#canada glass market

[taghardwareca]

Toronto Glass Railings

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[shiftythrifting]

Golf Angels and a Whole Ass Sword???? that I was told I "didn't need" even tho it'd look cool as fuck on the British dress uniform sword belt I thrifted 10 yrs back

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Change of Plans

A/N: Although I am SEVERAL days late at this point, this is a gift for @something-tofightfor - HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RACHAEL! I hope your day was all that you wanted it to be, and that this year is the best fucking one yet. I so badly wanted this to be done in time, but you know me. Anywho, I love your guts and I hope you enjoy this chaotic little cake I whipped up with the help of one of your favorite cowboys.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: listen, don't do what Reader does here. Other than that... just some language. It's very tame. But don't do it.

Summary: Jack is there on business. You're there for pleasure.

He noticed you right away. 

Sitting in the waiting area near gate A-7, right leg crossed over your left and an open book in one hand, you caught his eye -

Well hello, gorgeous.

- and he had to repeatedly free his focus from your direction, reminding himself why he was at the airport in the first place. 

Damn it, Agent, you’ve got a job to do.

You turned the page of the book you were reading, letting out a sigh and stretching your neck, and Jack adjusted his position on the barstool he occupied so that he was forced to change his line of sight. He cleared his throat, lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. The bold, smoky flavor of the deep amber whiskey coated his tongue, and by the time he swallowed he was back on his task. 

He’d been sent to locate and detain a known associate of a crime boss that Statesman was attempting to bring down. Intel gathered from Agents assigned to the case suggested that the associate - a mid level player who occasionally dealt in black market weapons - would be traveling through Louisville on his way to meet with the mysterious and nefarious man they knew only as The Gatekeeper. The current theory was that The Gatekeeper was operating out of San Francisco - or more specifically, out of a secret underwater lair that was built into one of the foundational structures of the Golden Gate Bridge, hence his nickname. But Statesman had been unable to confirm that yet. Catching up with the Gatekeeper’s gun runner was their best bet when it came to pinning down his location for sure, and since he had the most experience with facial recognition and planting trackers, the assignment had gone to Agent Whiskey. 

So let’s find this shit kicker and get on with it so I can get on with… He resisted the urge to turn back in your direction. 

Setting his glass down on the cork coaster it was served to him on, he brought his newly emptied hand up to tap the arm of his gold wire glasses. At the touch of his fingertip, the stealth lens screens activated, and he used them to scan the faces of the people moving through the terminal. So far none had hit as a match for the Gatekeeper’s associate, but since the man was clever enough to book himself tickets on multiple flights that day to make it harder for anyone who might be looking to follow him, Jack had to keep checking until he either found his target or the last of those flights had taken off. 

I’ll find him. Soon as he shows up I’ll- 

But Jack didn’t even need to finish the thought, because his lenses detected the person he’d been waiting for before he could. Just as he was about to get up from his seat and position himself to intercept his target, though, he saw something else flash across his lenses. 

Mission directive has changed. Do not detain. Intel from Kingsman suggests associate may also be working with Golden Circle remnants in Canada. New directive is only to place the tracker and not to pursue until we know for sure who he is meeting. Agents in Vancouver and San Francisco have been put on alert and will be activated as needed. 

Jack blinked twice to acknowledge Ginger’s message, then used the movement of his eyes to send a question in response. 

Received. Return to HQ? 

He had his jet on standby there at the airport in the event that he needed to abscond with The Gatekeeper’s man, and he assumed that since that was no longer necessary, Champ and Ginger would want him to come back and await further information. Keeping one eye on his target, he used the other to read the new message that flashed across his lens, finding it to be a surprise. 

Negative. Don’t want to risk the chance of counter tracking. Take the Pony somewhere for a few days first. Vegas or Denver are preferable but Mexico City is also available. 

Well, shoot. Looks like I’m takin’ a vacation. My favorite kind of mission. 

Ginger had listed cities where Statesman owned properties that were reserved for off duty use - for when Agents had to lay low for a while, or for when they needed a safe place to recover from injuries sustained in the line of duty. There were several more located around the world, but judging by the selection that was presented to him, they wanted him to stay close enough to either have him back in Kentucky in a matter of hours, or send him to California or British Columbia in a pinch when the intel on who the associate was meeting with came back. 

Received. Target inbound. Contact when directive complete. 

With that, he lifted his finger up to tap the arm of his glasses once more, the screens deactivating so that he could remove them, folding them for safe storage in the inner pocket of his jacket. In a turn of luck, his mark headed straight for the bar he was seated at and sat down two stools over. He showed no signs of having made Jack for a secret operative, not even bothering to look in his direction as he ordered a drink from the bartender. 

Perfect. 

Jack’s grin was imperceptible as he used his thumb and pointer finger to pull one of the small “buttons” from the cuff of his jacket sleeve. Flattening it with a tight pinch, he dropped the bio-tracker into his own beverage and watched as it dissolved into the liquid. It finished just as the bartender placed a rocks glass of whiskey on a coaster in front of Jack’s target. He waited for the other man to take a sip, and then he closed the distance, scooting over one stool so that he was right next to him, and then he greeted the man with a jovial tone. 

“Did my ears deceive me just now, or did I hear you order the Statesman 12 year, my friend?” Jack pointed to the other man’s glass while holding his own. 

The other man turned to face Jack, a semi-scowl on his face, his annoyance over being addressed by a seemingly drunken stranger as a “friend” clearly written in gray-green eyes. “What?” He glanced down at Jack’s glass and then at his own. “Oh.” He grunted and gave Jack a nod before taking another sip of his drink. “Yeah. You drinking the same, I take it?” He arched one eyebrow and turned back to face the television screen behind the bar without waiting for the answer to the question he’d just asked. 

“Smoothest bourbon there is.” Jack held up his glass, inspecting the contents. To anyone else’s eye - even the man beside him - it would appear as though he were simply appreciating the way the overhead lights streaked through the rich amber liquid. In truth, he was making sure that the button-turned-tracker had been completely infused into the drink. Seeing that it was, he glanced over and caught his mark with his own glass midway to his lips once more.

Slow down there, son, leave some for our toast. 

Reaching for the man’s elbow, he stopped him from draining the last of his beverage. “How about we both raise our glasses to good taste and safe travels?” 

The other man jerked his arm away as though he’d been burned, the motion accompanied by a deeply frustrated sigh. Checking his watch, he rolled his eyes and shook his head at Jack. “Sure Fine. Just make it quick, I have a flight to catch.” 

As he presented his glass for the toast, Jack aggressively clinked the rim of his against it - with just enough force so that some of his drink had sloshed into the other man’s glass without him noticing. “Quick it is. Safe travels.” 

“Uh huh.” The sketch of a scowl was back as the man nodded again, knocking back the remainder of his drink, including the tracker. “Same to you.” With that, he slapped a fifty on the bar and left his empty glass, on his way to whatever gate would take him to whatever scumbag was waiting for him. 

The Gatekeeper or the Golden Circle… or whoever the fuck else. We’ll know soon enough. 

Taking his glasses back out of his pocket, Jack unfolded them and put them back on his face. With a tap of his finger the one-way screens hidden in the lenses activated again, and through a series of blinks and subtle eye movements, he sent confirmation of his mission back to Ginger Ale. 

Tracker planted. Target in motion. 

Before he got a response, though, he was distracted by a voice coming from over his shoulder. “Excuse me? Is anyone sitting there?” 

He turned towards the speaker and his eyes widened, lips lifting into a slight grin when he saw that it was you. 

Hot damn, she’s even prettier up close. 

His grin grew at your sudden, small intake of breath when your eyes met. “All yours.” Using one hand, he pulled the stool out for you as Ginger’s message started to scroll across his field of vision. 

You muttered a thank you as you chewed your lower lip. “You didn’t have to-” 

Well done Agent Whiskey. The tracker is live and we are following its movement. Which location did you select? 

“Now darlin’, what kind of gentleman would I be if I only did what I had to do?” He smiled, covertly answering Ginger’s question. 

Not sure yet. Stay tuned. 

You let out a sound that was almost a laugh, shrugging. “You’d be like most gentlemen I’ve known, I guess.” 

Agent, we need to know- 

Jack brought his hand up and tapped the side of his glasses, closing the communication screen and letting Ginger’s message go unfinished. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it and it wouldn’t be the last. He always eventually got back to her and never made her wait too long. But his focus had been drawn to you all afternoon, and now that you were sitting directly beside him, he wasn’t going to rush the interaction he’d been putting off for hours. 

“Then allow me to introduce to you a different kind.” He reached up and swept his hat from his head, laying it on the bartop, and extended his free hand to you.  “Jack Daniels.” 

–  –  – 

15 Minutes Earlier…

You checked your watch with a sigh, noting that you still had a little under an hour before you’d be called for boarding. 

It’s fine. That means I can start another chapter now. You rolled your eyes. I’ll need a new book for the flight home at this rate, though. 

It was one of those flights that didn’t make sense - with a 4 hour layover in a city that was completely out of the way of your destination. But that was why you’d been able to find tickets for only $48 each way, less than three days out. Things at work had been hectic, and you weren’t sure if you were going to be able to get the time off until the very last minute. So even though it certainly wouldn’t have been your first choice if you’d been able to book it months ago when the trip was first brought up, you were perfectly content to take the unnecessary stopover in Louisville on your way to Las Vegas. 

Doesn’t hurt when the people watching prospects are this interesting, either. 

You glanced over at the nearby bar and the astoundingly attractive man seated there who’d snagged your attention as soon as he arrived. He, like a handful of others in the terminal, wore a dark felted Stetson But unlike most, it suited him. As did his perfectly tailored suit and- 

Oh, fuck, he’s wearing glasses now. And they look damn good on him, too. 

You cleared your throat and forced your thoughts back to your trip and your reason for taking the less than desirable layover. Even though it meant spending hours alone in an airport, you were excited, because it also meant being able to see several of your friends who lived far away, and being able to celebrate your birthday with them. Well, not just your birthday. The trip was meant to be a group celebration to make up for the fact that you hadn’t all been able to get together for a birthday in years. Since there happened to be two of you who had birthdays in January, that was the month that was chosen. But the dates that were settled on had included your actual birthday smack dab in the middle of them, and you were looking forward to having something fun to do with people you missed. 

Which was why you groaned as you read the notification that popped up on your phone regarding the flight status. 

Delayed - Mechanical Issues 

“Fuck.” You muttered under your breath, closing the airline app and tapping your phone screen to open the group chat so you could fill the others in on your situation. Before you finished typing though, your phone vibrated in your hand and a picture popped up of two of your friends - Jess and Maddy - both wearing ear to ear smiles at Harry Reid International, the text from Jess simply reading two words followed by several exclamation marks: We’re here!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Kayla chimed in next, responding with an emphatic YAY! and sending a screenshot of her GPS, showing that she was just under 2 hours out. Be there so soon! 

Nat still had her phone on airplane mode since she’d only taken off from LAX about an hour earlier, so you didn’t bother waiting for an update from her before you finished typing your own. 

Bad news, my flight out of Louisville is delayed. :( Mechanical issues… No idea when I’ll be there now, but I’ll keep you all posted. 

You sent the message and tucked your phone into the outer pocket of your bag as disappointment set in. As it was, the rest of your friends were already supposed to arrive half a day before you. But now, it was looking like you were going to miss out on the entire first day of the trip. 

Or more. 

Frowning at the thought, you tried not to let yourself get too upset until you had a better idea of your situation. You told yourself that it could be something quick and easy to remedy - maybe you’d only have to wait one more hour. Maybe less. Either way, you decided that since half of the group was already there, it meant that the vacation had unofficially started, and it was time you treated yourself to a drink. 

And if I know Jess and Maddy, they’re doing the same right now. 

You picked up your bag, slinging the strap over your shoulder, and headed towards the bar. It was moderately crowded, only a few stools left vacant scattered here and between other travelers. But as you got closer you noticed that the man you’d caught yourself spending more time watching than any of the others was still seated there - and that the seat beside him had just become empty. 

Perfect timing. 

That confidence lasted only until the man spun at the sound of your voice, and seeing him up close had nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. 

Oh, shit. He’s- 

By the time he’d given you his name along with his hand to shake, you’d noticed things about him that you hadn’t from across the room. Like the flecks of tan and gold that lightened his dark brown eyes, the distinct bow of his upper lip beneath his mustache and how it rested against the plush pillow of the lower one, the way you couldn’t see a stitch of leather on him aside from his boots, but the smell of it - along with bergamot - clung to him and made him even more appealing. 

You swallowed, his warm hand wrapping around yours and squeezing as you managed to tell him your name. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack.” 

Without letting go of your hand or releasing your eyes from the lock his own had on them, he repeated your name back to you, the sound of it making your face grow warm. “Pleasure’s all mine, I promise you.” 

When he winked as he withdrew his hand, you knew you were screwed. You ordered yourself a drink - something local, a bourbon you’d not seen before called Statesman - and Jack, though approving of your choice, simply asked for a glass of water. As you brought the glass to your lips, another thought popped into your head. 

But am I really screwed, though? Because… he seems just as interested as I am. 

