2006-06-09

Devolution

Canadian Tire has defeated me once again. This chain, I don't know what it is about it, but it somehow routinely refuses to advance my interests in any meaningful way. Its aisles are narrow and its shelves menacingly high, and the object you desire is inevitably stuck behind other stuff with little or no correlative value; for example, planter pots for flowers and vegetables and picnic coolers. I assume customers who do well with cryptic crosswords would probably have little trouble deciphering the insane rationale inherent in Canadian Tire stocking decisions, but sadly, I am not among them. Of course, I am aware they are both containers of sorts, or that sometimes, the fruit of the former might be stored coolly in the hold of the other, but it is exactly this type of arbitrary logic my mind abhors and which makes my twisted adventures in purchasing anything at Canadian Tire (probably) all the more gleeful to the hidden staff members. I say probably because upon spotting a customer service agent one finds that pursuit tends to send the 'help' in question scurrying for the aisle that, upon rounding, amazingly, does not appear to have an exit.

Armed with this foreknowledge and cornucopia of frustrating shopping experiences, one could be forgiven for thinking that I had either finally dissolved the endless enigma that codes the mapping of certain objects, or that I had finally given up on recovering items from this particular chain, but one would be quite wrong. (But, if you followed those premises to a different end, and concluded, quite astutely, that I am an idiot, you would be correct.) No, it appears I am neither wise nor yielding, but rather stubborn and indignant, and much, much worse, I am cheap. Which of course, by way of long and winding introduction, leads us to the very simple mission I aimed to have accomplished today: to simultaneously rid myself of all the colourful Canadian Tire money I have accumulated over the years (and which I now curse my frugal self for not burning at every occasion), recover a (no surprise here) planter WITH HOLES IN IT, and at a stroke, sever all ties with this sinkhole of human misery.

But, if you read the first sentence, then you know how all this ends. Forces within and beyond my control were stacked well against me. First, I didn't have my glasses. That was a serious tactical blunder. Second, I had only a quarter for the parking meter. That was really stupid since I live close enough to walk there, and because this is Vancouver, and 25 cents buys you about enough time to tie your shoelaces, but forget about dissecting the labyrinthine means of a Canadian Tire outlet. That first oversight alone (pun intended, or no?; your guess is as good as mine) is enough to derail any serious attempt at accomplishing a tripartite mission as fiendish as my own, but with the added dimensionality of diminishing time with the consequence of a possible heavy fine - well, I suppose the real failure was my inability to see that I was doomed from the very start. Or that I even set out bravely in the first place.

Add to that the fact this was a Friday in Vancouver, a day on which almost no one is ostensibly employed, and you have a recipe for total disaster as the already clogged arteries of the warehouse graveyard of good intentions are now choking with other confused and dehydrated customers, staring at the halogen lights blinking haplessly, the drone of vultures overhead all they can hear - although we should probably use that term 'customer' very carefully, as many were clearly even less well prepared than I and suffered the ignominy of having no realistic exit strategy, like a ball of yarn with one end tied to an immovable object outside the store, or having a friend with a cell phone wait outside with clear instructions like, 'dial 9, and then 1, and then wait five minutes and if I'm not out, dial 1 again and...pray for me.' OK. That was hyperbole. But by less of a margin than you will ever imagine.

And all the way there, I'm driving, I'm outwardly calm, but in my head I'm thinking, This is stupid, this is stupid, turn around while you still can, you fucking idiot, you don't even have your glasses. And I'm not joking - that's literally what I was thinking. (And isn't it funny that I think driving without corrective eyewear is ok, but entering Canadian Tire - out of the question. That's funny, I think. I'm funny.)

What a sham. I should have just stayed in bed. There I was, running around the unmanageable aisles, looking for a product that apparently defies lingual description, desperately shoving fistfuls of strange currency at anyone that looked remotely human - take it, just take it, and get me the hell out of here.

All bent out of shape, I did finally stumble upon aisle 17, otherwise known as the site of useful containers, but as you probably figured out already, of the many heavy and discouragingly elevated containers, none but the picnic coolers had any kind of holes in them. Upon sighing, I considered burning the store to the ground looking for a power drill, albeit briefly, and then, with great haste, I did make my departure, totally bereft of anything resembling success - but with my mortal health intact, one cannot but conclude that fortune had smiled upon me.

Garden photos:

The first peas:

The first zucchini:

The first tomato:

The 'better than Canadian Tire with no-holes planter, planter':

The family:

A visitor:

I don't know what to say about this knife in my garden, other than: my roommates are interesting people. I like them.

Hands off my swiss chard!

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