I taste dead people.

I work in a basement to afford to rent someone else’s basement.

I can tell when I’m missing out on sunny weather by looking at the rows of glass bricks that wrap around the workshop. It’s still an upgrade from working downtown, where people frequently used the bench outside the patio to smoke a cigarette. I’d step out to use the air compressor to redirect their smoke and annoy them with the noise.

That didn’t work as well as one would expect. I frequently had to shut the door to keep the smoke out, and while this bike shop had windows, they were covered in decals. I’ve yet to see a bike shop that is clean, cozy, and aesthetically pleasing.

Anyway, the daylight hours have extended enough for me to soak up some sunshine after work. Last Sunday, I joined Daniel for his “recovery” ride, as did Rory. I suggested doing some hills around Cadboro Bay, but the waterfront loop Alexa and I did last week seemed more straightforward for my first ride with these guys.

It was a mistake until it wasn’t.

Alexa and I got lucky both times the previous week with calm winds. The waterfront is often gusty, to the delight of the parasailers of Victoria who flock to Clover Point. I’d bitched out on joining Daniel all those previous Sundays because it was too cold and/or dark for me. The last time I was determined to defy the wind, I rode into a parked car.

Unlike last year’s wind-generated accident, I had two big guys to tuck myself behind when riding into the wind. Daniel was going much faster than I’d have expected for something he called a recovery ride, but I held on. I held on so tightly that I couldn’t moisten my wind-parched mouth as I didn’t want to take a hand off the bars to retrieve my water bottle. Even Rory struggled to find the confidence to reach down for his downtube shifters. Daniel was the most confident of us all and still admitted uneasiness.

Then, we had the joy of being blasted back home with a strong tailwind.

I’ve also been getting down and dirty in the garden.

So far, we have purple kale, butter lettuce, sugar snap peas, nasturtium, “Fast and Furious” blend (“they did not have Tokyo Drift,” quipped the roomie), lettuce, and carrots.

I still find ways to enjoy myself in the basement in which I live. I completed my cross-stitch project by ripping the canvas off its 4″ frame and stapling the cross-stitched Aida cloth in its place.

My next project will involve getting reacquainted with sewing machines. I want to make my own clothing and grow my own food. I aspire to become more self-reliant, perhaps to the point where I’m making and dyeing my own textiles. Very few humans can be self-sufficient to the point where they don’t rely on the labour of others in any way. I’m still at the level where I need to use a pattern to make garments that aren’t a toga or tube dress.

Thus began my search for patterns, specifically patterns for pants and shorts. Ten years ago, I could’ve googled “low-rise corduroy pants” and found something suitable within ten minutes. Instead, here are some of the results I inexplicably got from the search terms I opted to use:

I did not search for doll clothes, tiny parachute pants, or Hammer Time.

I did not search for jazzy vests, urban Robin Hood, or men.

I most certainly did not search for an illustration of a man with well-defined torso muscles.

After an hour of struggling to find anything suitable, I gave up and figured it’d be easiest to rule out US-based retailers by shopping locally, in person.

Here is what I walked out with:

Everyone I’ve shown this to, including the staff at Gala Fabrics, thought I was making a mistake. I’m not groovy enough for bell bottoms. I asked the staff how challenging it’d be to modify the shape of the legs so that they don’t flare out comically, and they said it’d be straightforward to straight-leg the design. Ideally, even if I were to screw that up, I expect I’d still end up with a new pair of shorts.

My dentist texted me the other day to check my healing progress. I told him I was still dealing with a lot of swelling and had to stop wearing the flipper as it was putting pressure on the swollen parts. He explained that he’d put a lot of bone material in the palatine process, which would contribute to the swollen feeling.

I followed up with, “What exactly did you use.”

“Dry cortical bone.”

“Sourced from where?”

“Cadavers.”

My mouth is haunted!

It’s only temporary, as the material holds space in one’s jaw so the body can do the repair work. If everything goes well, my smile will be filled in by August, more than a year after the accident. I keep returning home with a new resealable bag containing a cast of my mouth.

The roomie was slightly alarmed to see me build a Teeth Totem on the coffee table. He was concerned that I had plans to use it as decoration.

DECORATION? Boy, please. It’s art: it represents all the pain and suffering I’ve been through.

I am so insulted I might just crazy glue them all to his bedside table. He’s overdue for some crazy roommate stories to share with his friends.