Over the next half hour, you and Jack made small talk and subtly flirted in smirks and glances. You asked him what brought him to the airport that day, to which he’d answered: 

“Had some business here earlier. But that’s done, so the rest of my evening is completely free.” 

You shook your head at that, taking another sip of your drink. Damn that’s good. “Don’t you have a flight to catch?” 

At that, he grinned and spread his large hands wide. “Ah, well, that is one of the perks of being my own pilot.” He raised one eyebrow and leaned towards you. “I can leave whenever I choose.” 

Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. That definitely makes him even more attractive somehow, though. 

You mouthed the word wow and let out a stunted laugh as you reached into your bag to retrieve your phone. Some time had passed and you were hoping that there would be another notification about the status of your delayed flight. “That must be nice.” You groaned as you saw that there was nothing new from the airline, and several texts from your friends expressing their dismay over your travel woes. Shaking the phone in your hand, you sighed. “I’m here on a layover that got delayed and the rest of my friends are already in Vegas.” Looking over at him, you wet your lips with your tongue. “I’d love to be able to just… hop in and take off whenever I wanted to.”

–  –  –  

Well, shit. Did she just say Vegas? 

Clearing his throat, Jack reached up to tap the arm of his glasses. Several missed messages came through at once, all from Ginger, but he blinked them away as he spoke. “Well, I know we’ve only just met, and I’m not trying to make any suggestions-” Though I could. “- But I happen to be going to Sin City myself tonight.” He had to contain his grin at the flash in your eyes as he used the nickname for the gambling town. “I’d be more than happy to take you with me.” 

Destination selected. Las Vegas, Nevada, USA. 

You sucked in a breath at his proposition, and though he knew you were likely considering saying no, he hoped you’d say yes. “I… Jack, I couldn’t ask you to-” 

“You’re not. I’m askin’. I’ll show you my license and everything to prove that I’m legit, but darlin’, I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.” He tilted his head towards the window. “No tellin’ how long they’ll need to fix that bird, and if your friends are already there…” He trailed off and shrugged, returning his gaze to you. “My jet is fully fueled and ready to go. I could get you there so you don’t have to miss out too much. More than you already have, I mean.” 

He could practically hear Ginger’s reply when it came through, but he fought the urge to let out a snort as he read it. 

IT’S ABOUT TIME, AGENT. Make sure your friend buckles up. We’ll contact you when you can return to HQ. 

You bit your lower lip again, and he couldn’t help but watch the way your teeth dug into your flesh. “I…” He saw the rest of your protest dissolve the same way the tracker had earlier, your eyes shifting from skeptical to excited until that’s all he saw in them. You laughed, then, lifting your hand and holding up one finger. “Alright. I’ll… yes. I’ll take you up on it. But on one condition.” 

Received. Will await contact. Over. 

Jack reached up to tap his glasses before removing them and stowing them in his pocket. He leaned in closer to you, concentrating on the quirk of your lips and the mixture of impulse and instinct in your eyes. “Let’s hear it.” 

“You let me buy you a drink once we get there.” You said it over the rim of your glass as you finished the last of it, eyes on him as you swallowed. 

An excuse to go out with a beautiful woman? That’s the condition? 

Jack flashed you a smile. “I think those terms are more than agreeable, ma’am.” 

–  –  –  

What the fuck am I doing? 

You half laughed at yourself, but at the same time there was something about Jack that made you feel like you could trust him. You were aware that that could be a danger in and of itself, but your gut told you he was a good man, and you had always felt that you were a good and accurate judge of character. 

How’s it any different from meeting a guy and getting in his car with him? It’s not, really. 

It was, and you knew it was, but you hadn’t been wrong yet. And as much as you wanted to get to Vegas to see your friends, you also found yourself wanting more time to get to know Jack. He was offering you the chance to do both of those things, and even though you were looking for one, you couldn’t find a downside. 

Pulling out your phone, you opened the group chat and sent one text before switching it to airplane mode. 

Change of plans. Met a (really good looking) pilot who was on his way to Vegas and offered me a ride. Sending a screenshot of his license number in case I go missing hahaha. Just kidding. I’ll be fine. See you soon!

You knew what they’d say when they saw your message. 

Jess would likely just send a thumbs up - or possibly a photo of herself giving a thumbs up. 

Maddy would emphasize your message and respond with something like Okay but don’t die! 

Kayla’s message would be a more whimsical reaction like Jesus take the wheel! (Wait do planes have wheels?) or Life is short, take rides from hot pilots when you can with the peace sign emoji. 

And Nat would send advice from several documentaries and podcasts she’d seen or listened to, about what to do if you were being abducted. 

You laughed to yourself again at the entire situation. 

“Alright, Jack.” You hopped down from your stool and picked up your bag. “I’m ready when you are.” 

He stood, taking his hat from the bartop and placing it on his head. “No time like the present.” Running his hands over his clothes, he smoothed out his suit jacket. “Follow me, darlin’. And give me that.” He pointed his chin towards your bag. “I’m a gentleman, remember? Where would my manners be if I let a lady carry her own bags?” 

You shook your head with a smile and handed over your carry-on, leaving you with only your purse. “I don’t know. You’re teaching me about gentlemen, remember?” 

You knew when you saw his eyes darken that you’d made the right call. 

“Oh, sugar. I remember. Few hours to Vegas. Plenty of time for me to teach you things.” With that he started walking and you were left to follow, slightly stunned at the implications in his tone and in his words. 

This is definitely going to be a trip to remember, that’s for sure. 

.

.

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[creepyclothdoll]

There's this thrift store at the old strip mall up the highway.

You go to the earrings first. You love earrings, but you’re always losing them.

This place has most of them in a wicker basket up by the register, but there’s more on a rack nearby and some of the fancier stuff is behind the glass under the table. But who goes for the “fancy” stuff at a thrift store? Thrift is the point. These earrings, the ones in the wicker basket, are stuck through blank, white cardboard squares with neon price stickers. 

All of them are under $10, lots under $5. You rifle through them, registering at first only that the colors and styles are very pleasing to you. Your favorite colors. The right size. Then the familiarity sets in. You are struck by a weird, uncanny feeling, which you don’t immediately place. Your body reacts to the surprise before your brain even has a chance to register what it is.

These are your earrings. Not all of them, but lots of them. Here’s a pair you bought from a different thrift store during your first year of college, gaudy wooden hippie-ish disks with flowers painted on– old and tacky, but you felt like you were cool enough to make them work– which you lost when you moved out of your dorm. Here’s a pair you lost in your last apartment, which you didn’t even realize you hadn’t seen around for the last two years– two fairly pricey and elegant-looking sapphires that your parents got for your 30th birthday, when you got promoted to Marketing Specialist. Here’s a pair you forgot you ever owned until now– some dangly red stacked beads that you wore for one Florida vacation in 2011 and then never again. Because you probably left them on the plane. 

“These are all mine,” you say out loud. You can see your reflection in the slim mirror built into the rotating sunglasses display. The earrings you are wearing today are a completely different style– the sort that a Marketing Specialist wears on the weekends, still arty but much more subtle than the sort you wore back then. That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t wear these dangly red things now. You just… don’t, really.  

“Oh, that’s interesting,” says the employee. She is short and dark-haired and named Beth. She is reading a paperback at the check-out and ignoring you. 

You look at the price tag for the sapphires. $15.99. That’s a steal. 

But they’re mine, you think. I shouldn’t have to pay fucking money for these. They’re mine.

Your eyes drift down under the mirror to the sunglasses rack. The first pair there is child-sized, with a blue frame that has a faded Little Mermaid logo on it. You recognize the sunglasses from a photograph of yourself when you were a child at Valley Fair that was pasted to your mom’s fridge for the longest time. They’re $2.99. 

In the “fancy things” area under the glass, you see an old, heavy camera. Could that be the one your grandma made you bring to high school for show-and-tell, the priceless antique World War II era camera, which went missing after you left it overnight? You got in so much trouble for losing that thing, even though you never wanted to bring it to begin with. It’s only $500. You have to buy it. There’s also a tote bag with your old work logo plastered on it which, you know, is packed full of cannabis. You decided to stock up during a trip to Canada because you didn’t know anyone who sold it while you were living in North Dakota, making ends meet while you tried (and failed) to get scholarships to animation schools. You never got to use any of it, though, because that bag got shoved under a seat in your car when you were crossing the border and you just sort of didn’t retrieve it for long enough that, eventually, you forgot you had it, and by the time you remembered, you couldn’t find it again. 

How did it get here?

There’s a deck of gen 1 Pokemon cards that you took to the park one day in 2000 and left on a slide. You’re sure you had some back then that would be really, really valuable now. 

“These are all mine,” you say. “Can I have them back? They were mine originally, I mean. I didn’t give them up on purpose and I don’t know how they got here.”

“You can’t just take things,” Beth says. “But yeah, if you want to buy them, you can have them.”

“But they’re mine. That’s my grandpa’s World War II camera. I lost it in ninth grade and I feel terrible about that.”

“It’s $500,” Beth says, pointing to the sign. You sigh and pull out my credit card. But then you see the rack of jackets. Among them, you see a terribly familiar jean jacket. 

“That’s my mom’s!” you shout excitedly. You run over to it and pull it off the rack. It’s a 1980’s Levi’s jean jacket that she saved up all her money to buy. She wore it everywhere, and kept it for decades until she could pass it on to her daughter. You had it for two months. You loved that jacket. It symbolized your mom’s trust in you. And it made you feel cool. You were in middle school, and being cool was very important, and you got a lot of compliments on it. Then one day, you went with your little brother to the park, and it was hot out, so you took it off and left it on a bench. When you went home, you weren’t wearing it anymore. But you didn’t realize it was gone until your mom asked why you hadn’t worn it in awhile. The fact that you were so careless as to lose something so important to her broke her heart. You used to search the closets in your house compulsively, hoping it might just turn up one day, and your mom would forgive you. But it never turned up. You checked that park bench, too, every time you went to that park for the rest of your life. The jacket never returned, of course. 

But now, here it is, on this rack. 

If you’re going to take anything back from this place, you know it should be this. 

And then you see grandma’s quilt. 

It’s draped and pinched with clothespins on a different rack, with the tablecloths and scrap fabric. 

Your grandma made you this quilt when you graduated college. It has her handwriting on the corner and the year she made it– 2014. She spent months making this in your favorite colors, picking out fabrics she thought you would like. She knew you really well. You loved that quilt. 

Three years ago, you took it to the laundromat. You set it on a table while you did the rest of your laundry first, so you could cold-wash it separately. But then, a crazy guy came in, yelling and acting all erratic, and it was night and you were the only other person in there, and he kept asking to buy your hair, and you rushed out of there with your wet laundry dripping. You forgot about the quilt until the rest of your blankets finished drying on your apartment banister two days later. You called the laundromat and they didn’t have it. Last winter, your grandma passed. 

You grab the jean jacket and beeline for the quilt, adding it to your pile. 

Two of your old pillowcases are on the rack too— you didn’t even realize those had been folded up with the quilt the day you lost it.

In the children’s toy section, you see your favorite stuffed raccoon, Dorothy. You haven’t seen her for years. She used to go on lots of adventures with you and your brother. You don’t remember losing her, but now you realize that yes, she– and all these other stuffed animals– are lost. Somewhere along the line, you saw them for the last time. 

A scarf you wore in tenth grade. A pair of pants that don’t fit you anymore. A snowglobe with a picture of your middle school friends in it. A nice sports bra you got from a hiking gear store when you thought you were going to get fit four years ago. A piggy bank shaped like Spongebob. Dozens of Goosebumps books. A decorative halloween skeleton. A purple sweater that you forgot was your favorite.

You grab all these things and add them to the growing pile in your arms. 

What am I gonna do with this piggy bank? You ask yourself. But then you remind yourself that it’s yours. It doesn’t matter what you do with it! It’s just supposed to be yours!

The worst thing is that you don’t remember the loss of most of these things. You never grieved them. They mostly just slipped away quietly, and you moved on. You stopped buying scarves that looked like that because your favorite color changed and you sort of realized you didn’t really like scarves that much. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want it back. 

That scarf reminds you of the time you wore it to homecoming. A crisp autumn day that was made better by a good hot dog and worse by Rachel and Drew making out on the bleachers in front of you. You were happy that day. Not about homecoming– you lost the game, not that you cared much, but because of the weather, and your friends, and the hot dog, and because you didn’t know to be depressed yet. 

You want it back. 

You want it all back.

You take the scarf. You take the toys. You take everything. You take the christmas ornaments and the ukulele and rope strings of necklaces over your arms and purses over your shoulders. You take printed mugs, good water bottles, old halloween masks, trophies you won in elementary school, your second prom dress (the one with the glitter), happy birthday cards from relatives who died when you were little (they loved the little you! You were so loveable), a jello mould in the shape of a chicken you bought as a joke with your first real girlfriend (wish it ended different), a pair of ladybug-print rain boots you left outside when you were three, VHS family movies from the late 90’s, a phone you dropped in a lake, an old tamagotchi you also dropped in a lake, a book of self-portraits you did as a series in college (you look nothing like her now but you still want it), your old journal filled with comics (remember when you wanted to be a cartoonist?), your old skateboard (remember how you used to play?).

It’s the little trinkets, the things you don’t even think you liked very much, but which maybe you could have made better use of, that you want back the most. You aren’t done with those things. Unfinished, all of them. 

