't care ::

Facebook is a place for many things. For catching up with old friends and staying in the loop with current ones. For posting way too many pictures. For leaving drunken, non-sensical status updates at 3 a.m. For playing any number of awful games like Farmville of Mafia Wars.

Sadly, it's also for updating people on things that nobody gives a shit about or ever wants to hear. And after perusing my FB news feed in recent days and weeks, the following is a list of things I don't ever want to read in a Facebook status ever again, because I just don't care. And I'm sure nobody else does either.

(*editor's note: before the angry comments fly, keep in mind that, to the best of my recollection, none of these status-types were inspired by any of this blog's usual merry band of readers.)

Anyways... onward with the list. I don't want to read your damn status if it is about any or all of the following things:

1. What you had for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

2. What you are currently making, or about to make, for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

3. Reviews or predictions about how great any of the aforementioned meals are/were (unless you did something awesome like blow up your kitchen or burn off your eye brows).

4. Your daily itinerary. Nobody cares that you have to go to the mall, the dentist, then soccer practice.

5. The daily itinerary of your child. Even fewer people care that you have to take your kid to the mall, the dentist and then soccer practice.

6. Any posts about what your baby/toddler/small child just did unless it is actually interesting. ("Little Jimmy just sat on the TV remote... it was sooooo cute" does not fucking qualify.)

7. No updates informing the world about just how amazing your significant other is, and how you're just sooooo lucky to have them in your life and blah blahgedy fucking blah. There is no wiggle room on this one, sorry.

8. Political commentary of any sort, unless it's some kind of joke made at the expense of, or in reference to, some political figure or event. (this was inspired by one FBer who decided a status update was the appropriate place to declare that she "fully supports her MP, Libby Davies")

9. Intentionally misspelled words, ala LOL CATS, in some kind of effort to be cute.

10. The term FML.

So there ya go. In the spirit of co-operative blogging, once again feel free to add to this list in the comments section if anything springs to mind.

:: (Useless) Douche of the Day ::

A couple things that have been annoying me lately – all of which leave the guilty party up for Douche of the Day honurs (you know, that sporadically-awarded honour I first gave to this guy)

Anyways, Contestant #1: Somebody called me at work the other day, and after we chatted about whatever it was he called for, he gave me his phone numbers so I could reach him next week. So he leaves me his work number – no problem there – and then his cell. Only he doesn't call it his cell. No, he says, "Oh and this is my mobile."

Mobile? Really? I mean, really?

I know, it's an English or possibly European thing to call a cell phone a mobile, and that's fine – I have no problem with that as long as either a) you are in that country (or countries) or b) you are from that country and that's what you're accustomed to saying. 

But this guy is not English, and certainly not European – he's Chinese. And as far as I know, he's always lived in the Lower Mainland (I've spoken with him numerous times through the years, and I think this is true). There is absolutely no reason for this guy to call his cell phone his "mobile" other than to try and sound like a pretentious douche.

Contestant #2: This one isn't specific person, but a type of person. And I can't even take credit for it – it was first brought up by Mike at The Jerk Store. He hates people who talk about people playing poker on TV. And he's absolutely right. A couple weekends ago I was somewhere – can't remember where – and heard two or three guys debating their favourite players. Really? Favourite poker players? 

I like poker as much as the next guy – I've actually started liking it more lately, as a matter of fact – but I like playing, not watching. And you certainly shouldn't have a favourite. I mean, Christ...

Contestant #3: This guy isn't so much a douche as a guy who has wasted his youth. He is yet another guy on my Facebook friends list who is obtaining a post-bachelor's degree. Only this is a doctorate. Our very first Douche of the Day was a guy being knobby about his Master's Degree – go click the link at the top for a refresher, if you want – so with that precedent set, I've gotta include this guy, too. 

This new guy is someone I haven't seen since high school, and though I don't remember him being a douche, he was/is incredibly smart. He's 29 – same as me – and has spent the last 11 years in school. Fancy university back east, then a post-bachelor's degree run at a prestigious school in the States, and then, of course, studying abroad. Lives in France or some place. 

Anyways... though one could assume he's a douche candidate simply be virtue of his schooliness (yes, I'm inventing that word), he recently posted as a FB photo the cover page of his doctorate dissertation. And you know what? I don't really have too much of a problem with that because I imagine it's about 120+ pages and took the guy years to do.

