Assload of asses.

It’s not a good year for calendars.

2022 was the year of Peter Glazebrook.

2023’s calendar was a Where’s Waldo knockoff.

Moons were the star in 2024.

2025 featured axolotls.

December’s axolotl still adorns the wall next to the fridge. A week into 2026, I walked into Russel Books, expecting to buy a calendar at half price, just like I had the previous year, only to learn that the procrastinator’s discount had turned into a BOGO deal. When the cashier explained that I could grab a second calendar for “free”, I declined on the basis that I wasn’t leading a double life and begrudgingly paid full price for 12 large pictures of axolotls. This calendar turned out to be a dud. Instead of the weekend sandwiching the weekdays as usual, both weekends appeared as the last two columns, resulting in a year of showing up for appointments a day early and premature birthday greetings.

This year, Russel’s selection was limited to dog breeds and the works of Gustav Klimt, all at full price. BOGO was no go.

Whatever. I have a printer: there’s no need to limit myself to just one breed of dog for a whole year. I could transform every weekday into a Saturday or Sunday, which has become my reality as an unemployed person, not that I haven’t been keeping busy with personal projects, reading lists, and fitness ambitions.

The aspect of my life that has suffered the most during this sabbatical has been my social life. So, when Zoée left to be with her other chosen family on the 27th, I scrambled to make plans with the few folks I knew who hadn’t skipped town for the holidays, including my actual family.

Continue reading “Assload of asses.”

The Mystery of my Koumpounophobia.

“The credit offered is the support available through this program and doesn’t include covered shipping. If you’d prefer not to use it, no problem at all. There’s no obligation to accept.

It began with my decision to participate in a Zwift group ride outside of the RIOT squad. It was a 75km ride, which would typically take me about 2 and a half hours to complete, thus boring myself to tears. I wanted to get an endurance ride in and pondered whether a group ride would make it more interesting. You can send short messages during these rides until your phone’s touchscreen gives up on registering your sweaty fingertips.

I joined the ride just as the ride leader announced that there would be prizes for the male and female with the most sprint points.

Things briefly became more interesting until I realized that out of the group of about 80 participants, there were only three other women. None of them attempted to get out of their saddles to challenge me during the sprints. The prize was undoubtedly mine early into the ride. I had no idea what it was; for all I knew, it could be a virtual badge. Zwift likes to give out those.

I submitted my email address to the ride leader to claim my prize, and three days later, a rep from The Feed got in touch, offering to add credit to my account, which did not exist. So, he explained how I need to create an account to claim my prize.

Hmm.

As hinted by this post’s opener, I straight-up asked the rep if it was a true prize or if I was still expected to pay for shipping. In case it was the latter, I asked if they had a promo code I could offer to someone else. That was when they responded, “There’s no obligation to accept.”

Oh, for the love of Amway…

Continue reading “The Mystery of my Koumpounophobia.”