In a stack of blue bins against a wall are a thousand little things you drew or wrote over the course of your childhood– gifts to your parents, homework you never turned in, little stories about your friends, drawings of your grandma. Some of it is still pretty funny (remember when you wanted to be a comedian?). Animation cells that you made and stored away in the basement when you were telling yourself your scholarship hunt was just “on pause” (these ideas are still good, you can still use them!) What the hell are these things doing here? How dare these people?

“Excuse me, ma’m,” Beth says, only now looking up from her paperback– which you now realize is also yours– with a mix of irritation and deep concern. You spin around, covered head-to-toe in your things. 

“What?!” You snap. You are wrapped in the quilt, draped in ribbons and purses and medals and sweaters and scarves of all shades from all eras of your life. You look like a giant slug made of closet debris. 

“There’s no way you’re gonna buy all that,” Beth says. 

“Like hell I am!” You shout. “I shouldn’t have to buy any of it! It’s all mine, and I want it back!”

A little orange plastic treasure chest with two of your baby teeth inside– you used to be so little, so innocent. Your Girl Scout sash– you had so many friends. The orange yo-yo you got at a carnival when you were one– the first thing you consciously remember losing, remember how sad you were? A note you wrote to yourself with a funny song lyric on it last thursday (you might record it someday). A Mickey Mouse photo frame of you with your best friend Anna in elementary school (you loved her so much, why don’t you talk to her anymore?). 

“I want it all back,” you say again and again. 

There was a version of you who wore the red bead earrings. There was a version of you who played with the stuffed raccoon with your brother. There was a version of you who appreciated those nice sapphires. There was a version of you who was happy in a scarf at homecoming. There were versions of you with more friends, versions with fewer troubles, versions that were thinner and stronger and healthier and younger, versions that had all sorts of dreams and visions for the future, versions that strived for completely different things than you strive for now.

You can still have them back.

You pull the sunglasses display over, grabbing every pair and stuffing them into your many bags. You grab the hat rack that used to sit in your childhood bedroom and start dragging it toward the door. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to call the police if you don’t stop,” Beth says. You do stop– just long enough to walk back to her and take the paperback murder mystery out of her hands, which still has your library info as the last check-out glued inside the cover. 

“See?” You laugh bitterly, pointing at it. “Me!”

The nest of stuff has swelled around you, trailing behind you like the tail of a huge worm. 

Beth is already calling 911. You move very slowly toward the door, exerting tremendous effort to lug all of your precious memories toward the glass pane between you and the outside. You tell yourself that you can already feel the feelings coming back to you– all those other versions of yourself, just by proximity, are waking up again inside of you. The young woman who believed she was going to be something different, the child who was happy in the rain, the future artist before the future evaporated– all of them are coming back now. 

You don’t fit through the door. Beth is talking fast to the operator. In a small town like this, they’ll be here soon. Breathing heavy, you back up and slam into the open door frame, wedging yourself firmly inside. The little mermaid sunglasses shatter. Something crunches. You grunt and scream, pushing with all your might. Something rips. Something scrapes. 

“She’s trying to take everything,” Beth explains hurriedly. “You will? That’s great. As fast as you can.”

You have one last hail mary– you leap forward, letting yourself– and everything you’re wearing– fall to the ground. The enormous mass of things around you crunch down around you, crushing the air out of your lungs, pinning you to the cement. But you’re out. You did it. You took it all back. It’s yours. Yours again. 

By the time the police arrive, you’re gone– lumbering up the freeway, backward through traffic, a massive snakey worm made of tangled fabric and papers and trinkets. The “you” that walked into the thrift store is only a tiny piece of what you are now– a YOU freed from the burden of forgetting. Cars swerve around you to avoid hitting you or any of the things dangling from your massive, hulking form. 

Where are you going? To be everything you meant to be. To fulfill every possible future. It’s not too late. Not now that you have all of it back. 

You march forward like time.

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

Women & Songs 4 2000 Adult Alternative / Singer-Songwriter / Pop / Adult Contemporary / Dance-Pop / R&B / Country-Pop

Me, sitting in a packed boardroom in the Canadian offices of Warner Elektra Atlantic in ~1997:

"OK, OK, hold on, hold on, wait..."

*closes eyes and lightly pinches bridge of nose with thumb and index finger*

"I just got this brilliant fuckin' idea."

*takes an enormous bong rip and then exhales while gathering thoughts*

"OK, so, y'know, like...people...they love women, right? But another thing that they also love is songs too, right? So, like...see if you can follow me here...what if, like, we took women, but then, like, what if we also took songs...and then, like, what if we somehow managed to...put them both together...?!? 🤔🤯"

*The CEO of the company takes the stubby cigar from his mouth and places it in his ashtray. He then removes his glasses, gently places them on the table, and rubs his eyes a few times as he carefully mulls over what I've just said. He then gets up out of his seat while a grin starts to form on his face, and proceeds to clap slowly, with each successive clap coming more quickly than the previous one, which then leads to a universal round of applause and standing ovation from everyone else in the room. The CEO then pulls me aside and says the following into my ear...*

"See, RV, this is why we're paying you the big bucks."

*He shakes my hand vigorously and then proceeds to give me a million dollars 😀*

---

Y'know, I've posted *a lot* about *a lot* of different compilations over the years, but the first installment in Canada's Women & Songs series is one that's probably going to stick with me until the day that I die; not because it presents a terrific encapsulation of the female singer-songwriter boom of the mid-to-late 90s—which it so totally does—but because of the plainly awful and absurdly low effort that went into both naming and packaging it. It's like, you'd think it was being put out by someone who had just decided to invest in a CD burner and then sell their own bootleg releases that'd been comprised of songs that they'd downloaded off of Napster or something; but no—this shit *actually* came from the greenbacked behemoth that was WARNER ELEKTRA ATLANTIC instead! And for whatever reason, the folks there *really* couldn't be bothered to spare a few more bucks or literally thirty seconds to come up with something that was even a little slightly better than Women & Songs and these atrocious album covers. It's really all just so ridiculous when you think about it, and because of that, it's also very unforgettable as well.

But anyhoo, just like its first volume, this fourth one from the series is really nothing short of excellent too, as it provides a fantastic and diverse array of female-led gems that had specifically been lighting up the Canadian charts in some capacity dating back to 1996. We've got superstar divas like Janet Jackson, Toni Braxton, Tina Turner, Madonna, and Whitney Houston; we've got the country-pop stylings of Faith Hill and LeAnn Rimes; we've got summer romcom staple "Breathless" by The Corrs, one of the single-greatest radio pop songs of the 90s in Natalie Imbruglia's version of "Torn"—believe it or not, she was actually, like, the fourth person to record and release that song—we've got Tracy Chapman, Veruca Salt's Nina Gordon on a well-translated adult alternative tip (anyone else remember "Volcano Girls"?), teen poppers All Saints, and we've also got Dido's "Here With Me," which was co-produced by none other than the great Rick Nowels, a guy whose own exploits have somewhat quietly managed to enrich the careers of so many other female pop stars too, from Stevie Nicks, to Belinda Carlisle, to Celine Dion, to Adele, to Alessia Cara, to Dua Lipa, to Lykke Li, to FKA Twigs, to Madonna, and Lana Del Rey 😯.

But because the Canadian music industry itself has a natural inclination to insularly market and promote a lot of the country's very own artists, there's also a showcase of some really talented women on here whose names you probably wouldn't recognize unless you were Canadian yourself; and that's a bit of a shame, because Pickering, Ontario's own Sarah Slean, for instance, really brings it with a beautifully woven and rich tapestry called "High," which first appeared on her independently released debut album, Blue Parade, in 1998. Trust me when I say this: if you really love all those singing-songwriting ladies of the 90s, like Fiona Apple, Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant, Paula Cole, Jewel, Tori Amos, etc., you're gonna wanna hear this Sarah Slean song as well, because while it's definitely in a similar vein to all of those women, it's also pretty uniquely wonderful too 👍.

And speaking of Sarahs, I usually don't go for classical crossover-type fare, but Sarah Brightman's rendition of Procol Harum's "A Whiter Shade of Pale" here is especially lovely. It's a highly effective combination of her own soprano, a lush arrangement of orchestral strings, and an unexpected infusion of a contemporarily cinematic trip hop-type of drum beat that really manages to satisfyingly bring the whole thing together. Awesome, and dare I say, (le) epic, stuff.

And I can't leave here without briefly marveling over Whitney Houston's "My Love Is Your Love" too, which Wyclef Jean and his frequent collaborator Jerry Duplessis lent their own subdued Fugees production style to back in 1999. Such a beautiful collaboration with that one, the likes of which I'm not sure that we've ever really heard anything similar to since. Maybe my favorite song on this entire album 😊.

So, in conclusion, women and songs are both great on their own, but once again, as the wea conglomerate has shown us, when you actually decide to combine 'em, it can really yield something special. And I know it's kind of a wild concept that might be a bit difficult to grasp at first, but I think if you give this thing a shot, you'll be able to hear a lot of the mid-90s-to-y2k greatness that came as a result of this purely abstract, out-of-the-box thinking. A bunch of quality music on here, and with some focus specifically put on Canada too, but just make sure to do yourself a favor and skip over the totally uninspired opening that is Madonna's cover of Don McLean's "American Pie," because that thing is BAD.

Highlights:

Faith Hill - "Breathe" The Corrs - "Breathless" Chantal Kreviazuk - "Before You" Janet Jackson - "Together Again" Natalie Imbruglia - "Torn" Tracy Chapman - "Telling Stories" All Saints - "Pure Shores" Toni Braxton - "You're Making Me High" Dido - "Here With Me" Nina Gordon - "Tonight and the Rest of My Life" LeAnn Rimes - "How Do I Live" Tara MacLean - "If I Fall" Whitney Houston - "My Love Is Your Love" Sarah Slean - "High" Sarah Brightman - "A Whiter Shade of Pale"

[saleintothe90s]

498. Flintstones 1994 Garbage (part 1)

(see also Dick Tracy Garbage, 1996 Olympics Garbage, Phantom Menace Garbage, Y2K Garbage)

Back in the day, thirty years ago, usually the movies that came out Memorial Day weekend were still relevant by the time 4th of July came along. I don't remember that happening with 1994's Flintstones. Here is the Box Office for 4th of July, 1994:

Simba driving that bus really took them out. Maybe its just my memories from when I was ten, but I remember the hype for Flintstones was the week the movie came out, and that was it. I stopped hearing that B-52's B.C. 52's song after about a week on the radio.

Ten year old me thought the song was cheesy, but 41 year old me doesn't mind it now. Halle Berry is having the time of her life in the video.

The merchandising for this movie was diligently curated. 'Pretty sure we've all seen that RocDonalds McRib commercial. RocDonalds was part of McDonald's first World wide marketing campaign.1

Australia got the $2 Bedrock Dinner Deal, while Canada had the Barney Rubble bacon double cheese meal. In Malaysia they had dinosaur nuggets!

I have to give it up to Rosie O'Donnell as Betty, that was the role she was born to play, baby.

She showed up for every single McDonalds commercial. Sometimes with an actress that they hired to look almost like Halle Berry's Sharon Stone character. They were getting that McDonalds $$bag$$. Sometimes the same line had to be filmed twice because in Canada, they had plastic movie cups and the in the States we just had paper ones. She was the star of the glasses commercial.

You know what Australia McDonalds had that we didn't? A Barney Rubble pencil sharpener!

We had those clunky cars that went into buildings?

I almost forgot about the t-shirt you could buy at McDonalds!

McDonalds did all this work, spent all this money, did all these promos, and it wasn't enough. Kids weren't impressed. 1 Burger King had a huge Lion King production that won over kids, with some locations reporting that they were selling 220-300 kids meals a day. 2

(part 2)

[putellas14]

You're The Gift That Keeps On Giving (Ona Batlle x Reader)

Merry Christmas, internet friends. I hope you enjoy this fic. On a bigger, more important note, please help those in your community this Christmas if you are able to. Many families in all our communities can't afford to have the things we do, to put food on their tables, to give their children nice gifts for Christmas. Help them this year too, if you're able to. I love you all very much. Thank you for an incredible year.

When Ona moved to Manchester, you'd immediately taken to her. She was kind and funny and smart and her English was terrible. But the way she spoke did something to you. You had a boyfriend when she moved there but had broken up with him when you realized you were developing romantic feelings for Ona. You'd left England last Christmas, hoping a couple weeks at home in Canada would give you some space to clear your head.

But being away only made you miss Ona.

You'd gone back to Manchester unsure what to do next. You didn't date teammates. That was one rule you had never broken before.

It took a few months but eventually, you gave in. You let Ona kiss you one night when she walked you home from a team bonding dinner. She had been so hesitant and you could see the question in her eyes. You'd given her a small nod and she'd wasted no time, pulling you closer for a kiss.

When the topic of Christmas came up, you both were unsure where to go. Both of your parents wanted you to come home this year. And there was no way you could split the holiday between Spain and Canada. You'd both resigned yourself to spending the holiday apart from each other.

But that didn't mean you weren't going to try to squeeze out every Christmasy thing together before you both went home. You'd even made a list of everything you could try to do.

