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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Life as a living canvas.

When I was 19, the mother of my then-boyfriend pointed to my ears and went, “Ewwww.” She was not referring to my deafness; she was saying to my face that she thought my stretched earlobes were ugly. In hindsight, I should have had the guts to inform her that her bowl haircut was gross but not as appalling as her manners. Her manners, by the way, got her sacked from her job at a Christian bookstore as well as from Mrs. Fields’ Cookies.

That’s right: she was too rude for Jesus and baked goods.

I was 19 in 2002, and this was right around the time stretched piercings started going mainstream. It was still during a time when stretched ears were reason enough to be denied a job. It was not that having a hole in your earlobe that was the problem, but the size of the hole. How big is too big? If one jumps from 14 gauge to 12, would that person be rendered unemployable?

It was up to the company where to draw the line.
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365 days later.

Here are my nine most popular posts on Instagram from 2018:

bestnine2018

I don’t like that my most popular picture was a… selfie. My parents deserve all the credit for creating my face. 35 years ago their deoxyribonucleic acids (that’s longhand for DNA) merged and 9 months later I happened. All I did was take a few snapshots at an arm’s length on the balcony on a sunny day and posted the best. (Besides, my coolest tattoos are on my lower half.)

Perhaps it was the thrill of seeing my hair out of braids? My hair didn’t do much growing this year, but I did.

Here are nine moments of glory from 2018.

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The reality of being a successful Millennial.

While I was taking time off work to recuperate from my injury, I got so bored that I dared to sort through my cache of important papers. I’m only partially organized in that everything was dumped in one small box, from my secondary school transcript to a jumble of tax papers from the last decade.

Canadians are only required to keep income tax records from the last six years, so it was time to get rid of some retro government documents.

I was shocked by how little money I made in my mid-20s. In 2008, my employment income was just under $13,500. This was the same year I took a three-week trip to Europe. I remember being told by my mother, “You are so lucky you have the money to travel!  I can’t afford to travel!”

Continue reading “The reality of being a successful Millennial.”