I’m sharing this because it’s eaten up more than an hour of my life already. The responses are simultaneously hilarious and sad. I haven’t contributed because I couldn’t think of any children’s-age-level facts that I learned later in life, only knowledge that came to me late.
In the 8th grade, one of the kids in English class told the teacher, “Get laid.” The whole class was stunned, except for me. I didn’t know what getting laid meant. Judging by how the interpreter signed the phrase, I figured it was another way of the kid saying the teacher was a dog who needed to be put to sleep. I asked a friend in class what it meant, and her explanation was, “You know, like, get laid!”
Now I know that sick pets don’t go to the vet to get laid. It was a choice insult: implying the teacher was sexually repressed because he found her demeanor unpleasant. That’s… reasonable?
No chance that kid grew up to be anything but a douche bag. As for me, I grew up to be moderately polite at best, confusing at most.
I have the most fragrant blender on the island.
The landlady left this bundle of lavender on the patio chair outside my door, either out of kindness or to thank me for sticking my hand in a hole in the wall.
Right as my mental health was improving, my physical health became a concern. Without a family doctor, I ignore abnormalities that I’d otherwise bring to a doctor’s attention, like the brown spot under one of my toenails.
There’s no waitlist to get a physician in Victoria. Getting medical treatment is an all-day ordeal where you have to line up outside one of the walk-in clinics at least an hour before it opens. I was far too late for this when I decided that I couldn’t continue to ignore the problem. I called the provincial telehealth number and waited an hour and a half for advice, which ended up being, “You need to see a doctor.” The nurse gave me three addresses and didn’t seem to be concerned when I explained that walk-in clinics in Victoria are often at capacity at this time of the day. After all, these telehealth nurses don’t know the Doctor Situation for every city or town in BC.
Tammy drove me to the only clinic that wasn’t showing on MediMap as being at capacity. That was because they chose the slightly old fashioned way of announcing it with a print-out taped to the door: AT CAPACITY. I was lucky enough to be shoved into a 2pm slot.
The strange thing about how walk-in clinics work is how they supposedly don’t require appointments. You still can’t book an appointment online or by phone, but if you line up before it opens, you might be given a time slot for later in the day, which is essentially an appointment. They just want you to prove your desperation.
IS THIS URGENT?
ARE YOU SURE?
SURE ENOUGH TO WAKE UP CRAZY-EARLY AND MISS A DAY OF WORK?
Since I did not go through the usual process of camping outside the clinic the night before, I figured I looked pitiful enough for them to wedge me in. That was the second time I’ve pulled off an unsanctioned visit. Still, I had to miss a day of work. The process of being told that I’d be okay was drawn-out and stressful. I’m glad I can now huff my blender to calm down. The prescription was helpful too.
BC has gone mask-optional. Some businesses have kept their mask policy in place, including where I work. That is when being deaf is a double-edged sword: anyone that inconvenienced by a piece of fabric covering their face holes while they shop for twenty minutes isn’t going to want to have to write down their grievances. Instead, they’ll redirect their boring lectures to my colleagues. That does not make me feel good.
I’m keeping my mask on because I’m a sheep. If anyone were to accuse me of being a sheep, I would point out how choosing to forego wearing a mask would mean following them (anti-maskers); therefore, I’d be a sheep no matter what.
Today, on my ride home, someone waved at me from the sidewalk ahead. I waved back instinctively. It could be somebody I loathe, and I’d still return the wave and be disappointed in myself later. When strangers give me the finger, I wave back also. It makes them so much angrier.
So, this guy sees this as an invitation to get on his bike and follow me. I made a right turn at the next intersection and thought I was home free until the last 250m when I noticed him approach me from behind. When I made a left turn onto my street, so did he. It was my neighbour, Ben. I’d recognized him the moment he waved at me, so the only time I feared for my safety was when there was a random gust of wind that threw me off balance momentarily.
Have you noticed how I habitually make my tales seem more thrilling until I reveal the context at the end? But, this is the lead-up to the fun part. When Ben joined me on the road, I tried telling him that I used to live at the building he’d just been in front of, but that wasn’t an easy gesture to do. Instead, I waited until I was home to explain how the building was my home for four and half years. I’ve lived in many apartments, and it’s the only one I miss: The one that got away. I loved the place so much that I wrote a post about it two years ago.
Anyway, the person Ben was talking to potentially lives in my old suite! And if you read the blog post I just linked to, you’ll see that I considered leaving the current tenants a note requesting that they allow a nostalgia-thirsty stranger inside for a tour. If the guy does live in the exact suite, then I am inviting myself over for tea. He probably wouldn’t like that, but I’d be doing it for me. I’d also take photos and tell him how much cooler it used to look and how cheap the rent was. The good old days! If only we could have those back!
Until that happens, I am looking for someone to teach me how to do a bunny hop on a bike. I’ve never learned how to ride a bike well. Do this, and I’ll make you a cake! I need an excuse to make a cake. I suppose it could be somebody’s birthday, but I need to get hopping soon. It can’t be a fluke, either: I should be able to reliably hop over a cake on a bike.
This is a life skill I need.