Tonight was your last night in Manchester, and you'd brought Ona to a Christmas market. It was snowing lightly. Just below zero. She'd shown up to your house without gloves or a hat. You'd tsked and put one of your beanies on her head. Much to her dismay, it was bright pink with a pom pom on top. You'd giggled while her cheeks burned bright. But she kept it on, saying your giggle was too cute to refuse. You'd thanked her with a kiss and handed her a pair of gloves to keep her fingers warm.

As you approached the market, you looped your arm through Ona's, tucking your hand into her pocket. Even after multiple winters in England, your Spanish girlfriend still hated the cold. And you knew she'd only agreed to this because you wanted to come.

"What should we do first? Should we get some wine or some food or look around?"

"Can we get some wine? Maybe it'll keep my fingers warm."

"My hand's not doing a good job?" you asked with a smile.

"But what about my other hand?" she asked, taking her other hand out of her pocket and wiggling her fingers.

"Oh yes, of course. We can't forget about that hand as well." You grabbed her hand and brought it your lips, making her blush. "Come on. Let's get some wine." You'd looked at the map online and memorized it. Most people thought it was weird that you did things like that. Ona didn't mind. Ona always said it made things easier because you would know where to go without having to look it up on the spot.

She made all your weird traits seems normal.

While you waited in the line for wine, you stood facing Ona. Her hands were tucked so far into her pockets you thought her hands might actually tear holes in the coat. You rubbed your hands up and down her arms, hoping to warm her a little. She stepped closer into you. Smiling, you kissed her cheek and wrapped an arm around her to hold her close. You kept her against you as you moved up the line and tucked her under your arm when you ordered the wines.

"Ready to walk around?" you asked Ona, after she'd had a few sips of her wine. Wrapping both hands around her glass, she smiled and nodded. "Do you need a snack?" She shook her head. "Okay. Let's go." You wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to your side.

There were dozens of booths set up. Everything from handmade mittens to ornaments to baked goods to toys filled the tables. People happily looked around, children ran in between everything, couples walked hand in hand. You let Ona lead you over to a booth of ornaments.

"I had a thought," she started. You squeezed her hip to tell her to keep going. "What if we get a new ornament together every year?" she asked, shyly.

"I love that idea," you said, smiling. Leaning down, you kissed her cheek. "Any of them catch your eye?" She pointed at one and you laughed seeing which one she'd chosen. "Should've known," you said as she picked up the Manchester United themed ornament.

"It's how we met. We should honor that, no?"

"Yes, we should," you said beaming. While the ornament was wrapped up, you tipped Ona's chin up with your finger and kissed her softly. "I'm so lucky you're mine." You ran a finger down her nose, wiping some snow away. She smiled up at you and kissed your chin. As you handed over a few bills and put the ornament in your bag, you thought about how happy you were that Ona wanted to spend next Christmas and the Christmas after and the Christmas after that with you. Even though you'd been together less than a year, it felt so real. She felt like your forever person.

As you continued along, you tried not to let the feeling of love you had for her overwhelm you. You could feel it warming your entire chest, tightening your throat. Tears threatened the back of your eyes.

As you were caught up in your thoughts, Ona suddenly pulled you over to a booth in the corner. Looking up you saw a sign with a bunch of toy and bread images. There were no customers at this booth, a stark contrast to all the others where dozens of people crowded into one.

"Hi. Can you tell me what this is?" Ona asked the young boy standing on the other side.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "We're selling these boxes." He pointed to a stack of wrapped boxes behind him. "Each box has a few toy gifts for children and enough food for a family of four for a week. There are many families in this country that can't afford food, let alone gifts and we try to get these boxes to as many of them as we can."

"What happens if you don't sell the boxes?"

"We still donate them. These boxes are meant for families and children in need. They go to them whether our community helps us pay for them or not."

While they discussed how much each box cost, you looked down at Ona. She was the most incredible woman you'd ever met. You already knew she would be buying the boxes. You could see it on her face as soon as the boy had told her what they were. She'd never let anyone go hungry if she could help it. She'd never let anyone be unhappy on Christmas if she could help it.

It didn't surprise you one bit when you heard, "I'll buy them all." But the boy was flustered and you couldn't help but giggle a little. His face flushed red as he asked if she was sure. He fumbled for the credit card machine when she said yes.

Later that night, after more hours walking around in the cold with Ona, you bundled her into a blanket on your couch and turned the fireplace on while you made hot chocolate for her. You knew she liked the little snowflake sprinkles so you'd made sure to buy some the last time you went to the shop.

Her nose was still slightly red when you sat down in front of her and handed her the mug.

"Thank you, mi amor." She took a sip of the drink and smiled at you over it. "I like the sprinkles."

"I know." You rubbed a hand over her arm. "Are you starting to warm up, my little snow angel?"  She nodded. You put the back of your hand against her cheek to see. Satisfied that she seemed to be coming back to her normal temperature, you dropped your hand.

"This has been the best year," she said. Putting her mug down, she took your hands in hers. "I love you so much, Y/N."

"I love you, too, Ona." You leaned towards her for a kiss, smiling when her cold fingers found your cheek. "I can't wait to spend every Christmas with you, love." Wrapping your arms around her, you cuddled closer to her. The Manchester United ornament glinted on the tree over her shoulder, catching your eye. It brought a huge smile to your face, causing you to bury your head in Ona's neck.

You might have to spend Christmas away from your love but you were happy with the knowledge that you would be able to come back to each other afterwards. That you both wanted to come back to each other. For always.

[couldawouldashoulda50]

The Distance and the Time Between Us

Part One - February, 2016

A/N - Part one starts at the beginning where Y/N and William first meet. You can read the Introduction here

Y/N is invited by the organization to do some light-hearted promotional video shorts to try and elevate the mood surrounding the Leafs (the team is having one of their worst seasons on record) and support the Marlies (their season is the polar opposite). I have never really written dialogue before and truthfully, I struggled with it so hopefully it's not too painful to read. Hopefully my French isn't too brutal either.

Warnings: mention of medical issues, swearing

Word Count: 4.8k

Early February, 2016

“Okay, so the idea is that we’re going to test her knowledge about Sweden, and then in order to get a point, she also needs to shoot the puck in the net.  Then we’ll flip it over to you and you will need to answer some questions about Canada and then do the same with the puck. Easy, right?” Amanda chuckles at William as he makes an indiscernible, possibly bordering on unimpressed, face. 

“Why can’t you ask ME the Swedish questions…I mean, how hard are these questions anyway?'' William says, trying to coax the Marketing Manager into switching things up.  

“Because we have to make it somewhat challenging - there’s no fun in making it too easy for you” Amanda laughs.  “Plus, she may not know anything about Sweden so you could totally run away with this.”

“Yeah, let’s hope so…I’d rather not get pummeled and have the whole thing recorded…I’ll never live it down”  William laughs.  He finishes tying up the laces on his skates, exits the dressing room and joins the camera crew on the ice.

Not long after, you emerge from another dressing room of the practice facility for the Leafs and Marlies, decked out in a zip-up team jacket, dark tights and your hockey skates.  You were provided with a customized Bauer stick to match the one the former first-round pick uses.  You take a quick glance at your reflection in the glass and chuckle to yourself thinking, rather modestly, “it’s as good as it’s going to get”.  You adjust the Leafs toque that was provided to you and open the latch to the gate.

You hop onto the ice, trying to contain the sheer excitement of even being at this rink.  As a local girl, you were brought up watching the Leafs.  At the age of 4, you found a souvenir from a Maple Leaf’s game that your Dad had attended.  It was a glossy paged yearbook of the 1993/1994 Leafs roster and when your eyes fell upon Felix Potvin, the Leafs starting net minder, you were done…your little 4 year old heart fell head over heels in love with him.  The adoration for Felix made you a fan, not just of the team, but of the game.  It wasn’t an aspiration of yours to necessarily play hockey; the dreams of being a musician had already consumed your mind, body and soul.  It was the skating; the power and speed behind every glide that held your focus as you watched each game.  As a child, you took figure skating lessons but after years of struggling with some of the fundamentals due to your stout body structure, especially in your legs (making it difficult to do the ‘cross’ part of the ‘cut’), you dropped the lessons, and stayed away from participating in any on-ice activities.  

Years later, your height nearly reaching 5’9” after some significant growth spurts, your body took a more shapely and athletic form, mainly as a result of swimming laps nightly at the community pool.  Much like skating, the power and strength behind every movement with swimming laps appealed to you.  It taught you focus while developing precise and efficient motion.  You were a natural born worrier; the rhythm and repetition of gliding through water helped free you from the relentless chatter that plagued your mind.  

With the changes to your frame allowing your legs to finally accomplish the menacing cross-cut, and you now making money from your band's pursuits, the power skating lessons began.  With you being based in Britain at the time, it was challenging to find the exact program that you wanted.  You resigned to being the only 5’8”, fully developed 18 year old female taking “ice-hockey lessons” as they called it, alongside 8 and 9 year old boys.  You learned another valuable lesson during this time, learning to drown out the comments and unwanted input from those around you, in order to do what you love.  It came in handy - at this point in time, being an up and coming band, you still found yourselves playing gigs in front of audiences where 20% wanted to hear you and 80% did not.

And here you are now, a superstar in your own right, invited by the Maple Leafs organization to make some promotional video shorts with members of the current Maple Leafs and Toronto Marlies teams.  The Leafs were having a pretty tough season; the Marlies season was the polar opposite. The organization’s hope was that some light-hearted PR involving the once small-town Ontario girl, turned mega-celebrity, who happens to love both Toronto hockey teams, could help lighten the abysmal mood that infected the fan base.  

As he chatted with Amanda, William watched you with interest as you skated towards the production team.  He knows you - well, not exactly…he at least knows who you are.  William was familiar with a few of your hits and generally liked some of  your solo stuff but he was nowhere near the level of fandom of his three sisters.  Even William’s younger brother, Alex, was an avid follower of yours but he mused it might be more about your physical beauty than your music.

Alex nearly jumped through the phone last night when William explained that he was doing a video segment with you the following day.  

William hadn’t noticed his conversation with Amanda had completely trailed off; his eyes firmly set on you as you enthusiastically greeted each person on the set.   You were simply luminescent, and William was honestly taken aback with your natural ability to put everyone at ease.  Although you were the VIP of the day, you made everyone in the room feel like they were too.  

William’s sky-blue eyes traced the side-profile of your face; butterflies started to form in his stomach when you glanced towards him and smiled.  As he smiled back, the butterflies were replaced by an elephant stampede in his chest, and he began to feel an intense heat radiating from his cheeks.

You skated over to him and unbeknownst to you, he was actually nervous, despite his demeanor of appearing totally relaxed.  

“Hey William” you said, extending your hand.  “I’m Y/N - I’m so excited to meet you” you said, grinning your widest grin.

And as William grinned his widest grin back at you, there were two thoughts crashing in your mind at the same time - “Jesus - he’s fucking gorgeous” followed promptly by “he’s probably a prick so forget about it”.

“Nice to meet you too…. My sisters are huuuuuge fans of yours”, William said.

You smiled with appreciation “That’s awesome…please tell them thank you, from me, if you can.  It’s always so nice to hear that.” 

You paused - you didn’t want to pry, or sound intrusive but you saw the hit William took from the Swiss player at the World Juniors in December and had been on your mind since, given his connection with the Marlies.

Tentatively, you continued. “I saw some clips from the All-star Classic last week - it must have felt good to be back on the ice.   

“Oh - you mean after the concussion”.  You weren’t sure if William was embarrassed but he looked down towards the ice and ran his fingers through his luxurious blonde hair.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you winced “Yeah…I watched that game…” you trailed off, feeling really uncertain if you should say any more.  “I’m so sorry - that hit on you was brutal.” 

 “It didn’t feel good, that’s for sure; should’ve kept my head up” he quipped.  “But yeah, between that and my appendix almost bursting after that, I’m a lot better now”.  

You kicked yourself mentally, hoping you hadn’t created an awkward moment; you were never one to handle uncomfortable silences very well.   

In an attempt to recover, you look up at William with a smile.

 “Well, I’m so glad to hear you’ve recovered.  It looks like they’re almost ready…let’s get this rig rolling”, giving him a little wink and a slight nudge.

You turn to see that the crew has nearly finished setting up the lighting and Amanda is going through some details with the woman that will be hosting the segment.  You skate off to join Amanda and the host to see if you can get some intel of the questions being asked.

Amanda calls William over and she begins to direct you to where you’ll both need to stand so the lighting casts perfectly over your faces. 

A make-up artist appears, and begins to do some minor touch-ups to enhance your healthy glow, and applies a thin layer of gloss to your lips as an extra measure.

William watches as you raise your chin up and close your eyes, as brushes lightly graze over your features.  It’s unnerving for him to look at you; he’s convinced that you’re one of the most strikingly beautiful women that he's ever met. And he’d met plenty of women, or girls, depending. At the young age of 19, he’d already gotten a taste of the boy-band level of popularity with many females in Toronto, looking to catch the attention of an up and coming hockey star.  Add in all the girls he would meet during years of road trips, William never had to make an effort for girls to flock to him. Because of this, William found it difficult to establish a real connection beyond the overly available, yet casual, hook-ups which, most of the time, became complicated and messy. 

