Pillow Blog: Some Things I'll Miss About Tim's

Tim Horton's and Burger King might join forces. And though it's kind of like when Tim's and Wendy's did the same a few years ago, that doesn't stop it from being big news. For Canadian news, that is. The "man on the street" interviews seem mostly concerned with one thing: Would that mean Burger King takes over food operations at Tim's? Could extra large sodas and salty fries replace our double doubles and sugary donuts? Eh, probably not. Tim Horton's has its finger on the sluggish, cholesterol-choked pulse of Canada's food tastes. Still, if the worst did happen, here's what I would miss about our national coffee chain:

• Bagel BELTs. But only when hungover. And with some sort of cheese-covered specialty bagel. God, you're gross, but also suddenly sober. 
• Sour Cream Glazed Doughnuts. Here's the secret about Tim Horton's. They may put the date on the coffee pot, but you don't really know how long the doughnuts have been there. I once saw pumpkin spice 'nuts for sale at a Tim's. In March. However, the sour cream glazed doughnut is a reliable choice. The dough is already moister thanks to the sour cream, and the glaze seals it from even the most punishing rest stop air. These are the things you learn on many family trips along Canada's highways! 
• Timbits at work. With nearly any other work treat, you're limited by shame and social graces to one piece. Not so with Timbits. As long as no one is looking, who's to say if you had one Timbit or six?
• Related: the work Tim's run. Social bonding at its finest.
• The Honey Crueller doughnut. If I'm feeling lucky, I pass over the reliable sour cream glazed for the treacherous, yet occasionally rewarding, territory of the crueller. What mysteries are contained in its many folds and crevices? What fairy magic renders its insides so spongy and delicious? Perhaps a second one will unlock its secrets. 
• Oh heck, the Iced Capp. But only once a summer, because it's the adult Slurpee. 

My Marvin Troubles

Marvin isn't taking the move in with Dan well. And, like all concerned parents, I wish I could outsource my parenting issues to picture books. Here's what I would buy Marvin:

... AND HE TURNED PRETTY WELL.

If he could read, that is. Marvin remains stubbornly illiterate, though not silent. Oh no, everything but that. He was vocal before (I named him after Gaye not Lee for a reason) but ever since the move he's been a non-stop howling machine. For a while, he would regularly howl between 4:30 and 4:40 in the morning, before his regular 6am hour of howling power. Then he would keep it going throughout the day, before finishing off with an evening recital of demonic yowls and then a well-deserved dinner. 

It made me cry. It frustrated Dan. It made me angry. And finally, it made me hopeless. 

We tried the calming collar ($20.) Then we took him to the vet for shots and a hormone spray (nearly $300). There were more toys and a collar so he could go outside ($18). The the hormone diffuser ($60) and another collar because he hid his first one, as well as more toys to keep him entertained ($18.) Finally, a scratch box and a squeaky squirrel ($19.) Now he's going for blood work on Saturday ($money I don't have.)

And still, he howls.  

We had to stop letting him outside because his favourite activity, according to several concerned neighbours, was to lounge in the middle of the road, letting cars come at him. My little death wish kitty.

On Friday, the noise was so bad that I held Marvin and cried. After nearly strangling him. I cried because I was frustrated and tired, because I wanted to seriously hurt an animal, and because I didn't know what else I could do, or at least afford. 

Marvin watched me cry before letting out a truly horrendous yowl. I looked at him, anime eyes and all, and realized that I wanted to do nothing more than something I thought I would never, ever consider: surrender an animal. 

Yes, I wanted to surrender this face.

I felt so guilty for considering it, but that didn't stop me from googling it. And of course I cried some more, for being the kind of person who would just give up. That guilt means Marvin is still here. Good for Marvin. But there's a bit of shame in knowing that I didn't want to do the right thing, so much that I didn't want to be the person who did the wrong one.

Cottage Reading

I've been meaning to write something to push the "O woe is me, I am so sad" post down to where it deserves to be. Below the fold! Away from here!

But work got in the way, which I suppose is a better reason for my silence than being overwhelmed by life in general. Some very kind friends got in touch after that post to see how I was doing. And while I didn't write it for that reason - I was angry, and tired of putting a cheerful face on a desperate situation, and wanted that feeling to go on the record somewhere - it was a pleasant side effect.

Other than that, the good ship SS. Protagitron putters on. I was reading The New Jim Crow, which was good, but as anger-inducing as a book about mass incarceration in the US (and on its way to a Canada near you!) needs to be. Then I had the chance to go to a cottage. The ideal cottage reading has at least three of the following five things: a dead body in its pages, embossed type on its cover, pink everywhere, sex scenes that aren't quite a hard X, and some historical aspect because come on, we're classy. The New Jim Crow has none of those things, though it is a very worthy book, so I left it behind.

Why I thought finally finishing Kamouraska was the right choice though, I'll never know. Let's relax with a fractured, jumpy, poetic narrative about a love triangle in 19th century Quebec! WHAT FUN! Bodices were almost ripped, but it turned out I was pinning all my hopes for cottage diversion on what felt like four sex scenes, three mentions of pus, and a lot of sleighs dashing through snow. It's a beautiful book, but the last thing you want to feel in an Ontario summer is the bitter cold of rural Quebec and/or a stifling marriage.

Of course, I also spent my time at the cottage hauling old shingles, so maybe my reading material was appropriate.

I can't wait for my next trip to the cottage, when I can finally unwind, pour myself a beer, and really lose myself in the diverting decadence and sparkling wit of, uh, Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano? Oh crap, I am not doing this right.