(I started writing this post yesterday.)
Happy International Women’s Day!
A lifetime of suffering, one day of celebration!
-Alexa
Once again, I empowered women by enriching their knowledge of bikes and letting them in on the secret that men generally overstate their bike maintenance know-how. Truly, I have yet to meet a non-bike mechanic whose skills match their claims. I’ve definitely been “well, ackshually’d” by these men the few times I’ve tried to give empirical advice.
Fine. Enjoy your garbage bike, you smug man.
As soon as I got home from the three-hour repair clinic, I scrubbed the grime from my fingernails, eager for a more ladylike diversion. My order of yarn from Denmark arrived while I was in Vancouver and passed through customs without incurring any duty fees.
There was only one thing stopping me from starting on my army of Koroks: this blog post. I can’t keep Zoée waiting for my recap of my extra-queer, birthday-flavoured trip to Vancouver.
I took the long, budget-friendly route to the mainland last Thursday and used my new AFI card to obtain my usual discounted fare.
The new card arrived in the mail three weeks ago, and it looks only marginally more legitimate than the photo ID my sister made for me when I was 7. I won’t share a picture of the new AFI card, but here’s my first ever photo ID:
BC Ferries even had to further crop my already tightly cropped picture, and by doing so, they shaved off my chin tip. Matt remarked how I resemble a child peering over a counter in the photo.
“Please, kind sir, I am poor. Let me on ye boat for half the price.”
The worst part is that the latest version of the AFI card is only valid for two years. In less than two years, I’ll need to have a doctor sign another form confirming that I am still deaf. Perhaps BC Ferries hopes to upgrade its ID-making technology by then. As things stand, it would be less of a hassle for me to DIY an AFI card when it’s time for renewal. I still have three more copies of that awful picture taken at Walmart, along with a printer, cardstock, and a glue stick.
Beats being microchipped, I guess.
(And $20 later) I find myself in the heart of the Mattress District. The neighbourhood is actually called Fairview. I lived in this neighbourhood from 2011 until 2015. At the corner of Broadway and Oak was a perpetually closing mattress store called Simmons Mattress Gallery. Was. It finally went out of business last year and has been replaced by another mattress store.
“It’s a front,” said Marianne, who coined the sobriquet that is the Mattress District.
I was to sleep on her couch in the Mattress District that night: it’s a comfortable couch, and Marianne is always a wonderful host.
Shannon, of the “Peony” sector, joined us for a pre-dinner run along the Seawall. I’ve walked, cycled, and even rollerbladed along the Seawall, but it was my first time running it. Never, in my short running career, have I ever had to dodge that many other runners. At the end of our 5.5km run, I declared it the “most Vancouver thing I’d ever done”.
We reclaimed our calories at a sushi restaurant located among the many mattress purveyors. There, we discussed something called a “Sleep Score”, which is one of the data made available by Garmin to wearers of the fitness smartwatch. Marianne’s jaw dropped at Shannon’s exceptional sleep score:
Where does that lady shop for mattresses? I bet she falls asleep smiling as people do in mattress commercials.
And, do I want a fitness smartwatch now? Yes. Yes, I do. I wish to enter the world of competitive sleeping.
On our walk back to Marianne’s, I had the Live Translate app open to pick up on their conversation. I asked Shannon in which neighbourhood her new condo was located:
“Peony”
Shannon looked at my phone and repeated, “No, peony…” and then emphasized every letter: Pee En Ee. She could’ve said Hastings-Sunrise, but most Vancouver-adjacent folks would understand “PNE” better. Shannon could have also said “Pacific National Exhibition”, which is what the acronym stands for. It’s the location of BC’s biggest amusement park (Playland), a horse racetrack (apparently that closed in December 2025!), and concert venues. As far as amusement parks go, Playland is second-rate, but it’s all we have. Mumpkins from all over the Lower Mainland flock to the PNE during the summer to stand in long line-ups, gorge on sugar in assorted forms, and ogle at award-winning livestock. In fact, my opa’s preferred term for “mumpkins” is “PNE people.”
Playland doesn’t open until mid-May, and the PNE fair doesn’t open until the end of August. Will Shannon’s sleep score take a nosedive once the din of PNE people arrives?
Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov greeted me at Zoée’s door the next day.
I didn’t end up gathering the clothes needed for a full Scott Hunter getup, but I put my anatomical socks on the wrong foot.
I was ushered out of the house as soon as I arrived to escort Zoée to a punk rock bakery in Burnaby. What makes a bakery punk rock? The absence of Food Safe certification and a business license? Pussies to eat and dicks to nibble on?
(If I were to move to Vancouver, I’d apply at this bakery as a cake decorator. It is my destiny.)
The box of cookies Zoée picked up wasn’t loaded with individually bagged dicks, but hearts decorated with references to Heated Rivalry:
These cookies replaced Greta on the dining table:
The Boston Raiders tee Zoée lent me got far more compliments than my socks. Also, the plate of cookies from Punk Rock Pastries were much more popular than my cookies, of which there were just two.
I baked another batch of thumbprint cookies on Wednesday evening. Rather than make a single impression in each cookie to fill with one kind of jam, I had the idea of making three impressions to fill with three different kinds of jam. Strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry. Why choose when you can have it all?
Maybe they’ll look better once baked, I thought.
Nope. They were still a triforce of deliciousness, though.
After travelling more than a hundred kilometres over two days, they were worse for wear. There were just five sad-looking cookies left on Friday, and that number got whittled down to two. I was hoping Zoée would put them aside to be enjoyed in private, but, no, the last two cookies were put out on the dining table for all the queer revellers to see.
I was hit by the feeling of inadequacy for the second time that evening when Kristen showed up and announced that she was on book #17 of the year. And I thought I was doing well!
Is everything becoming a contest these days? Sleep scores? Book counts? Is this what counts as heated rivalry in the age of perimenopause?
Anytime I’m present at the same gathering as Kristen, I am introduced by her to new folks as, “This is Laura, we grew up together. She was in the same class as my sister, Erin.”
This time, someone asked, “Who was the cool one?”
Ah, another contest to lose.
I didn’t think about why, but immediately answered, “Erin for sure.”
Here’s why: Erin made people feel good about themselves, whereas teenage Laura had the opposite effect.
Kristen offered an updated answer, “They’re both cool in their own way.”
Had I been wearing a smartwatch that night, my sleep score would have been negative. The Heated Rivalry dance party at The Birdhouse ran from 9pm until 2am. I can’t remember the last time I willingly stayed awake that late.
There was a drag performance, a walk-off for those in costume, NHL ’99 on N64, and gogo boys.
And an ASL interpreter to embody the inclusiveness of it all.
By midnight, it was game over for me. Zoée gave me their house key and put me in an Uber. Just before I passed out, I found a hiding spot for Zoée’s actual birthday present.
That’s right, Zoée, there’s a present for you waiting in your home. You can look for it now if you like, or you can wait until I reveal its location on your birthday (March 12).
After a weekend like that, I didn’t feel like showing the BC Ferries ticketing agent my silly AFI card picture and spending most of the day in transit. I got ready to loosen the purse strings and checked flight prices on Harbour Air: the cheapest fare was over $300.
Hard pass.
Helicopter, it is!
squaremeat.com 