He's proud of it. Fair 'nuff.

But then I read the cover page and finally realized what exactly this dude's been studying for a decade – which has presumably cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars. I'd never known before, but I thought it was probably some medical field (Not because it's a doctorate, but because I was under the impression he was a science-y, pre-med type of guy).

And the title? Some 3-line, two sentence, paragraph about the French Revolution from 1789-1792 (so not even the whole revolution) and its effect on international law. 

Like I said, douchey. 

And assuming this incredibly boring, scholarly dissertation is actually good – I'm sure it is, because he's a smart guy – do you know what he'll receive? 

His Doctorate of Philosophy.

You heard that right. Fucking Philosophy. 

I'm sure he'll get lots of high-paying job offers from philosophy factories with that in his back pocket.

:: Poor efforts ::

In the last month or so I've noticed a disturbing lack of new blog posts from my esteemed blogroll on the left - namely Christene, Kelsey, Meghan and Lanette.

Now, there are other blogs I link to as well – Jason Mulgrew, The FYC – that have been pretty delinquent lately too, but I don't know those people, so I feel bad calling them out. Besides, Mulgrew just wrote a fucking book, so if he wants to not blog for awhile, give the dude a break.

But as for the rest of you... well, I know you all personally and feel quite fit to point out your blogging inadequacies. And let me tell you, your lack of effort is shameful. 

Because it's a slow afternoon here at the always-prolific/constantly updated/fan favourite Classic Times, I took a few minutes to crunch some numbers, math being my specialty.

Not including this post, here are some startling numbers: 

Christene 

Last post: April 6; Classic Times posts since that date: 8 (7 plus 1 guest post)

Kelsey  

Last post: March 31; Classic Times posts since: 10

Meghan  

Last post: March 21 and then she closed up shop altogether; Classic Times posts since: 16

Lanette  

Last post: April 25 (But before that, no posts since April 9; Classic Times posts since April 9: 12

So there you have it. And I don't want to hear any whining about lack of internet or moving or quitting sob-stories or any of that crap. I didn't post for over a week because I was in Vegas, and then when I returned there was no Internet at the house for 4 days (technical difficulties) and I still managed to out-write the shit out of all of you.

Consider yourselves called out.

:: A status thing ::

Dear Facebook users,

You may think your status is particularly profound or deep, but I regret to inform you that this is not the case. By posting some lame "famous" quote, or by repeating some tired, cliched truism and passing it off as philosophy, you are not impressing anyone.

What you are doing, is trying too hard. We can all notice, and you look ridiculous.

That said, if your status alternative to these pearls of wisdom is either a) a detailed item-by-item schedule of event for your day; b) how great your baby/boyfriend/wife is; or c) some emo bullshit, please continue spouted hackneyed philosophy, as it is the lesser of the evils.

Or better yet – leave it blank. 

:: Common sense is all I'm asking for ::

Yesterday at work, I took a few minutes to go to my insurance provider and cancel my house insurance because I'm obviously no longer living in said house (Perhaps you've heard? I may have mentioned it a time or two on this very blog).

Anyways, I explained to the woman behind the desk what I wanted to do and why – again, because I'm moving – and it was all a very straightforward, simple procedure. You know the drill – sign here, initial there, take this copy, etc etc etc... No biggie.

But then the clerk says, "OK, so you're refund cheque will be mailed to this 208th street address."

I took a second to realize what she had said because it was so dumb. I mean, let's break it down: I came into the office for the sole purpose of canceling the insurance on my townhouse because – and I can't stress this enough – I do not live there anymore. And this woman has decided that the best place to mail $67 refund (editor's note: woo! big money!) is to the address I'm leaving?

Sorry, sweetheart, that won't do.

It was obviously no big deal – all I did was leave her a new forwarding address, and I know it was a Friday and people's minds aren't always 100% on their job, but this seemed like a pretty simple thing.

She knew I did not live at that address anymore. I just told her that.

It was just annoying, that's all.

:: How to ruin a conversation you no longer have an interest in ::

In the department adjacent to mine, I overheard three of my colleagues talking about wild animals, and more specifically, close encounters with these animals. At first, I was mildly interested – one story involved a cougar in a campsite, another had something to do with being about 10 feet away from a bear, another still involved a wolverine, I think.

