Later that same day (today):
There’s been some unusual meteorological activity here that has forced me to wear my winter boots, which now give me blisters. In Victoria, snow isn’t as uncommon as it is infrequent. I mean, it usually snows at least once every winter. Either way, the city isn’t equipped to handle snow, making it comically difficult to get around. Similarly, I don’t think most private citizens here own a snow shovel, but if Zoée can clear the sidewalk outside her Vancouver home with a long plank of wood, what’s their excuse?
On the 12th, the first day it snowed, I brought my bike outside, ready to go to work, until I saw how much snow there was. Nope. As I had planned on riding, to begin with, I had to slog briskly for four kilometres through ten centimeters of snow. It was exhausting: I ate half my lunch as soon as I arrived.
In Montréal, there were dedicated plows for clearing sidewalk snow and whoever doesn’t get out of the way fast enough. I don’t know if those machines are so loud that the operators think, “There’s no way nobody wouldn’t hear this thing approach them.” But they are incorrect.
After a few close calls, whenever I’d notice the sidewalk I was on potentially needed clearing, I had to do a shoulder check every few metres to ensure that I don’t get plowed with the snow. Knowing this city, if we had sidewalk plows, they’d move at a glacial pace because people here ARE SO SLOW. “Island Time” is a thing here and it drives me bananas. I’m (mainly) from Vancouver, where everybody walks as if they’re in a hurry. My hurried walk is only marginally faster than my usual pace.
There is a time and place for snow: in the winter and in the mountains. City snow doesn’t stay pretty for long. In Montréal, snow stays on the ground for months and garbage gets trapped in-between snowfalls. Springtime in Montréal was gross.
So, two ladies and I showed up at work with gothified eye makeup on Friday. Fortunately for me, my glasses had fogged up enough for me to run into the washroom unnoticed to get cleaned up.
In conclusion, I have not been enjoying the snow.
I have another Life Pro Tip to share: keep THC gummies on hand for the nights you don’t want to have to go back outside for a toke. I don’t have the nerve to share this tip in the r/LifeProTip subreddit because there are a bunch of people who get weirdly upset when they don’t think your tip is good enough.
Someone dared to ask on r/AskReddit: “What’s the stupidest way you got a scar?” And the answers are sending me.
My contribution would be comparatively tame: when I was 12 or so, I did a cartwheel in the living room and my shin hit the rounded corner of the coffee table. There was no blood: the skin just collapsed. I had a spectacular bruise for weeks. The scar, I’ll have for life.
What did scar me mentally happened in the sixth grade when my parents offered to pay me a dollar if I vacuumed the stairs.
The vacuum was this exact model that someone is trying to get $49 for on eBay. The brush spins:
I had long hair.
Until I didn’t.
Mom had to cut the vacuum out of my hair after she stopped laughing.
That is why my hair was shoulder-length in my seventh-grade photo. In eighth grade, my hair remained the same length in my school photo because I ended up getting head lice during my final year of elementary school. Mom had to lop a few inches off again. This time, she wasn’t laughing.
In conclusion, this concludes this post.
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