Month: May 2010

Steenking Badgers!

A few days ago I read this article on shaving (it’s all about wet shaving, so mostly of academic interest to women). Fascinating stuff, actually, and I sent it to Andrew.

He seemed to think so, too, since he immediately started researching shaving equipment options, and within 48 hours (an unheard of spontaneity for him) had purchased a wet shaving kit.

After it arrived and he’d had a chance to use it (farewell, beard!), he mentioned that the badger hair shaving brush, when wet, smelled like… wet badger. I asked what a wet badger smelled like, so he told me to go smell it. (While I grew up with many kinds of wildlife around, there were no badgers, wet or dry.) So, a bit later, I did. And… woah. Suddenly I had an answer to a decades old mystery I hadn’t even been aware of.

Y’see, when I was little, the bathroom at my grandparents’ house (my Mom’s parents) always had this slightly strange smell. Floral, but slightly… gamey. And when I took a sniff of Andrew’s shaving brush, with its lingering scent of English lavender shaving soap over wet badger — that was it. The exact smell of my grandparents’ bathroom.

My Grandpa shaved old skool — pot of shaving soap, badger hair brush, and, I believe, a straight razor. (None of that safety razor nonsense for him.)

Funny how, nowadays, I find more traditional methods of shaving and their accoutrements kinda sexy (and I’m sure I’m not the only one). Did our grandmothers think the same back when it was just “shaving”, rather than a fancy, lovely-smelling hobby that’s attractive to shiny- and detail-loving geek types? 🙂

A Tale of Two Pizzas

Last evening Andrew and I decided to get pizza for dinner to accompany our evening’s TV viewing, and to be wild and crazy, we decided to try Papa John’s. (We’d tried it once before, but could only remember that the BBQ chicken one had been pretty good, and the other kind hadn’t really been that great.)

So I ordered a large BBQ chicken pizza online. Ordering user experience wasn’t fantastic (if you put your order together and then logged in, you basically had to start over on the order), but it went through and the pizza arrived on time. Andrew even happened to be outside when it did, so he brought it in with minimal freak-out from Gordie.

He dished out a couple of slices onto plates, and I took one look at mine and said, “Mushrooms. This isn’t our pizza.” And it wasn’t. It appeared to have fresh tomatoes and mushrooms on it, which… why bother? The name on the box sticker was right, the type of pizza on the box sticker was right. The pizza in the box was not.

So I called Papa John’s and talked to a girl who sounded barely conscious (or more likely bored and didn’t give a shit). She didn’t seem terribly inclined to believe me that the wrong pizza had been delivered, or to fix the problem, but then once she’d looked up my order was more interested in making sure I still had the first pizza. (Because God forbid I’d wolfed down the damned thing in the five minutes since it had arrived and would now demand another.)

Turned out it would take 45 minutes to have another pizza delivered, but only 15 minutes if we picked it up. Since Papa John’s isn’t that far from Andrew’s, I said we’d pick it up.

We arrived on time, but the pizza wasn’t ready — and wasn’t for another ten minutes (I don’t know if it was actually even in the oven when we arrived…) The only apology we got was from the kid working the front counter when the second pizza took longer.

That kid also told me that they had it in the system that I wanted the pizza re-delivered (I reiterated that I did not), and tried to blame the screw-up on the driver. Yeah… nice try, seeing as, as aforementioned, the box had the right name and type of pizza. Whoever put it in the box screwed up, and I’m pretty sure the driver’s name wasn’t Kayleigh, which was the name on the sticker of who had handled our order (presumably coma girl).

Needless to say I opened our pizza box before we left to confirm that we had the right pizza this time. We did. By this point I was getting very hungry and increasingly annoyed.

We headed home with no apology, no refund, no comped food, nothing. And, unsurprisingly, no intentions of ever getting pizza from there again.

We’d just dished out the second pizza and taken a few bites when… a knock at the door. Andrew was basically like, “No way…” and went to see what was up. You guessed it — pizza delivery driver! So Andrew went out on the porch and explained to him what had gone down, that we had our pizza, and had twice told them we didn’t want it re-delivered. He also made sure to explain that the screw-ups were not either driver’s fault (though the in-store kid would surely say otherwise).

This driver, being an astute man, just told Andrew to keep this pizza, which we did. We already had more than enough to eat, but it’d make for good leftovers. I’d also re-discovered that Papa John’s “garlic” sauce was basically vaguely garlic-flavoured melted margarine and completely disgusting. We threw that out.

So after dinner we watched some TV, and later on Andrew decided he wanted another piece of pizza. I said I’d take one, too, so he headed down to the kitchen to get them. A few minutes later he came back up, giggling like a schoolgirl, and said, “So the punchline to this whole thing is… It’s the same pizza!”

OMG.

Yes, the first pizza they’d delivered, which we’d personally returned to them, they had sent back out for delivery. And how grossed out would someone else have been if they’d received a pizza that had clearly had several pieces removed from and returned to the box.

Needless to say, I didn’t get my late evening slice of snack pizza, but Andrew’s got plenty, and I remain ever more convinced NEVER to get pizza from Papa John’s again, and continue to boggle how they remain in business with that systemic degree of utter incompetence.

Unphotographable

This is a picture I did not take of two elderly ladies, dressed in jaunty spring floral outfits, presumably heading to the library, arms full of books, with the outward-facing cover of the book held by the lady closest to me reading: Voodoo History.