But though my curiousity was temporarily piqued, the conversation officially Jumped the Shark when one colleague started a story this way, and I'm paraphrasing here (but not by much):

"One time a badger ran in front of our truck..."

At this point, one of the others (the guy who told the wolverine and bear story) stopped her in her tracks with a "A badger? C'mon..."

And you know what? He was right to do it. I mean, seriously – you're bringing a badger story to the table? A fucking badger?

Of course, the badger-tale teller tried to defend her story – which she of course hadn't even finished – and this conversation/disagreement went back and forth for a few annoying minutes, before I'd finally had enough*.

So, what did I do? Well I walked over there, pretending to listen for a few minutes, thus immersing myself in this conversation about badgers, and then said, with a straight face, "Who cares about a badger? A couple summers ago I came face-to-face with a Werewolf. Now that was scary."

Then I walked away. The looks I got were, of course, full of bewilderment, and I'm not entirely sure anybody knew how to respond. Was I actually serious - he can't be serious, can he? Was I being funny? Was I mocking them?

Needless to say, it killed the conversation right there on the spot. Mission accomplished.

*full disclosure: This was the second time today a loud, mostly useless conversation came from this part of the office, so my patience was wearing thin already.

:: Me fail English? That's unpossible, Version 2.0 ::

In my day-to-day life, I'm surrounded with pretty smartpeople, supposedly*.

That said, twice yesterday one person I know said the following word:

Ambliance. As in, "The man had a heart attack, so somebody called the ambliance."

I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. I mean, one cursory glance at the word, and it's clearly obvious that there's a god damn U in there, not to mention the lack of an i.

Ambulance.

Ambulance. Ambulance. Ambulance.

Not that tough to pronounce. Say it phonetically and it's even easier**. But instead, this person chooses to pronounce the world as though he or she is four years old.

This is the kind of person who probably still says they're having p-sghetti*** for dinner.

*For the record, and while we're on the topic, people who pronounce this word as "suppose-ubly" are among my greatest annoyances. They rank just slightly higher on the list than people who pronounce the i in Detroit (De-troy-it). Drives me nuts.

**I just had a flashback 25 years to when I learned how to read, write and speak. "Now, just sound it out...."

***I have no idea how one would actually spell this word, if it were to actually exist. Psketti? Pasghetti? I have no idea.

:: Shovel your own damn driveway ::

After a few days of Mother Nature attempting to snow (You'd see a few flakes and that was it, then a few hours later, a few more), it finally snowed for real today. Still is, as a matter of fact. It's nothing to get worked up about yet, and I'm sure when it stops there will be nothing more than 4-5 cm on the ground (knock on wood).

This new snowfall, however light, means that our strata unearths all the community snow shovels and the big bag of salt for the walkways and courtyards. In previous years, people have just grabbed the shovels when necessary, and I've only ever used them last year, when the snow in front of my garage door was too much to drive over. And once or twice I used them when I was feeling generous, and I shoveled a path through the snow so people could get to their front doors.

The common areas - walkways, court yards, etc - in each "pod" of townhouses have usually been cleared by one or two people. In my pod, it's the strata president usually. This is because a) many of the people who live in this pod are elderly, and b) because he's the fucking president.

Lately, this guy has been driving me crazy. He was first elected strata president because he's sort of the complex handyman anyway (He is a very "handy" guy, so it's a position he voluntarily takes, and seems to enjoy) and also because at the time of the strata elections, he was unemployed so, no matter his other faults, he was deemed the best choice because he'd have, presumably, all kinds of time to devote to the strata cause.

The last few weeks, I've seen him around the complex fixing things, and each and every time, he has to make a point about how "I'm just volunteering, you know" and "I don't get paid for this."

Listen Bucko, we know you don't get paid. You do the work because you're able to and it saves the strata money. We fucking get it. And while we certainly appreciate it, I don't need to be reminded that I should be appreciating it. If you didn't wanna do it, you shouldn't have signed on to the god damn president, and at this point, I'd just as soon pay somebody to come fix the roof, or shovel the snow, or whatever. At least that way I'd seen some tangible benefit to the $224 I pay in fees every month.