Filming quickly gets underway and the host introduces you both, giving a quick history about each of you.  

“OK Y/N - are you ready for the first question?” the host asks 

“Absolutely” you say, smiling.

“What are the two colours on the Swedish Flag?”

Relieved it’s an easy question, you quickly answer “Blue and Yellow”.  You position the puck just so and fire your shot, hitting the back of the net with ease.

William smiles and appears to be impressed as he raises an eyebrow and mouths the word “Wow”.

As the Swedish trivia challenge continued on, you managed to answer all of the remaining questions correctly, even blurting out the answer to the bonus question related to what type of government Sweden has (you’re not even sure how you knew the answer but nevertheless, you seemed to delight the onlookers).  Better yet, your shots on net were pretty solid and each puck hit the netting, coupled with an audible swoosh.

More and more, William was finding himself completely captivated by you.  Since he set his eyes on you, he sensed a massive contrast between you and the girls that he frequently came in contact with.  William’s mind began to race with questions about you; he needed to know more about you.  At the same time, and as self-assured as William normally was, the thought of asking a global celebrity for at least her number, had his stomach tied in knots.

William was up.  Everyone knew he was a sniper, so obviously scoring was not going to be an issue.  The questions related to Canada were generally the same as the Swedish ones, and William answered them with ease.

Each time you glanced at William, your heart started to race a little more.  You had made a snap judgement about his personality, based solely on his exterior, which completely backfired on you.    He proved to be warm and charming, with a smile that never seemed to leave his face.  You contemplated if you had ever met a man who smiled as much as William seemed to.  

The host’s voice brings you back down to earth.

“OK, William - in order to get to the bonus question, name three of your favourite Canadian music artists” the host asked, glancing over at you with a wink and a smile.

It seemed obvious enough that William would include you in the answer, since you were 8 feet away from him, but instead, he rhymed off Justin Bieber, Drake and The Weeknd.  He shot the puck and satisfied with his response, smiled at the host.

There was an odd silence as the onlookers seemed surprised that William appeared to snub you, on camera no less.  

William read the room and looked over at you with a confused look.  You smiled back at him and shrugged your shoulders.  

The host, trying to assess the situation, looking to find some humour in it, chuckles and says “Ok, I guess William’s not a fan of Y/N it seems” which was met with some low-key snickering from the crew.

“Wait - what?” William says, half laughing - his cheeks starting to burn.  His expression was mostly like a deer caught in the headlights.

You, sensing his embarrassment, said “It’s all good…” you giggled and looked at the host “Those would be my choices…I’m not necessarily everyone’s cup of tea” you say modestly.

William’s head swiftly turned in your direction.  His eyebrows lifted and his mouth dropped open as he realized his unintentional SNAFU.

The onlookers shook their heads and laughed; some came over and gave William some hearty pats on his shoulder, accompanied by some good natured ribbing.

You could see William trying to laugh it off but as he looked at you with a combined expression of awkwardness and unease, and your heart cracked a little for him.  

The host waves her hands and grabs everyone’s attention again.

“Alright, William, moving along - for the bonus question.  If you answer this correctly, then we’ll need a tie breaker between you and Y/N.  The question is a geography based one”.

William groaned and his face lowered into his gloved hands.  

The host continued, “How many territories are there in Canada?”

Someone in the group decided to quietly hum the Jeopardy theme song which was of no help to William.

William inhaled, squinted his face and apprehensively answered “2?”

“Ooooh - sorry William!  Soooo clooooose!” the host says in faux dismay.  “There’s actually 3”.

The host mercifully wraps up the segment declaring you the winner of the trivia challenge.  William taps his stick on the ice as recognition, and everyone begins to disperse.

William makes his way over to you; his dazzling eyes are fixed on your face, a wide, almost mischievous grin, spans his angelic visage.

“Are you sure you’re not Swedish?  I wasn’t sure I even knew all those answers” he joked.  

“So…who’s your next victim with these shoots?” William asks coyly.

“Whoa - really…victim?” you answer feigning shock with a side of a phoney ‘how dare you’.

“Aren’t you the one who slayed me during this little stint…snubbing me entirely” you laughed,  nudging William in the arm.  

William groans “You have no idea how badly I’m going to be chirped about this.  I really don't know what I was thinking.  Fuck it - I’ll blame on it on the concussion.” 

“Oh my gosh - honestly, it was really pretty funny. It wasn’t like you were saying I suck…unless that’s exactly what you were trying to say” you dead-panned, raising an eyebrow at him.  “We might have a problem then if that's the case,” you joked.

William laughs “Tell you what…I do really feel bad…do you maybe want to grab something to eat later on, if you’re not busy?”

Your heart leapt inside your chest into your throat. 

“I wish I could but I have plans with some old friends…I haven't seen them in ages so they’ll be pissed if I blow them off.  I’m here for another week or so - maybe we can swing another time?” you said, hopefully.

“For sure…here…” Williams grabs his phone from his pocket “Can you add your number?”

William hands you the phone and you start typing the digits of your number.  Under the contact name, you typed in "Can I be your #4?", saved it and handed the phone back to William.  Amanda calls out for you and William to get a picture together so William quickly jams his phone back into his pocket and drapes his arm around your shoulder.  You gently extended your arm around his waist thinking that seemed to be the only place on his body that made sense.  With that mere touch, externally you smiled for the camera, but internally, were acutely aware of the faint but noticeable throb between your legs that William’s mere touch seemed to incite.  "Keep it together Y/N, for fuck sakes" you joked to yourself.  

"It was so great to meet you William - it was a ton of fun" you laughed, taking your hand out of the hockey glove and extending it to William.

“Trivia isn’t really my thing but you definitely made it more interesting” William said as he extended his arms out for an embrace.  

You managed to pull the plug on the wild smut show that had already started in your brain, kept it light, and while hugging him, you patted his back gently and pulled away.

“See you, William,” you said grinning.

William wanted to come up with something clever, something extra but his brain just wasn’t engaging. Instead, he smiled bashfully and simply said “See you…I hope”.

Later on, in the parking lot, William sat in his car looking through his contacts, searching for your name.  His heart sank when he went to the first letter of your name and found nothing.  

He scrolled back to the top of his contacts, his thumb slowly grazing the glass to look at every single contact name he had.  “Shit - I need to get rid of some of these” he thought as he bypassed a myriad of girls' names from previous encounters.  

William laughs when he finally discovers the pseudonym you gave yourself and sits there for a moment, grinning like the Cheshire Cat; his chest fills up with a warm sensation unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.  

He arrived home to his downtown condo that he shared with his teammate, Kasperi.  

“Hey - how’d it go?  How was she?” Kappy asked, not looking up from the TV screen.

William grabbed water from the fridge and walked to the living room where Kasperi lounged on the couch, almost enveloped by the overstuffed cushions that were strewn about.  Immersed in Call of Duty, Kasperi only could mutter “Fuck” multiple times in a row.

“Good. She’s really nice actually” William said, not wanting to elaborate on his newly developed interest.  

“Is she as hot up close as she looks on screen?  That video she was in - you know….that song” Kasperi hums the tune of one of your more popular solo hits “she’s hardly wearing anything under a buttoned-down dress shirt and mmmm…she’s in stilettos” Kappy mused, eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Jesus, Kap - get a grip” William forced a chuckle, trying not to let his annoyance show.  

“You wanna play for a bit?” Kasperi asked, mumbling expletives as William declined.

“Gonna go for a nap - see you in a few”.  William disappears into his bedroom.  He flops onto the bed and rolls over, grabbing the pillow on the right side.  He lay there thinking of you; he can hardly believe it but he’s already dying to see you again.  He grabs his phone and Googles your name.  First, he pulls up images of you - everything from award ceremonies and galas to magazine covers.

William continues to scroll through the search results, pulling up a video that a fan made on YouTube.  It’s a video montage of you, at various events over the years.  The song “More than a Woman” by the BeeGees plays in the background; the music somehow further enhances every movement of your elegant figure and every detail of your radiant face. 

As you smile for the cameras.

As you laugh with your bandmates.

As you take the stage in front of thousands of fans.

Ugh.  As you looked at your (now ex-) boyfriend in the eyes while walking the red carpet, your arm looped through his.

That last one hurt.

William flipped his phone over and grabbed the pillow once again.  He closed his eyes, imagining the pillow was your body lying next to him, the first few moments of meeting you were on a continuous loop in his mind, until sleep finally found him.

****************************************************************

After the segment with William had wrapped, you headed to the dressing room to change out of your skates.

Evelyn breezes through the door after waving good-bye and saying thanks to the small entourage that escorted her to the dressing room.   

“That went well…” 

Evelyn’s British accent, and the way she enunciated her words, seemed to always sound sardonic, whether it was intentional or not.  You had learned that it was just best to stick with the facts throughout conversations with Evelyn; as your manager, you learned fast that she often wasn’t in the mood to hear about frilly musings other than in your songs.  

“Poor soul looked completely lost after he rhymed off every fucking Canadian singer, except you” she smirked.

“Jesus. he picked three of his favourite performers that he listens to, and they are all amazing,” you laughed.  “He’s not required to be a fan of mine,” you said as you nudged Evelyn’s arm. “He felt bad though - he asked me out to make up for it, so that was nice” you trailed off, your cheeks inadvertently blushing at the thought.

“So that’s why you gave him your number” Evelyn smiled.  “It’s nice to see you finally getting back on the horse”.  Evelyn reaches into her long Burberry coat, pulling out her phone to open a newly delivered text message.  “Play your cards right, you may get to ride him too.  You could use a good…” she said in a low tone, neither taking her eyes off the screen or bothering to finish her sentence.  

You scoffed, but it wasn’t like the thought hadn’t already entered your mind.

Amanda appeared at the door and invited you and Evelyn to head to the players lounge for a quick bite.   

On the way,  Amanda listed off which of the Maple Leafs would be taking part in the next segment.  All very familiar names to you and much to your delight, the players in question were waiting for you in the lounge.  

Tyler Bozak, Nazem Kadri, Morgan Rielly and Jake Gardiner stood gathered around the kitchen counter, deep in a spirited debate about popular wrestlers from the eighties.

Morgan appeared to be the bonafide WWE expert and was busy putting the rest to shame as he rhymed off some of the greats.

“Wasn’t there a female manager for….shit, who was it?” Kadri asked, snapping his fingers as he wracked his brain for the answer.  

“Fuck….what was her name….ah shit - I’m drawing a blank….” Morgan said, pressing the palm of his hand to his forehead.  “Fuck me, this is gonna drive me nuts now”.

The group snickered at him.

 “Some expert you are” Jake said, poking Morgan repeatedly in the ribs.

“Miss Elizabeth” you said with a smile as you approached the group.  “She was Macho Man Randy Savage’s manager”.

Morgan’s head swivelled around as he said “Awh - yeah!  Thank God….fuck - I just drew a total blank” Morgan said, apparent relief washing over him.  

Introductions weren’t needed with the 4 players as you had briefly met each of the men at a charity function the year before.  Each gave you a friendly hug as you all continued on with the lively conversation.   

“We had about 5 TV channels growing up, there wasn’t cable out in the country - we just had a TV antenna and a router” you laughed.  “I think it was the Hamilton channel that showed WWE reruns Saturdays at noon.  Sort of became a fan of the 80’s wrestlers, whether I wanted to be or not '' you joked.  “I always thought Miss Elizabeth was so beautiful…” you mused.

The men all made their own noises, nodding and affirming that Miss Elizabeth was indeed, well…hot.

Not long after, Amanda summoned you all to a common area of the lounge, where the next video segment was to take place.  You glanced over and could see Evelyn and Amanda, deep in conversation.  You usually wouldn’t notice or care what Evelyn was doing; you and your Manager had an incredible working relationship and you trusted her implicitly.  That was, until you had a sneaking suspicion that she, the host and Amanda were hatching some plan involving you for the next video. 

Before you could worry about it for too long, you and the 4 players were instructed to sit in the director-style chairs that had been lined up for you.

The host gives the directives of a game that is something between Truth or Dare and Never Have I Ever.  The questions that were directed at the players weren’t anything risqué, but were enough to cause a rumpus between the men, resulting in some hearty banter.   

Once the verbal melee ceased and everyone starts to settle again, the host turns toward you with a knowing smile.  

“We’ve left Y/N to last.  You may not know this but Y/N’s Maple Leaf fandom spans back to when she was just a small girl.  We’ve designed a very special Who’d You Rather between the Leafs past…. and present….players” she says drawing out each of the last few words emphatically.  “With Y/N being unattached currently, we decided this might be fun…” the host says teasingly. 

You shot a look at Evelyn, vowing to murder her later for this.

Evelyn smiles back at you, gesturing for you to hurry up and get this thing going.

On the monitor in front of you, a picture of Dion Phaneuf, the current Captain of the Leafs, appears next to a picture of former Captain Wendel Clark.  The players whooped and hollered at your choices and you audibly groaned, not knowing exactly how to navigate the choices.

“Oh my God - how am I supposed to choose? So what, this is who I’d like to date?  I actually know Dion - I’m friends with his wife too….” you trail off.  “Oh - but I love Wendel too” you giggle.

