[Note: I missed the period of time when everyone blogs about Christmas (or New Year’s Day) so I decided to tell a story that’s totally unrelated. Details have been omitted for OPSEC.]
I was in Canucistan hanging out with America’s Hat among our good friends to the north. I’d finished what I was doing but was dreading the long drive home. Also, the pre-Christmas commercial orgy of consumption was in full swing. If I got home too early, I’d get mired in it.
On a whim I pulled into a hotel, booked a room for the night, and made ad hok plans. I’d spend the afternoon ice fishing!
Lucky for me, Mrs. Curmudgeon is awesome. She’s chill about Christmas presents (including the fact that I purchase them randomly; as if I don’t own a calendar or know the significance of December). More importantly, she’s totally understanding if disappear an extra day into the forest (or in this case, a lake). If I spend an occasional unscheduled day freezing my balls off on a Canadian lake that’s just how I am. She long ago gave up on civilizing me and that makes me a lucky guy!
Unfortunately, I hadn’t planned ahead. My regular fishing tackle (always stashed in my truck) is useless after the freeze. My solution was to buy new gear at a Canadian Tire. (For those of you who don’t hang out in the land of sleds and poutine, Canadian Tire is like Wal-Mart but with a lower component of useless pussy shit from China. Unavoidably, it is stocked cheap Chinese shit. The difference is that the selection leans a bit more towards objects more suitable for men.)
In theory, ice fishing is inexpensive. The poles are short compared to a usual freshwater lake pole and that apparently makes them cheaper. Reels, line, and tackle are all scaled down too. Not free but inexpensive compared to a rod/reel combo appropriate for June. I selected a rod, reel, ice line, some tackle, a bucket (the bucket is key!), and beer. I doubled my beer allotment thinking I’d find some fishermen out there and coax them into drilling me some iceholes in exchange for a few Molsons. Any activity where I get to say “iceholes” non-ironically is a good one! (Augers are a big-ticket item and I resent that. I should be able to buy a chainsaw powerhead adapter! But so far, no luck.) At a nearby gas station I’d pick up a fishing license, minnows, and maybe a bottle of whiskey. It was a solid plan.
My phone rang and (as often happens) my plans were rearranged.
“Shit! I left this thing on? It’s probably costing me six bucks a minute. Who the hell are you?”
“Ah Curmudgeon, always the same. Other people answer phones with ‘hello’ but not you.”
“This is probably being billed as an international call. Speak fast.”
“OK. Are you heading out or staying overnight?”
“Staying.”
“Got a plan?”
“I’m going to sit on a bucket and freeze my balls off while drinking alone.” (I thought this was a funny way to say “ice fishing” but it didn’t slow him down a bit.)
“The pike bite blows. Don’t bother.”
“Also, I’m avoiding shopping.” (As I said this, I realized I was pushing a cart full of consumer shit through a Canadian Tire.)
“Standby. I’ve got a better idea.”
The phone went dead.
The call was just under a minute. Short declarative sentences. Manspeak. I like conversations like that.
Two minutes later I got a text; short and all caps:
[CURLING AT 1600. ADDRESS = X]
I glanced at my watch. I’d have to hurry. I tossed all of the ice fishing crap out of my cart but kept the bucket. (A good bucket is always a wise investment!) I also kept the beer.
As I jogged toward the checkout, another text arrived:
[BEER]
I smiled. Like I’d forget. I replied:
[CAN CONFIRM]
Another text:
[POTLUCK]
I grabbed a largish bag of chips and hurled it in my cart. It was sufficient. I’m staying in hotels, nobody expects me to bake a cake.
Then I turned off the phone. I hate cell phones and especially cell phone bills. Using an American cell phone in Canada is a billing crap shoot… or at least that’s how I justify being standoffish. (Mostly I just like to turn off my phone whenever possible.)
More to come…