But if you want to do it, that's fine. But don't make the rest of us feel guilty. Because I don't tend to feel guilt about these things - I just get pissed off and annoyed.

Today, however, was the breaking point. We arrived home from grocery shopping and Mr. President was shoveling the area in front of his garage, and the three ajacent spaces (four people all share one common garage). My garage - and the garage that three or four fellow residents share with me - is not a part of this area.

Still, the guy feels the need to tell me that he's got the shovels and salt out, and they'll be by his front door again all winter.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll remember that."

Then I started to go inside, but he spoke up again.

"Yep, just by the front door.... I'm just sayin'."

Yeah, I get it. You're saying "Hey, you should shovel this area that you don't even use, because I'm always the one doing it." Or, more accurately, he's saying "Hey, you should volunteer to do help out."

And you know what? Maybe I should. Maybe I even will when I have the time or the inclination. But don't fucking guilt me into it. You aren't doing it out of the goodness of your heart. You are doing it because you only work 20 hours a week and oh, have I mentioned this before? You are the fucking president. (I know shoveling snow isn't actually written into the actual presidential duties, at least I assume it isn't, but the position does carry with it, by default, more responsibility than the average resident. That's all I'm saying.)

After this conversation, I immediately hopped in my truck to take it for a spin around the block (I'm having 4-wheel drive issues and wanted to see what was up with it), and unfortunately this meant driving right past Mr. President/Volunteer Shoveler again.

I notice that he has finished about half of what he was shovelling.

Of course, he waves me down. I roll the window down, and then he asks, "So... do you want me to just leave the shovel here for you?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," is my response, and I drive away. He leaves the shovel leaning against a post and goes into his nice warm house.

And in the five minutes I was driving around, I just got angrier. For starters, I'm fucking driving away - how do you know when I'm coming back? Maybe I'm going to work and won't be back for 9 hours. Maybe I'm leaving forever. Or maybe I'll be back in five minutes.

The point is, he had no idea.

Secondly, he already guilt-tripped me once. But that's apparently not enough. So not only is he telling me "Yeah, do some of the work I volunteered for, and shovel the driveway" he's telling me also, "Oh yeah, also do it right now."

Fuck. You.

So I came home, parked the truck, went inside and got some gloves. And then I came back out and begrudgingly grabbed the shovel.

And then I cleared my own God damn driveway, and - because I'm so thoughtful and nice - the driveway of the old war veteran who parks next me. That was it.

Mr. President's side is still only half finished. He can fucking shovel it himself.

:: One for the Grammar Police and English majors ::

Yesterday, my boss asked a colleague which project/assignment he could expect from him by the end of the day. His response is a bad (ie: just not funny) attempt at humour made worse by, well, see for yourself...

Colleague: You've got the one on the nine-year-old philandstrafer – as opposed to a Tiger Woods philantherer, hahahaha.

Boss: You mean philanthopist and philanderer.

Colleague: Yeah... whatever... you get it.

Yeah, we do get it. Unfortunately.

Somewhere, Noah Webster's head is exploding. (Or would, had he not died in the 1840s)

:: A bad day to be pants-less ::


Me: Wow, minus-40 today up there, eh?
Kelsey: It's fucking terrible.... It's -46 with the wind, apparently. And I didn't wear pants today!
Me: It's way too cold to be pants-less.
Kelsey: I know. Real smart.


I know over the last 15 months I've taken more than my fair share number of shots at the city of Fort McMurray, and more specifically, shots at the people who voluntarily decide to move there. And each time, whether it's Lanette, Kelsey or sometimes others (Amanda, looking in your direction), I get an passionate retort about how I'm wrong, how the city isn't that bad, how the money's good, or about sometimes you gotta sacrifice, etc etc.



And, all joking aside, I can respect that. I really can. I mostly bash the northern experience because a) I didn't like it when I was there, and b) it's fun to be a "pot-stirrer" as Lanette called me a week ago. But truthfully, I understand their responses to my criticism. I'd expect you to defend the place you live, your home. Hell, I do the same thing when people bash Langley (But really, why would they? It's lovely.)



But having said that, sometimes I think you get to a point where any response you can muster in defence of your fair city is rendered impossible. And I think that point is about -46.


At that point, no matter how much you may like certain aspects of your town, I think you just have admit to a small part of yourself, "Yep, this really sucks."