“Just so you all know” you say to the crowd, motioning towards your surroundings, “this…this whole situation has to be among my worst nightmares…” 

As the host cycles through a few more pictures, each of the 4 players giving their (unsolicited) input, albeit mockingly, as though they themselves were on a dating show.  

Your adoration for Felix Potvin was known to the crew, thanks to Evelyn, so naturally, Felix’s picture appears next to Morgan’s.  “Ooof, sorry Morgan…I have to go with my man, my precious Felix” you said, reaching over to tap Morgan’s knee.  

“Fine then…” Morgan deadpanned, with the slightest smirk.

One after the other, you choose Felix over the image that appears on the opposite slide.  

The host smiles and says “Devoted Potvin admirer, you have to love that!  If you had the chance to meet him, what would you say?” 

You were suddenly worried Felix would pop out of the woodwork, the look of excited anticipation mixed with worry crosses your face.  You jokingly peer over both of your shoulders and respond “Je veux dire ‘C'est un plaisir de vous rencontre.  Je suis tellement un grand fan de toi.  I don’t think I would be able to get out much more than that”, you laugh.

“Ok, this is the last image.  You just met this player this morning and managed to squeak past him to win in the trivia challenge” the host says, eyes fixed on your face.

William’s headshot from the Marlies appears on the screen, next to your first hockey love.  The 4 men sat next to you chime in playfully with a series of “ooooh….Willy Nylander…”

You stay composed looking at the picture, trying not to appear as flustered as you felt.  In one short meeting, William had actually made an impact on you.  Yes, you found him breathtakingly gorgeous, but it was far more than that.  There was a kindness about him; something about him seemed so refreshing and you found yourself really wanting a chance to talk with him more.

You try to suppress a smile but you end up with a wide grin and cheeks flushed.  This shouldn’t be a big deal - but admitting that you might like a boy sent your mind hurtling back to 9th grade, when you were meek and awkward and would sooner die than allow a boy to see that you might think he’s cute.

But, you decide to play it safe and bypass William’s picture, just willing for this segment to be over.  “I’m sticking with Felix,” you laugh.

“Felix it is!” the host says as she gives the appearance of cheering your choice.  

Once the production crew deems they can wrap the segment, you slide off your chair and mingle with the 4 players and others that had gathered around for a quick snack before packing up.

Evelyn saunters up to you and whispers “You beautiful, chinless wonder* - you should have picked the boy…”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head.  Secretly, you had chosen him in your mind; you couldn’t stop thinking about him.  ‘Fuck Y/N…you’re sunk’ is the only thought you had toying in your head.

“You can just keep your opinions to yourself,” you laughed toward Evelyn.  “Let’s just go, I gotta get ready for dinner soon”.

(*chinless wonder is apparently British slang for a coward)

[mywifeleftme]

365: Patti Smith // Horses

Horses Patti Smith 1975, Arista

There’s a man named Nicky Drumbolis who lives up in Thunder Bay, Ontario, in an apartment that doubles as perhaps Canada’s greatest bookstore almost no one has ever seen. The septuagenarian Drumbolis is short and nearly deaf, a master printmaker and eccentric autodidact linguist. For years he ran a second-hand shop on Toronto’s Queen St. called Letters, until push (the size of his collection) came to shove (skyrocketing rent) and he went north, where he could afford a sufficiently large space to spread out. Unfortunately, Thunder Bay has little market for antiquarian books and micro press ephemera, and his shop is located on one of the most crime-ridden streets in the country. And so, the transplanted Letters has no storefront—in fact, the building looks derelict, its windows boarded up and covered with what at first glance seems to be graffiti but on closer inspection resembles a detail from the cave paintings at Lascaux. Letters’ patronage is limited to the online traffic in rare first editions that brings him a small income, and the occasional by-appointment adventurer willing to make the long, long 1,400 km drive from Toronto or further abroad.

When you enter, you find yourself in what appears to be a well-kept single room used bookstore, the kind there used to be dozens of in every major city. Books of every type and topic line the shelves, neatly arranged by category, and a long glass display features more delicate items, nineteenth century broadside newspapers and the like, some so fragile they seem on the verge of crumbling into dust. But this is not, Drumbolis warns you as soon as you attempt to take a book off of the shelf, a bookstore: this room is a facsimile, a tribute exhibit to as he calls it, “the fetish object formerly known as The Book.” The real bookstore lies in the chambers beyond this front room, the full catalogues of bygone presses, the one-of-one personal editions he’s assembled over decades of following his personal obsessions, the stacks which crowd his own modest sleeping quarters.

To Drumbolis, the original utility of the book as a container and mediator of information is now effectively passed; virtually every popular book in existence has been digitized, their contents instantly available in formats that are better-indexed, more easily parsed, and more readily transferrable than the humble physical book ever allowed. To desire a book is to desire possession of the thing rather than its contents, this edition, this printing, perhaps this particular copy that once passed through the hands of someone significant. He can show you the copy of John Stuart Mills’ On Liberty that was owned by Canada’s founding father John A. MacDonald, and argue convincingly that this object helped set the course of a nation’s history; or a set of Shakespeare’s complete works bearing Charles Dickens’ ex libris, which sets off a long anecdote about how Dickens liked to troll his houseguests with a collection of fake bookshelves. Drumbolis’s collection is threaded through his life like an old wizard in a fantasy novel whose flesh has fused with the roots of a tree: he eats with his books and he sleeps with them; collecting fuels his arcane research and dictates where and when he travels; 25 years ago he uprooted his life when his collection bade him, and though he’s starved for company in the frozen city it chose for him, he abides.

My own case of collectivitis is not so advanced, though Lord only knows what I’ll be like when I’m Old (I’m currently 47). And despite the conceit of this blog, I’ve seldom spent much time in these reviews dwelling on the physical properties of my records, evaluating the relative merit of pressings and the like (or even mentioning which one I’ve got). But as I sit here listening to my copy of Patti Smith’s Horses for the first time, I feel a small but definite sense of wonderment. It’s an early ‘80s Canadian pressing, so near-mint I might’ve stepped back in time and bought it new, still with what I take to be the original inner-sleeve, pale azure (to match the Arista disc label) with a texture almost like crepe paper.

It’s a delightful, surprising contrast to the iconic black and white cover portrait of Smith by her former paramour Robert Mapplethorpe. Generations of fans have stared at this image as they listened, not simply because Smith is hot (though this is undeniably true) but because the music’s visionary qualities demand an embodied locus. That a record, unlike a book, can speak aloud, has always primitively fascinated me; that this one contains what I can only describe as rituals makes it magical, this physical copy that is unique because it’s this one that is speaking to me in this moment. 

 Smith writes on the back of the sleeve:

“…it’s me my shape burnt in the sky its me the memoire of me racing through the eye of the mer thru the eye of the sea thru the arm of the needle merging and jacking new filaments new risks etched forever in a cold system of wax…horses groping for a sign for a breath…”

“charms, sweet angels,” she concludes. “you have made me no longer afraid of death.” The record becomes an extension of Smith’s body as it existed in that time—I think here of the physicality of the moment in “Break it Up” where you can faintly hear her striking her own chest with the flat of her palm to make her voice quaver. It makes me wonder how anyone could sell this thing once they have it: not because it is particularly rare or difficult to acquire, but because it’s hard for me to imagine the experience of slipping the lustrous black disc from its dressing and setting the needle down upon it as anything but a personal one. It is poetry and waves; the subliming of the idea of a rave-up; Tom Verlaine shedding his earthly mantle in an explosion of birds; John Cale; Kaye, Král, Daugherty, and Sohl; one of my boys from Blue Öyster Cult; the pounding of hooves and the Mashed Potato.

I suppose what I’m describing is a fetish, my pleasure in acquiring these things and writing these reviews the hard and strange work of finding life’s joy in its dusty corners. This year has run through my fingers like water, as it seems they all do now. But on my good days, all these words behind me and the records in front of me seem like a document of abundance.

365/365

[fizzycherrycola]

Alfred & Matt, Stargazing

It’s a clear summer night, perfect for spotting stars. Two brothers bond, sharing science and admiring the universe. I wrote this ages ago for @hwsnabroszine​ and now I can finally share it. Please enjoy!

A Girl Called Hubble

“What’s going to happen to her?” Matthew inquires.

Alfred glances up from his personal telescope, a flashlight highlighting his golden features in the midnight dark. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“The Hubble telescope. Is she...?”

“Oh.” There’s a touch of sadness in Alfred’s tone, which trickles into the soft symphony of crickets, cicadas, and other rural evening sounds. Looking away, he resumes fiddling with the dials on his viewfinder. “I mean, she’s not being decommissioned yet. I think NASA has some plans for joint missions with Webb, so that’ll add a few more years to her life. Eventually though, maybe in a decade, they’ll make an announcement. Most likely... she’ll be set on a course to collide with the atmosphere and burn up.”

Matthew blinks. That seems... harsh, even if Hubble is just a machine.  

He rolls the chunky flashlight around in his hands, an industrial strength thing that Alfred keeps in his pickup truck for emergencies and stargazing nights like this. Its synthetic light cuts through the natural darkness, tracing the outline of fluttering moths and the wild grasses stomped flat by Alfred’s tires. Matthew tilts it to better illuminate his brother’s work and nibbles his bottom lip.

“How come?” Matthew eventually asks.

Alfred hums. “Well, she’s past her expiry date. You've got to remember, some of Hubble’s machinery was built back in the 80’s. If something important fails, like her guidance system, she could become another hunk of space debris, zooming uncontrollably around the Earth. And that’s a huge risk for space flights, satellites, and the ISS. It’s sad, but I mean... it has to happen.”  

He goes quiet for a moment, but not for long. Never for long. In an instant, he turns to Matthew with a big grin on his face, his eyes shining brilliantly behind his glasses. “Hey, want to hear something cool?”

Matthew sighs, but can’t help smiling. “Sure.”

“Did you know that even a tiny screw bolt travelling at 4 miles a second is strong enough to punch through a tank? There’s no atmosphere in outer space to slow it down, so it can just keep going faster and faster. Pretty wild, huh?”

“Yeah. You mention that, like, every single time we talk about space.”

“Wait, really? Damn. I guess I should start throwing some different facts your way! Have I told you about black holes and event horizons?”

“Yup.”

“How about neutron stars? Oh! Or quasars?”

“Uh-huh.”

“...the Goldilocks Zone? You know, there are actually a bunch of habitable planets in the TRAPPIST-1 system. And it’s only 40 lightyears away from Earth!”

“You bring that up literally every time you have a new theory about aliens.”

Alfred tuts. “Well... shit.”

Matthew's smile turns sheepish. “Sorry.”

“S’all good.” Alfred taps open his phone, double-checking his night sky tracking app, mouth twisted into the same, familiar pout from his childhood.

The warm summer breeze overtakes their talk, rustling Canada’s hair and t-shirt. From his seat in the truck bed, surrounded by threadbare blankets and pillows, he swings his feet. Humid air drags up the faint scent of dried corn husks, hay, and whatever else was once grown in this long-abandoned farm field. The sky is gorgeous tonight; barely a cloud to be seen, it glitters with starlight and far-flung galaxies. Alfred picked a good night for skywatching.

Originally, they came out here for a special reason, bringing along Alfred’s private, civilian-use telescope. It is massive, about the size of England’s old armchair, but mobile with its tripod, and probably the most expensive on the amateur astronomy market. They parked Alfred’s truck in the middle of the field, set up his device, and saw it: just a speck in the giant magnifying lens, insignificant against the stars, but it was there. The new James Webb space telescope. A cosmic daffodil with goldenrod mirrors spread wide. A novel machine that will help humanity see and understand the universe.

They stared at it for minutes, then an hour, as Alfred geeked out, listing its many capabilities and functions. But then, after he finally ran out of things to say, after they glimpsed Jupiter and Mars, Sagittarius and Ursa Major, Alfred suggested they stick around a while more to view Hubble when she, too, crosses the night sky.

Despite the heat, Matthew drags a cotton blanket over his shoulders. “That James Webb telescope is going to show us some amazing things.”

“It sure is,” Alfred mutters.

“...Although, I’m a little sad that Hubble is running out of time. She took some amazing photos, too. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Alfred pauses before giving Matthew a look. “...C’mon dude, you don’t have to make me feel better.” Matthew shrugs. Alfred turns to the sky, the expanse, voice going quiet. “She’s just a piece of equipment. I don’t get all upset over every Ford F-150 that ends up in the scrap yard.”

Matthew picks at a loose thread on his blanket, unconvinced. Having known his brother for centuries, it’s easy to tell when Alfred is being disingenuous. He was morose when the Opportunity rover went dark. Distant, after learning that in 2025, no one will be able to contact Voyager 1. And when he eventually realised that Curiosity sings Happy Birthday to itself, every year, all alone on Mars... well.  

“I think Hubble is a lot more special than a pickup truck.”  

“Meh.”

“Stinky gas-guzzlers.”

Alfred’s lips twitch and Matthew knows he’s on the right track. “Hey, don’t shit-talk my trucks.”

“And more expensive, too. By, like, a few BILLION dollars.”

Alfred’s expression cracks and he chuckles. “Sure, okay. You’ve got me there.”  

