Red and White Day.

In my former home province of Québec, Montréal residents are pushing couches and fridges up those twisty death trap staircases. In the 4 years I lived in Montréal, I never had to move on what Québécois call Moving Day. There, if you decide on a moving date other than July 1st, you’re responsible for finding a new tenant to take over whatever remains of your lease.

It’s weird, I know.

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It’s a beautiful day for staying indoors.

I texted Dad yesterday, wishing him a Happy Dad’s Day. He responded by telling me how he spent his weekend.

I told him I was spending mine at home sick. To keep things light, I also mentioned that I was able to entertain myself a bit by playing video games with Yann.

“Sounds like you’re feeling better, that’s back to work for you!”

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This is my brand.

While writing my last post, I skimmed through my Flickr archives, which contains about 10,000 photos. Many have been set as private, not because they’re scandalous, but because a good chunk of them are completely mundane photos that nobody wants to see. I shared some of the more amusing ones with Yann, who remarked that it was strange how I had a vast collection of snapshots of ordinary things such as a cuppa matcha latte, a box of latex gloves, store-bought apple pie, and an out-of-focus photo of a former co-worker eating charred vegetables.

I’m a pioneer of over-sharing on the internet. This behaviour is now openly embraced through apps like Snapchat or Instagram. I was doing something socially acceptable 10 years earlier than most!

Allow me to take you guys on a mundane stroll down memory lane:

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Second impression.

Yesterday, I decided to roam my original neighbourhood of North Park for a rush of nostalgia. Here, I occupied the same building for the entirety of the four or so years I first lived in Victoria (2004-2008). The building was in the early stages of decay: the hardwood floors were so trashed that they’d frequently implant your soles with shards of wood; the rear balcony was missing wooden boards and was on the verge of collapsing; the windows wouldn’t stay open without being propped up by assorted objects (mainly dollar store candle holders).

Do you think my former neighbours had rock art gardens? Oh, no.

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Impromptu vacation.

The forecast called for a full week of sunshine. It was also the first week I was scheduled to work five days which meant no all-day bike rides or campfires.

Last Monday, in the morning, a building in the proximity of my workplace was set ablaze. I wasn’t scheduled to work, but Yann was. I was able to pinpoint his location as the smoke that was billowing from downtown was visible from our apartment.

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Shh, the adults are talking.

Imagine the year is 2019: You’re at a real estate office with a friend to inquire about purchasing farmland with the intention of growing pre-pickled vegetables. (This would be done by irrigating crop with vinegar instead of water.)

You ask the realtor some questions. Rather than answer you, the realtor pulls your friend aside and whispers in their ear. The realtor works in a polite smile but gives you nothing more than that.

Once the meeting has ended, your friend relays all the realtor’s answers to you (“No, you can’t pay the mortgage in pickled vegetables.”) Your friend also tells you about the mortgage plan they’ve agreed upon without your input. Although you trust your friend to make the right decision, you can’t help but be wary of the realtor and remark to your friend that you found it unsettling how the realtor ignored you.

THEN! Your friend defends the realtor’s behaviour. Your friend asserts to you that the realtor was professional and rationalizes you being left out of a conversation about something that affects you. In other words, “Shh, the adults are talking.”

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