It's like my old buddy Carlos – who grew up in balmy Mexico City – once said to me when I told him how cold it was when I lived in Peace River:


"I don't see the logic in building a city in uninhabitable conditions. It would be like building a city underwater. It's just not meant to be."


But if you absolutely must build a city there, I'd recommend a sweater and a snow suit – at least. Not wearing pants is just, well, stupid.

:: Social skills ::

Just in case any of you were wondering, saying "So...?" casually as someone walks by your desk – when they otherwise have no reason or desire to speak with you – is not an acceptable conversation starter. 

And after your target walks past and into the lunchroom – ignoring you, in case you were unsure –it is not acceptable to get up from your desk, corner them in said room and start inane conversations about whatever pops into your head at that given moment, apropos of nothing. 

I don't care that you are starved for attention. All they want is some fucking coffee. 

Leave them be.

:: That time I was a jerk at Subway ::

Waitress: Have you decided?

Mr. Grotti: I'll have the linguini, red sauce on the side. If the sauce does not come on the side, I will send it back. I want garlic bread. Toasted. Not burnt. If it comes burnt, I will send it back.

Michael Scott: I will have the spaghetti. With a side salad.

Waitress: OK.

Michael Scott: If the salad is on top, I send it back.

- The Office, season 5 "Mafia" episode

It's often hard to tell because I'm such a sarcastic asshole most of the time, but the truth is that I really don't like confrontation – especially in restaurants, or places of that ilk.

I hate returning things to the mall, for one example, and this dislike for confrontation is also one of the main reasons I won't go out for a meal with a certain friend of mine – because he (his whole family, really) ends up having problems with everything, making a big scene, and eventually demanding free food etc... Through the years, we've stormed out of more than a few restaurants – him in a huff, me just trailing behind.

If I get a subpar meal at a restaurant, I'm more apt to just suck it up, shrug my shoulders and tell myself, "Well, they can't all be good." Because it's true – throughout your lifetime, it's next to impossible that every single meal you ever eat is going to be perfect. This doesn't mean I won't complain about said meal for days after – because trust me, you'll hear about it until you wished I'd choked and died trying to eat whatever it is I'm whining about – but I just don't waste time demanding that my meal be re-cooked/free/served to me with complimentary bread/dessert/appetizer/sports car.

It's just not worth it.

But earlier this week, I hit my breaking point.

After work the other day, I went to Subway to pick up some dinner. I ordered a foot-long roasted chicken sub, on white bread. For starters, the woman behind the counter grabbed a loaf of the parmesan oregano bread – apparently she just didn't listen at all, because the two types of bread do not sound remotely alike – and I had to correct her. No big deal, I guess, but I should have known it was foreshadowing what was to come.

Next, she cut open the correct bread with the skill and precision of a six-year-old, essentially tearing the bread in half, rather than cutting it. And again, I let it slide.

But then it began. She put tomatoes on it when I never asked for any – so she had to remove them. Then she put peppers on it, which I also didn't ask for – so she had to remove them. Then came time for "a little bit of mustard and a bit of ranch, please." (Notice, I was still polite at this point).

She then proceeded to empty nearly the entire damn mustard container on the sandwich, followed by so much ranch dressing that it looked like somebody jacked off an elephant onto my dinner (Nice visual? You're welcome). This was the last straw.

"Oh c'mom, I asked for a little of each. That's waaaay too much. You wanna scrape some of that off, or something?" I asked.

I got a baffled look, followed by a lame attempt to scrape the sauces off with a paring knife, which ended up a) tearing the bread some more and b) smearing a lovely mustard and ranch combination all over the outside of the bread.

"You know what? You've ruined the whole damn thing. Just start over, I want a new one."

This did not sit well with the person behind the counter, and she seemed bewildered at such a request. Her co-worker, who came over, was also reluctant.

"It's fine," the co-worker said. "What's wrong with it? We can't make a new one, unless you want to order two."

It was at this point that I informed said employee that since I hadn't yet paid for the first one, they'd better restart the process – and not fuck it up – or else I'd just walk out altogether, paying for nothing.

"Either way, you're gonna be out the cost of at least one sandwich," I said.