A weight lifts in Matthew’s chest and his restless legs swing higher, sneaker laces tapping his heels to the tune of his heart.

Then, Alfred checks his phone once more. He suddenly lights up. Ducking down to look through the scope’s eyepiece, he shouts with joy. “Hey! She’s here! Come on, come over here and see.”  

Matthew’s eyes go wide. He shimmies, sliding off the truck bed and tossing his blanket aside. Hopping over to Alfred, who steps aside, he peeks through the scope, glasses clinking against the viewfinder. And there she is, in all her tin-can glory.  

Surrounded by the dark sea of space, Hubble looks so very small, even with the aid of Alfred’s chunky telescope. Her solar panels are extended like squarish wings, helping her soar high above the world. One of the many machines floating through outer space that fuels imaginations and wins affection, satisfying the universal thirst for knowledge with each photo and landmark discovery.

Grass crunches as Alfred shuffles his feet. He doesn’t launch into a lesson on astrophotography or detail the known nebulae. He says nothing, silence stretching far beyond the atmosphere. Then, murmuring: “She might have been expensive, but she was worth it. She was worth every single penny.”

Matthew rights himself and peers at Alfred’s silhouette. The faint glow of the Milky Way, a great band of lustrous cloud, stretches behind him. Matthew doesn’t raise the flashlight to catch his brother’s expression. He doesn’t need to.

“I’m sorry, Al.”

A dark arm comes up to knead the back of Alfred’s neck. Quietly, he sighs.  

“...Thanks. I’ll be okay. She’s still around for a while longer.”  

The night rolls on, the stars turn overhead, and soon, Hubble is out of sight. Sailing across the sky, lenses facing the distant heavens, dutifully, she will record all she can. Until her instruments expire and her circuits give out, she will inspire Alfred, Matthew, and the entire human world.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

I had to fudge a few things, scientifically, in order to make this fic work. Because of its orbiting pattern, Hubble is best seen between the 28th parallel north and the 28th parallel south. So, if you live near the equator, you can easily see Hubble with a telescope. Being further north or south of those latitudes makes spotting it trickier. Despite this, I decided to put Alfred and Matt in a corn field, rather than on a beach at the southern tip of Florida. I preferred the vibe, since corn fields are often connected to outer space in American stories (see: 2014’s Interstellar and multiple films featuring aliens.)

The JWST is also hard to spot. For starters, it’s very, very far away. If you’re able to spot it, it’ll just look like a dot, even with the aid of a telescope. Depending on which way the mirrors are facing, it's visible when it catches the Sun’s rays, or it’s completely black when tilted away. And unlike Hubble, it doesn’t orbit Earth. It orbits the Sun. So, the math involved in spotting it is... way harder than what I can manage on my own. Let’s just pretend that Alfred is a god-king at astronomy and knows exactly when and where to point his telescope to view the JWST.

Being an amateur astronomy nerd, I loved writing this fic. However, I tried not to weigh things down with too much technical jargon. If you're interested in learning more about space (and some of the things mentioned in this story, like neutron stars and black holes), please check out ‘SciShow Space’ on Youtube, or visit NASA’s official website. ❤

[author-of-oddities]

Test Subject One | FiddAuthor

Trigger/content warnings: mentions of/references to alcoholism Relationships: Fiddleford x Stanford (Past) A/N: I love them so much they make me sick Word count: 3,033 Summary: Fiddleford’s descent into madness and his attempt to reconcile with Stanford

Also on Ao3!

Your name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. You’re 34 years old, and you live in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Up until recently, you were an assistant for a visiting researcher,  but you saw things that were unimaginable. Although the work was interesting, you weren’t able to get by on the pay, so you resigned. You used to make computers out in Palo Alto, if you’ve still got the skill, maybe you should head back there. If not, find somewhere that needs a mechanic, I’m sure the market’s wide open. If worse comes to worst and you can’t operate any of the tools anymore, you should reconnect with nature- head over to the East coast, maybe Maine, or even get yourself up to Canada. You can run a campground, lead people on hikes… I’m not too sure about that industry, but I’m sure there’s something for you. Find your heart somewhere else, you won't find it here. Not again. The important part is: get as far away from this town as you can.  

He set the pen down, soon finding his newest invention taking its place in his hands. It felt heavier than usual, but then again, everything did: his heart, his conscience, even the lab coat that rested on his shoulders seemed to have a certain weight to it. Fiddleford tossed the gun, reacquainting himself with the brass handle he’d fashioned himself. The metal was cold, almost unforgiving, but the longer he held it in his hand, that feeling faded mirroring how the idea warmed up to him. There was no way he’d ever be able to enjoy a normal life while knowing the impending doom of the universe. It was too much for anyone to handle, especially a young, broken-hearted scientist who only wanted to make the world a better place.

Fiddleford was simply tired, his back worn and hunched from the pressure of carrying that knowledge with him. Only his research partner- his old college buddy, his roommate- knew that the pressure was enough to put his heart in a vice, gripping it tighter and tighter until suddenly, it shattered. No longer did he have this friend- or, if he dared, partner- of his. That friendship, whatever murky mess had turned of it, was the last thing keeping him put together. As soon as it fell apart, Fiddleford did too.

It hardly seemed worth it anymore.

With a deep breath, the mechanic reached across the desk, ensuring that the camera was on, then began to record. He explained it all: who he was, why he invented such a thing, what went wrong. As he raised the glass barrel to his temple, he couldn’t help but wonder why he had bothered. He knew he was speaking to an audience of none.

“Test subject one: Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford's use of the memory gun was like an alcoholic reaching for the bottle—each pull of the trigger offering temporary relief from the weight of his pain, yet slowly eroding who he once was. Each erased memory dulled the sharp edges of his guilt and fear, but at the cost of his identity. What began as an escape became a cycle, where the desire to forget consumed more of him, leaving only fragments of the man who had once stood alongside Ford, full of brilliance and hope.

It wasn’t something he fully considered, though. Sure, words slipped his mind and responsibilities fell through the cracks, but he assured himself that was all part of the healing process. He hadn’t even been able to turn three pages in his calendar since his life began to fall apart, all he needed was time to process. The only problem was, he never allowed himself that. The moment that a possession around his house or an unexplainable encounter outside left him with the familiarity of his past work, or his past love, Fiddledord craved his escape. It lay right within his reach in the form of one of his greatest inventions, he’d be a fool not to use it.

Three days ago, Fiddleford arrived home to a yellow notice on his door. In just four more days, this wouldn’t be home anymore. He’d shift through his belongings, only keeping what he could fit in a reasonably-sized trunk. The rest would be sent to a donation centre, and probably sold at some overpriced thrift shop to teens who weren’t even sure what most of his things are. He hadn’t made any of those decisions yet, everything he kept had some sort of value to him, typically emotional or academic. Once the time crunch hit him, Fiddleford decided to start where it would be the easiest: a box of things he hadn’t touched since his college years. Between outdated textbooks and prototypes of gadgets that he improved long ago, most of the decisions would be rather easy.

As predicted, mostly everything was tossed in a bag that he’d need to take to the donation centre sooner rather than later. There was only one thing left in the box: a dusty textbook. Seven revisions had been published to it since, and the scientist doubted that anything written in his copy would hold true today, but something compelled him to flip through the pages anyway. Towards the end, a yellow post-it fluttered to the ground, the adhesive having worn away at least eight years prior to its rediscovery. The familiar scrawl of Ford’s handwriting greeted him, a brief message of thanks and camaraderie, written in the early days of their friendship—before the portal, before the secrets, before everything unravelled. His first instinct was to reach for the memory gun, to erase the ache the note stirred inside him, the reminder of what they’d lost. But this time, something inside him hesitated. For the first time in months, instead of burying the past, he wondered if he should face it.

It took another month for Fiddleford to muster up the courage to make his way towards his old research centre. It hadn’t been too long since he’d been down that way, but things had certainly changed. The Dusk 2 Dawn seemed busier than normal, and an unfamiliar flier was posted in the window. It quickly became more familiar as signs and postings for the same tourist trap littered the once-veiled road out towards his partner’s home. The further down the road he trekked, the more Fiddleford wondered if the researcher was annoyed by the traffic that this so-called “Murder Hut” brought to the area. Besides, the whole reason he chose the location that he did was because of it’s covertness, far from any other human intervention.

Finally, he stumbled upon a larger sign, one that signaled the entrance to any entertainment establishment. Much to his surprise, it sat in the driveway of the research center, now seeming to welcome people not just to the area, but into the lab for tours. Yes, they’d spent some time apart, but Fiddleford doubted it was long enough to turn his once-focused lab partner into a charismatic and social man of business. Then again, they had been working on a grant, and neither of them produced any groundbreaking discoveries that were published. Perhaps the money had begun to run dry, forcing Ford to adapt in ways Fiddleford had never imagined. The idea of Ford, once so fiercely dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, transforming his research centre into a spectacle for public tours felt surreal. Yet, desperation could make even the most brilliant minds compromise. He knew a thing or two about that.

Perhaps Ford had changed more than he anticipated. Standing before the door, Fiddleford hesitated, unsure if he was stepping into a version of Ford's world that he could no longer recognize. He raised his hand hesitantly, but the door swung open before doubt could swarm his mind. The “Mister Mystery” that stood before him was certainly a character, all dressed up in question mark attire with a witty grin on his face, but beneath the facade, he could see something of his old partner. Before either of them could say a word, Fiddleford reached out, cupping the other’s cheeks and wasting no time closing the distance between their lips. The man never moved, his hands staying distanced from the other in a display of shock as the fervent kiss shifted to something more sensual, then fell away completely. Instead, Fiddleford wrapped his arms around his old friend, his face pressed into the other’s chest.

"I'm sorry, Stanford," Fiddleford began, his grip tightening. "I feel terribibble for leaving you. I thought walking away would k-keep me sane, keep me safe n’ all. But I jus’ done broke us apart. And now, seeing what you've built here, seeing you... I’m redalizin’ how much I’ve missed you—how much I still care about what we had goin’ on."

It was then that he pulled away, eyes searching the others for anything- rejection, acceptance, or even the smallest flicker of understanding. Fiddleford's heart pounded as he searched his friend’s face, desperate for a response. Seconds passed, dragging along for an eternity in Fiddleford’s mind, and still only confusion and hurt were evident on his friend’s expression.

Then it hit. “Oh,” Fiddleford sighed, “I’m real sorry about your brother.” Had his eyes not been glued to the floor, he would have seen the brief change in expression, noticed the way the taller man’s mouth gaped and eyes widened, and the way he had to force it back to how it’d been before. “I was readin’ that there paper. Stanley, he seemed like a good man.”

His whole expression softened then, pity taking over his eyes. “How ‘bout you come in,” he finally spoke, his voice more gruff than usual.

For a man who was always tangled up in and tripping over their thoughts, his friend stayed rather silent. Instead of talking, or spending any time in the same room, he left to make them both a cup of hot cocoa, watching the kettle as it boiled. Fiddleford was sat on the couch, instructed to take some time to just breathe. The place he had once called home now felt strangely foreign, from the gift shop at the entrance to the faint lingering scent of cigars, every detail seemed alien to him.

“There’s something I should tell you.”

Fiddleford perked up, the words ripping him from his own thoughts. “Anything, Stanford,” he whispered, eyes glued to the other.

“That’s the thing,” he sighed, chest tightening as he watched Fiddleford prepare for the worst, “that’s not me. I mean, no one in town would know, but I’m Stanley.”

“Ford’s brother, then,” Fiddleford finally pieced together, his tone cautious, as if still unsure he’d gotten it right. He received a confirming nod from the older Pines twin. Fiddleford’s eyes widened slightly, his voice barely above a murmur. “I thought you died- them papers said something 'bout it.”

Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s a long story," he muttered, his voice low and tired, as if the weight of that long story pressed down on him every day.

Silence settled between them, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. Fiddleford glanced down, fidgeting with the edge of his coat, his mind clearly wandering to the past. After what felt like an eternity, he cleared his throat and spoke again, hesitant but curious.

“So, Ford’s out doing research?” The question hung in the air for a beat too long.

Stan’s face hardened instantly, his casual demeanor replaced by something darker. Fiddleford had unknowingly struck a nerve. Stan’s voice was rougher when he replied, low and edged with a bitterness that hadn’t quite faded.

“Ford’s gone,” he said flatly. “He left.”

The words landed with a heaviness that made Fiddleford stop in his tracks. “What do you mean, ‘left’? I may not know you, but I do know Stanford. He’s far too carin’ ‘bout his work to just up ‘n leave.”

Stan finally took a moment to take in the man standing before him. Fiddleford looked disheveled—his once-blonde hair now streaked with grey, and stubble littering his chin and neck, clearly long overdue for a shave. His shirt was stained, and his posture slumped, the picture of someone slowly unraveling, worn down by something gnawing away at him. As Fiddleford stood there, clearly trying to make sense of the little information Stan had offered, it struck Stan how much he resembled his brother. The same wild, haunted look in his eyes—the same signs of a mind consumed by its own obsession.

He had misjudged his brother, matching his craze with anger and stubbornness. Perhaps, on some cosmic level, handling Fiddleford with more kindness and understanding would help something about the relationship he’d destroyed. “He was working on this big portal-thing. I don't even understand it,” he explained, “but Poindexter called me over here, so I thought maybe I could give him a hand. But when he turned it on, something- er- it went wrong, and he got sucked in.”

