To err is subhuman.

Childhood Halloween costumes:

  • Sad clown. You can’t tell by this photo, but there was a teardrop painted on my face.
  • Pebbles Flintstone.
  • Blue-faced witch because the face paint packaging was labelled green when it was in fact blue.
  • Princess.
  • Devil.
  • Cheerleader.

Maggie was more surprised than she should have been when I revealed that I’d once been a cheerleader. We’d spotted zombie cheerleaders walking down the driveway of a mansion to collect their fun-sized treats when I made this revelation. I meant I’d been a cheerleader for Halloween.

You can be anything for Halloween, except for someone else’s culture.

Sadly, my costume this year was unrecognizable to all but one person. No wonder nobody could guess what I was making based on the photo in the previous blog post.

On October 31st 2021, I went as:

A Senior Proctor for the NXIVM cult.


I’m also a cult appropriator.

I’d asked Maggie to guess when I met her at her workplace, and she guessed that I was a Slytherin. Disappointing! Davy, who showed up shortly later, thought it had something to do with the Catholic church. Also disappointing!

The three of us rode through dry ice mist searching for Halloween displays around Victoria, cautious not to run over tiny vampires and werewolves toting around bags of candy. While neither Maggie nor Davy were impressed by my costume, they were even less impressed by the kid dressed in a pink hoody who ran up to one of the haunted homes we were checking out–thinking Maggie was one of the homeowners–and asked, “Do you like my costume? I’m the colour pink.”

Even my blue-faced witch costume of 1992 was better than that!

“If that had been my house, I’d have told that kid to take a hike.” –Maggie.

I spent most of this tour wondering what the devil all these homeowners did/do for a living to afford such nice houses.

I, too, would serial-kill for a house like that.

Here’s another impressive house.

That man is wearing convertible pants in case it gets too warm.

I bet real-life piracy covered the down payment on that house. I am especially fond of the mounded window on the roof. The Treasure Island theme is alright too.

Unfortunately, my sex cult scarf didn’t provide much warmth, so our tour concluded after two hours. I should’ve known as I’d worn it the night before while acting as a volunteer adjacent at an alley cat race.

I’d volunteered to entertain the actual volunteers–Zack and Mo–because Zack promised out-of-breath nerd sightings. The nerds were fleeting, but I got some Nibs and a free phone out of it. Right as we were packing up to leave the checkpoint, Mo noticed that I’d left my phone on the table and placed it into my freezing hands.

Instead of going straight to Yann’s, I stopped by my place to collect the letter my landlord said she’d left me. She never texted me back with details about what would happen with my tenancy on Feb 1st. The letter said:

“A real letter is coming soon!”

Just kidding: it was, as expected, about my rent going up next year. Eh, maybe I should have chosen a more lucrative career than that of a bike mechanic. Like, a tycoon of some sort: real estate, oil, or rollercoaster.

While texting Zack to share the letter’s contents, I pulled a surprise from my pannier: Mo’s phone. I’d absent-mindedly placed this phone in my pannier, and then, less than a minute later, tucked my phone in there. The thing was, Mo probably didn’t realize his phone was missing. He’s the type to show up at people’s homes or work if he wants to talk to them.

My conversation with Zack shifted from my living situation to bestowing upon him the responsibility of texting Mo’s wife to inform her that an airhead was on her way to their home with the phone.

It should have been an easy mission because Mo and Yann live in the same neighbourhood, except nobody in this area illuminates their house numbers after dark. In the end, Mo got his phone back. So, if you haven’t received a response from him via SMS or social media since Saturday, it’s not because of me.

Yet, the most heart-stopping moment of the week was the realization that I’d lost the key to Yann’s building. Luckily, I was already inside when I noticed that only one key was hanging off the wire key ring clipped to my carabiner: the key to his suite. The other had slid off while I entered the building with fogged-up glasses, pushing my bike with one hand.

Flimsy excuse for a keyring.

So much for securing something that promises security! There went my plans to leave the building to get some food. It also meant I couldn’t make it to work the next day as I’d be abandoning the cats without a way to get back in the building.

“Sorry, I can’t come in to work today, I am stuck inside Yann’s place.”

Yann contacted the property management company as soon as their office opened in the morning. When I went to the office to pick up a new key, nobody was there. The manager must’ve gone on lunch an hour after getting in. After thirty minutes of sitting on the floor of the hallway like a high schooler, he showed up. Since I communicate with hearing people in writing, I’d already prepared a note explaining my mission.

He wasn’t wearing a mask, so I could see him smirk as he asked if I planned on paying the $75 for the replacement. While I fumbled with the payment terminal, he unfolded the paper I had written my message on. It was the same paper I used to ask the other tenants on Yann’s floor whether they had a spare key I could borrow for a few days. I tried gesturing to him that this other message wasn’t for him, but he paid me no attention. I should have started going through the papers on his desk or keyed his car on my way out.

I made it to work after all, but not to make money because whatever I earned that afternoon went towards the cost of the replacement key!

The property manager as a baby, probably.

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