#998 - When a cork breaks in the wine bottle

You've had a shitty day.  Work was crap, the commute was awful and the weather decided it was going to add a third layer of annoyance to irritate you at 6:45pm.  All you want is a nice glass (or four) of wine to help calm your nerves and help you settle into a calm evening of doing absolute dick all.    Thankfully, you remember that you have that bottle of Merlot kicking around.  You thank whatever deity (or deities) you pray to and kick it up a notch to get home as soon as possible.

The minute you step through the front door, you shed everything on you like a school kid coming in from the rain at recess.  You throw on your PJs, you grab that bottle and a corkscrew and you settle in on the couch.  As you twist that instrument deep into the cork, you are filled with sheer excitement that in a couple of seconds, wine will grace your tastebuds and all will be good with the world again.

You start to realize something is off as you start pulling out the cork.  It's stiff and uncooperative.  (Yes, I realize how dirty this description is getting, so I'll stop it here.)  It's when you start hearing the cork tearing that you start realizing it is too late...the cork has split in two and you're stuck holding a useless corkscrew with half-decimated cork in one hand, and a still unopened bottle of wine in the other.

A small sigh is released, but you attempt at getting the other part of the cork out.  Just like an Olympian stepping up to whatever event they are competing at, the brow is furrowed, the eyes are focused and the movement is calculated.  Digging the corkscrew into the bottleneck again, there is now a deep concentration on making sure this time, you don't fuck it up.  There's wine in jeopardy here.

But then, you suffer the same disappointment as a fourth place finisher, the cork now splits down the middle and there's no way of getting out that precious liquid.  You're now crying on the inside because you're just too tired to go out and get more wine and you've lost a bottle of booze to a defective cork.

Look at all of these non-defective corks mocking you.

DEEP SIGH.

#999 - Being the weakling that can't open jars

We've all been in this situation before: you buy a yummy jar of (insert your favourite jarred product here.  For me, it's pickles.) from the grocery store, you rush home to satisfy a craving, and low and behold, you can't open the fucking jar.  You do everything to try to open it; you twist, you turn, you heat up the lid, you use a dry towel, and you go through all measures besides breaking the glass jar to try to get to the sweet prize inside.  In the end, you're covered in a layer of sweat and the lid isn't budging like that lazy boyfriend who is on the couch after he's found a documentary of the greatest sports moments in history on TV.

This jar of olives that won't open
 is bugging the shit out of me.

Admit it, you've laughed at those stupid infomercials on late night TV where you see the idiot fake struggling with a jar (these are clearly people who failed drama school) paired with the announcer emphasizing awful copy like: "You're struggling, straining and even injuring your hands to open that jar!  Well, struggle no more!  Introducing the Lid Turninator!  For only $19.99, we'll send you this one of a kind device that opens lids so easily, you'll never have to worry about carpal tunnel syndrome again!  And if you call now, you'll get another Lid Turinator for free!"  I'm sorry, do I have that many jars that I need to open two at the same time to save on time?

Then, we realize once we're stuck in the non-jar opening situation, that we really should have picked up the phone and paid that $19.99 plus the shipping and handling charge so as not to be on the brink of tears over a stiff lid.

But wait for it, the deep sigh doesn't come into effect until someone casually wanders into the kitchen and asks why you look like you've just run a marathon while holding a jar of preservatives.  Fuck you, you mutter under your breath.  You tell them that this jar lid is absolutely impossible and challenge them to try.  They take the jar from you, tilt their head, look at it for a second and with a swift shift of their two hands, you hear the POP that's been eluding you for the past ten minutes.

As you mutter another "fuck" under your breath, and claim that you just made it easier for that other individual to open it, you walk away with your jar.  With your back turned because you don't want to show the other person your defeated face, you eventually breath out an air of frustration to indicate that you died a little on the inside.

DEEP SIGH.

#1000 - Thinking you have exact change...

When I was six, I remember walking to the local supermarket with my parents and feeling very proud.  It was the day I was going to buy my own candy with the money I had saved up in my piggy bank.  This was my biggest ticket purchase to date as a human being - so a pretty big fucking deal at the time.  With the $1.99 of quarters, dimes, nickels and more pennies than you can find in a wishing fountain, I skipped to the market, albeit weighed down heavily with the two pocketfuls of change.

After strolling confidently down the candy aisle, picking up the box of Fruit by the Foot and placing it behind my own groceries divider at the cash register, I learned quickly what disappointment felt like...and also an important lesson about taxes.  See, in Canada (at the time) there was 7% government tax on such products like candy.  My $1.99 purchase turned out to be $2.13 - not having the extra $0.14 and Asian parents that didn't believe in rewarding stupidity, I had to march back to the candy aisle with the box of candy, and hold back the tears, in fear of being scolded by the same cruel parents that thought this was the best time to teach their son an important life lesson about financial responsibility.

I wish I could say that that lesson stuck with me, but exact change has let me down time and time again.  Coins are fucking annoying, and there's nothing better than that feeling of being able to get rid of those meaningless copper discs that are turning green from oxidation and staining the insides of your pockets of that pair of pants you love.

Coins.  Useless, useless coins.

What's even worse is when you think you have exact change but then you're forced to break a large bill because alas, you were fucked over by one or two cents difference, and the cashier is unrelenting in keeping her till synced with her receipts.  You know what I mean, that look that you give them, the deep sigh you release hinting that you don't have enough change, and if they really don't get the message, being more direct by saying, "Shit, I'm just one cent off."

If anything, a deep sigh should also be given to that asshole cashier who can't look the other way when you're just a penny short.  Whatever, all I have to say is karma, bitch, karma.

And if breaking the big bill isn't annoying enough, the final coup de grace comes when you get MORE change back from the cashier and she smirks knowing you didn't want the fucking coins in the first place.  Now, all you can do walk away serenaded by the clink of the coins as they shift around in your new ball sack of a pocket.

DEEP SIGH.