A look of horror dawned on Fiddleford, fragments of memories coming crashing back in an instant. He couldn't handle considering what he saw, it was the reason he’d begun using the memory gun in the first place. And Ford went all the way in? That would be more than enough to drive a man mad. “But ‘cha got him out, right?” he urged, his voice laced with fear, eyes begging for the answer to be yes.

Stan turned to look anywhere except at the desperate man in front of him, the regretful frown on his lips breaking the news before he could think of how to say it.

“No,” Fiddleford muttered, “no! We’ve gotta get him out! If you just start that thing up again, then -”

He shook his head. “The portal broke. I’ve been trying, but I’ve got no clue how any of it works,” Stan admitted, slouching with defeat.

“But all we’ve gotta do is replace that thingamagig, that one at the bottom. Never stayed put, I’m sure that's yer’ issue. So if we just-” The longer he spoke, rambling about the information he could scrape from the remnants of his memories, the less possible it all seemed. Neither of them were scientists, not anymore. No ordinary man could ever hope to accomplish what the greatest mind he’d ever known had.

Eventually, the thought caught up with him, the magnitude of the situation setting in. Ford had most likely been gone for more than just a few hours. Hell, he could've been in there for weeks. Anywhere he ended up could've been the worst case scenario. Realistically, Ford was dead.

“I’m sorry,” Stanley finally said, reaching out to put a comforting hand on the crumbling man’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re somethin’ special to him.”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, as if the very air had turned to lead between them. Fiddleford’s shallow breaths seemed loud in the stillness, but neither man dared break it. The room felt frozen in time, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on them both. Seconds dragged into what felt like minutes, the quiet becoming almost unbearable. It wasn’t just the absence of sound—it was the unacknowledged pain that lingered between them, making the air itself feel heavy, stifling.

Without warning, Fiddleford stood up, neither of them acknowledging the new weight that lay on his heart nor the tears in his eyes. “I should leave,” he whispered.

Stan only nodded, watching until he found his way to the doorway. Just as the lock clicked open, he found himself out of his seat, a hand outstretched towards his visitor, the word, “wait,” tumbling out of his mouth. “Who are you?”

His shoulders tensed with the question, and he glanced back, before shaking his head. “I don't know anymore.”

As soon as he stepped out, the wind blew the door shut, leaving both men alone and with more questions than they had gotten answers to.

The trek back to the motel was even colder and more miserable than the way there. Perhaps it was the lack of ambition, the absence of hope he had knowing it would be impossible to mend things with his old partner, or maybe it was the simple fact that more than an hour had passed, and the sun had tucked itself far behind the dense canopy of trees and the thick, unyielding clouds.

With his coat hung on the wall and boots discarded by the door, Fiddleford sank onto the bed, overwhelmed with a gut feeling that he hadn’t experienced in such a long time. It was that initial push that spurred his hands to craft such an awful invention in the first place, a type of guilt that gnawed at him no matter how else he tried to fill his mind. The only problem now was that there was hardly anything left: no family, no friends, no possessions that could give him a meaningless distraction. Work was inconsistent, only providing an escape when someone called to inquire about a project.

When he reached into the protective case, Fiddleford didn’t have any questions about it. The brass grip felt so familiar, comforting even, just like an old friend. The cool glass of the memory gun pressed against his temple, and a sigh of relief escaped him. In a moment, with the pull of the trigger, it would all be gone. By morning, he’d wake unburdened, free from the knowledge that threatened to drive him mad. The relentless 'what ifs' that haunted his every thought would vanish, leaving behind only the peace of forgetting, returning him to an oddly hollow freedom that he craved.

His finger hovered over the trigger, and, with a sharp inhale, he squeezed. A burst of light flashed from the barrel, momentarily blinding him, and a strange buzzing sensation rippled through his mind. Thoughts flickered and fractured, memories splintering like glass shattering in slow motion. The world blurred as pieces of himself—his fears, his pain, his connection to the past—faded into nothingness. Everything that haunted him before was gone, the truth sealed inside a tube. That, too, would soon be forgotten.

[boltedgarlic]

taglist~

you’ll have to use the search function unfortunately :( i am no longer linking all my tags. if you’re on desktop, my theme should have a search bar!

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11:11 | baby tag | birthday tag | fav | grandmas house | magic tag | personal | thank you post

updated: 09/13/2024

[bracketsoffear]

Eau de Pizza Hut (Pizza Hut) "Introducing Pizza Hut Perfume - a brand new fragrance from Pizza Hut Canada boasting top notes of freshly baked, hand-tossed dough.

"When our ad team at GRIP brought the idea to us, we absolutely loved it," says Beverley D'Cruz, Marketing and Product Development Director, Pizza Hut Canada. "What better way to celebrate our Facebook fans than by providing them with a way to enjoy the fresh smell of Pizza Hut pizza whenever they want!"

The limited edition perfume was designed to cc. Only 110 bottles were produced and shared with lucky Facebook fans who won a bottle by being among the first to share their desire for Pizza Hut perfume."

Quarter Pounder Scented Candle Set (McDonald's) "Each of the custom-scented candles comes in a glass container and smells like a different Quarter Pounder ingredient: Bun, Ketchup, Pickle, Cheese, Onion and “100% Fresh Beef.” And while you may yearn to burn each of the candles individually and fill your home solely with the scent of burning ketchup or cheese, the product page on the Golden Arches Unltd. site where McDonald’s has made them available as part of its new Quarter Pounder Fan Club merch drop... suggests you burn all six of the weirdly fragrant soy-wax-blend votives together “for maximum deliciousness.”"

[home-elevators-canada]

Five Things to LOVE about a Nibav Home Elevator in Canada

Home elevators are becoming an increasingly popular feature in modern Canadian homes, blending luxury with practicality to enhance the living experience. Among the brands making significant strides in this market, Nibav stands out for its innovative and user-friendly solutions. This article explores five compelling reasons why a Nibav home elevator is a worthy addition to any Canadian household, emphasizing comfort, accessibility, and style.

Innovative Technology: Nibav home elevators embody cutting-edge technology, offering seamless and efficient operation that sets them apart. With features like vacuum lift technology, Nibav elevators operate more quietly and require less energy compared to traditional hydraulic or cable-driven systems. This innovation is not just about performance but also about promoting environmental sustainability, a value deeply ingrained in the Canadian way of life. The convenience of having a state-of-the-art elevator in your home cannot be overstated, providing a smooth and reliable means of floor-to-floor transportation that is both fast and safe.

Elegant Design Design: is at the heart of Nibav elevators, with each model boasting a sleek and sophisticated appearance that can complement any home decor. Whether your interior design leans towards the contemporary or the classic, Nibav’s range of finishes and styles ensures that your elevator will not just be a convenience but also a statement piece. The glass panels and customizable features allow natural light to permeate the space, making the elevator shaft seem less like a utilitarian necessity and more like a part of your home’s aesthetic charm.

Space Efficiency: One of the standout features of Nibav home elevators is their compact design, making them an ideal choice for homes with limited space. Unlike traditional elevators that require a separate machine room and substantial structural modifications, Nibav residential elevators are designed to fit into existing spaces with minimal intrusion. This is a game-changer for homeowners looking to add an elevator to their property without compromising on living space. The space efficiency of Nibav elevators also means that installation can be completed more quickly and with less structural impact, preserving the integrity and beauty of your home.

Enhanced Accessibility: Accessibility is a critical consideration in modern home design, and Nibav home elevators address this need beautifully. Whether it’s assisting an elderly family member with mobility challenges or simply making it easier to move heavy items between floors, a Nibav elevator enhances the functionality of your home. This feature not only improves the quality of life for all residents but also increases the property’s value by making it more appealing to a broader range of potential buyers in the future.

Safety and Reliability: Safety is paramount in any home improvement, and Nibav elevators are built with this principle in mind. Equipped with multiple safety features, including emergency stops, battery backup systems, and an in-cabin telephone, Nibav ensures that users are protected at all times. The reliability of these elevators is backed by rigorous testing and certification processes, giving homeowners peace of mind that their elevator meets the highest standards of safety and performance.

Conclusion: A Nibav home elevator is more than just a means of moving between floors; it is a reflection of innovative technology, elegant design, and thoughtful consideration for space efficiency, accessibility, and safety. For Canadian homeowners, investing in a Nibav elevator means not only enhancing the value and functionality of their property but also embracing a lifestyle characterized by comfort, convenience, and style. Whether you are looking to future-proof your home, accommodate the needs of aging relatives, or simply add a touch of luxury to your living space, a Nibav home elevator is an investment worth loving.

[skruffie]

retail being retail

My manager informed us--us being the doctor, myself, and the two other employees in this store--that she was directed to try to slim down the hours because we haven't been making sales. I work around 40+ hours a week (often accidentally getting overtime because when everyone leaves half an hour before closing the last-minute patients will often have me there well past closing time), but it's her and our assistant manager that kind of take up most of the employee salary expense.

It's kind of an open secret but if you wear glasses and have gone to a retail optical place, the person helping you probably also made commission on what you were sold. Our commission rate is just above 2% company wide and I make $19.13 an hour before that. It's not a high commission and it is not at all the motivating factor for me, nor is it for the other people I work with... despite old school opticians saying commission breeds competition and massive up selling. I'm weirdly the opposite. I'll confidently tell patients about the differences in the least to most expensive options and just set up their expectations for what they'll receive if they go low because I don't do this job for the commission.

When I had done the phone screening interview with my manager, she asked me what I would like to make hourly. At the time with the grocery store I was at $15.75/hr and before that with the government I was above $20. I didn't want to scare her off by going too high but I didn't want to undersell myself either, so I gave her $18-19. She got me the higher end by literally basically making a school presentation about the cost of living here versus where headquarters is located, and then in May last year I got a random 13 cent raise. I know one other employee makes $19 and my manager is salaried, as well as the doctor, but I don't know what the assistant manager makes. He typically works less hours than me but has vastly more optical experience than I do, including managerial. Since he's not always doing a full 40, but he's the most "expensive" to pay, I honestly don't know whose hours are going to be on the chopping block here but I'm trying to prepare if it's mine.

Here's the frustrating part about this: I earnestly fucking love my job. This job is everything that I asked for, from the base hourly wage to where it is located in proximity to where I live to the hours of operation. For the first time in my working adult life I feel well rested and somewhat comfortable and we have an incredible rapport with our little team. The stupid fucking part about this is where our store is located and where they opened up the other stores.

This store opened in April 2022 and initially was meant to be the flagship location for this market, but the one in Renton opened first. Our store is probably one of the biggest ones in the region and we have over 2,000 frames in stock. We sell a luxury line as well as Maui Jim. We are also located in the southern part of this city where the general population is very low income. Last year they opened like four new stores and most of our patient books who came to us at the grand opening now go to the newer stores because they're closer to where they live. We market ourselves by literally driving places and handing out flyers and little glasses cases of candy and free lens wipes but they've fully saturated the market. There's a competitor just down the street from us. North of here in the city I used to live in has kinda been our marketing focus but now they're planning to open up a store farther north. We'll still be closer, but the location they're choosing is a college town that gets TONS of tourist traffic from Canada because it's right on the border. I know for a fact that store is going to be wildly successful because of it's location. The other store locations are amazing too and they're in more affluent demographics.

They flood the market with new locations, take our primary patient base away, then get on my manager's case asking why we're not making sales? We're running on a skeleton crew. The CEO believes that $39 is an affordable copay for every single person on the planet to get their health screening but he is not in the store every day listening to me break the news to our medicaid patients that their -6.00 distance correction is still going to be $200-300 after insurance. People aren't cheap, they're fucking broke.

[severalowls]

Going down a rabbit hole about those american propellor hats from the 1950s that are like stereotypical dweeb child headgear led me to a whole world of insane rivalries and questionable business ethics from when there were no advertising standards whatsoever and the print cycle was too fast to patent your stupid gimmick doodad you were selling for 50 cents mail-order in the back of comic books so by the next week's issue everybody was ripping you off and you had to underline the word "original" an extra time with every passing hour, and then you shipped the most innovative utter trash imaginable to gullible randoms across the US And Canada to the absolute envy of any european gullible randoms who got their hands on the comic book third-hand from a soldier, and realising that 90% of them were dumb gimmicks that kind of sort of worked originally but the copies probably didn't because they were copied based exclusively on the illustration in the ad until they got one mail-order themselves (how much of the mail order trash business was other mail order trash companies market researching one another for an edge anyway?) but then wondering what the fresh fuck the gimmick of the archetypical "x-ray glasses" was meant to be like were they just meant to be a gag costume piece that you wore and pretended worked to freak people out for 3 seconds? For $1.29 (2.00 canadian) and 8 weeks shipping? It was the 1950s surely somebody could have melted down their enriched plutonium desk toy and delivered a lethal dose of radiation to their own eyeballs to achieve The Original Acme X-Ray Vision Goggles Accept No Immitations for real but it has become so lost in a sea of knock-offs in the back of Tales Of Master Science Heroes issues that we'll never truly, really know what Chip Bunderlip Jr saw with those fleeting rosy red eyes........