It’s not a good year for calendars.
2022 was the year of Peter Glazebrook.
2023’s calendar was a Where’s Waldo knockoff.
Moons were the star in 2024.
2025 featured axolotls.
December’s axolotl still adorns the wall next to the fridge. A week into 2026, I walked into Russel Books, expecting to buy a calendar at half price, just like I had the previous year, only to learn that the procrastinator’s discount had turned into a BOGO deal. When the cashier explained that I could grab a second calendar for “free”, I declined on the basis that I wasn’t leading a double life and begrudgingly paid full price for 12 large pictures of axolotls. This calendar turned out to be a dud. Instead of the weekend sandwiching the weekdays as usual, both weekends appeared as the last two columns, resulting in a year of showing up for appointments a day early and premature birthday greetings.
This year, Russel’s selection was limited to dog breeds and the works of Gustav Klimt, all at full price. BOGO was no go.
Whatever. I have a printer: there’s no need to limit myself to just one breed of dog for a whole year. I could transform every weekday into a Saturday or Sunday, which has become my reality as an unemployed person, not that I haven’t been keeping busy with personal projects, reading lists, and fitness ambitions.
The aspect of my life that has suffered the most during this sabbatical has been my social life. So, when Zoée left to be with her other chosen family on the 27th, I scrambled to make plans with the few folks I knew who hadn’t skipped town for the holidays, including my actual family.
At one point in my life, I had seven uncles. When my mom passed away in 2012, that number was whittled down to one: my dad’s only sibling. But it’s all good: Miles had always been the coolest uncle, by far. For the past few years, he’s rented space at Malaspina Printmakers’ downtown location, where he makes screen prints and wooden art.
I spent the last day of 2025 power washing screens after screens, a task Miles claimed was the most tedious part of the screen printing process. I found it oddly gratifying, although not to the extent that I’d buy the PowerWash Simulator for the Switch.
Miles was the one who told me there was a Tim Hortons around the corner from the studio where I could get some coffee and nudity. It was at this Tim Horton’s where Miles encountered a guy bent over one of the tables, gobbling scraps of food, while his pants sagged past his knees, exposing his shit-smeared butt. The chocolate donuts didn’t sell well that day.
Nudity notwithstanding, I’ve never liked coffee. I had to deal with quite a bit of unsavoury sights and smells during my time in Vancouver, mainly while taking public transit. Most of the buses I boarded travelled along Hastings, where the unwashed would hop on and off, permeating the bus with the stench of stale piss.
As revolting as those trips were, I recognized that the root of these people’s issues likely stems from the ultra-wealthy, such as the Sackler family. However, since this isn’t the kind of blog where I try to educate people about the injustices in the world, let me change the subject.
(Since the screen print took a while to finish, it’ll take a while for me to write about it as well.)
The rationale behind my unused swimming gear had to do with my hair. Not the holiday bush I’d accidentally grown, but what’s left of the hair on my head. Thanks to perimenopausal hair loss, it’s almost as if my hair would rather be anywhere but on my head, including in Zoée’s butt crack. Ripping off a latex swim cap post-swim seemed unwise; I’ll be sticking to activities that are gentle on the scalp for the next while.
My e-reader also remained untouched while in Vancouver, as I had access to Zoée’s extensive personal library and four different streaming services. The first of Zoée’s books I read was Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, which a GoodReads reviewer stated, “I love food and I love hot sexy chefs with potty mouths.”
I was sold.
I’m generally a fan of memoirs. I’ve spent the past 25+ years sharing the good and the ugly bits and bobs of my life online.
It hasn’t been easy meeting people willing to reciprocate, so I occasionally resort to published works. I powered through the first half of Kitchen Confidential in two days, entertained by Bourdain’s account as the captain of his crew of rock star pirates at the seafood restaurants around Provincetown, Massachusetts. I appreciated the insider’s information on the restaurant industry and am unlikely to touch the complimentary bread ever again.
My interest waned towards the last half, which was a glorification of hustle culture–a mindset I deeply despise. According to Bourdain, only slackers stay at home when sick. Sexist, racist, and homophobic comments were expected to be tolerated because they did not reflect the level of respect Bourdain has for those cooks. In defense of Bourdain, this was the reality of workplaces in the 90s, and even into the early 2000s.
My Calgary days were spent power washing cars alongside a perverted redneck boss who would ask me and Gator lewd questions such as, “Do you like it up the ass?” and gifted me a bespoke dildo carved from a broomstick. The employee washroom was wallpapered with pictures of scantily clad and unclad women.
It was truly a different time.
The second book I borrowed from the library of Zoée was Feeding Ghosts–also a memoir, but of the graphic variety. This particular book was highly recommended by Zoée, who made the mistake (?) of also highly recommending the show, Heated Rivalry. I didn’t finish the last two episodes of this hockey homoerotica, but managed to finish Feeding Ghosts just minutes before Miles came by to give my baggage-laden (but not shit-smeared) ass to the ferries. Among my belongings were the six copies of my first screen print project, the title of this post a hint at its subject matter.
….to be continued.
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