I should also mention that, by now, there were a few people behind me in line, no doubt wondering what the hell my problem was. Normally, I would have resorted to my usual "Aw, shucks" mentality (see above), but this is not the first time this Subway has fucked up my sandwich. In fact, more often than not, the employees at this particular location have ruined, in some way, my meal.

Now, you may wonder why I continue to return if they suck so bad, and my answer is two-fold. First, it's close to my house and convenient. And second, I always go back with the assumption that "It can't be that bad again, right?"

I would have likely also given this woman a break if she had a trainee sticker on, like many there often do. Hey, she's new, she's learning. That's cool – I get it. But I've seen this woman there before many times. And for somebody dubbed a "Sandwich Artist" you'd think you wouldn't suck so hard at it.

I mean, seriously, your only job is to make sandwiches. If you can't do that, maybe look into a new line of work. I mean, if I am a bad writer, I probably don't get to keep the job I have. If Bucholtz was a dangerously incompetent subpar electrician, he wouldn't be one. If Jeremy couldn't plumb, he wouldn't be a plumber, and if Kelsey didn't do... whatever the hell it is that she does, well she'd probably run away to Fort McMurray try something else.

In the end, you'll be happy to know that I got what I wanted – a remade footlong, roasted chicken sub, on white bread.

And the best part was, they couldn't even spit it in – such is the benefit of having them make it right in front of you. I'm sure they wanted to, though.

I can almost guarantee it.

:: Mixing metaphors ::

Memo to woman I just overheard:

The phrase is "a fine kettle of fish," and not, as you suggested in your recent conversation, "quite a kettle of worms."

Nobody has kettles full of worms.

Conversely, and for future reference, it's a "can of worms" that can be figuratively opened, not a "can of fish."

Just in case you were wondering.

:: Odd, odd couple ::

Yesterday after work, Christene and I drove to the Quizno's in Murrayville, so we could grab something to eat quickly before I had to go play softball.

As we waited at a red light at an intersection, two people crossed the street who could not have been a stranger match. Individually, they were each bizarre-looking enough to warrant a second (or third) look (or laugh), but together, well, they were a tandem on par with that time Macho Man Randy Savage teamed up with Hulk Hogan.

Now, I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but couldn't get a clear shot - and when a clear shot did finally present itself, we were moving, so it was impossible. As a result, I will have to describe them to you, as best I can.

The man looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s. He had a very large potbelly, on which hung a very ill-fitting shirt which may or may not have had sleeves. On his head he wore a cowboy hat that appeared to be made of, if not plastic, then some other kind of shiny material (Authentic, it was not). Below the waist, he wore some cut-off jean shorts which looked to be a do-it-yourself job – the bottoms of them were quite frayed.

Oh, I forgot to mention – he was holding these designer shorts up with suspenders. Honest to God, suspenders.

And, in a move he obviously cribbed from those cute kids who wear gumboots and shorts (and sometimes capes too, just because it's awesome), this fine middle-aged gentleman was wearing big brown boots – possibly of the steel toed variety.

It was like a perfect storm of fashion mistakes – all that was missing was the aforementioned cape, or possibly some kind of scarf.

The woman he was with was not dressed quite so oddly, but she, uh, stood out in a place like Langley. She was a large black woman, wearing capri-type pants which appeared to be far too tight; she had a short, afro-like hair, and walked with a pronounced limp  – slowly, and awkwardly.

What a team they made. I expect they were just coming back from a trip to the post office, where they went to pick up their complimentary "Best of Maury Povich" DVD box set, which they received as a gift after appearing on the show. 

Either that, or they were mailing an angry letter to the creators of Cops, in which they demanded residuals be paid to them since they'd made so many appearances on the show.

Maybe they were doing both.

:: Memo to middle-aged contractor I saw this morning ::

Assuming that you are not somehow stuck in 2006, you probably shouldn't rock a faux-hawk. Secondly, you should further be discouraged from said hair style if you are in your mid- to late-40s, which clearly you are.

And you should definitely not dye it blonde, while keeping the rest of your hair its natural brown colour.

However, if you do insist on this particular style – I mean, if you absolutely must – I would strongly suggest that you actually "spike" the whole faux-hawk, instead of simply concentrating the gel on the first few inches of it, and leaving the rest to fall flat against your scalp, thus making you look like a rooster with bed-head.

Trust me, it's for the best.