I may be summoned to work in a week. I received an email on Friday announcing that the bike shop would be back in operation by the 11th. Yet, neither Yann nor I have received a separate email saying that our services would be required.
First, British Columbians, I’d like to make something clear:
“Nigel the Interpreter” is not performing.
On Monday, I stepped outside for the first time since the 12th to the mailbox. It was a brisk jaunt around the neighbourhood lasting about fifteen minutes. I made it back home without coughing in public.
The next day, I had a proper outing when Yann and I went down to the beach with the binoculars. Five minutes into settling on the edge of the concrete walkway, I was looking at an eagle and a seal within the same field of view. A little later, we saw an Anna’s hummingbird hanging out in the bushes. What a treat! Until we realized that the beach was also teeming with teenagers drinking out of thermoses and throwing pebbles at each other because that’s what teenagers do when they’re not getting an education. Our reaction was more or less this:
I enjoyed writing that two-part post about Betting on Zero. This could be the future of Squaremeat: documentary reviews!
I recently sat through another documentary featuring a billionaire. Either we have so many of them, or billionaires are worth documenting on film. The appeal of writing about documentaries is that they welcome a barrage of opinions, and I could opine the heck out of American Factory. This film may warrant another 1000+ word post. For today, however, I’ll make proper use of this blog and document my life in this fair city.
Look at this cat, isn’t he incredible?
He has chewed the straps of my sports bra in half. Twice. That is incredible.
He has also chewed off and swallowed the knotted end of a hoody drawstring. The knot remained in his belly until he yakked it up three days later. But before his puke revealed what had been wrong with him, his loss of appetite on day one was so disconcerting that Yann and I wasted a hundred dollars on a visit to the vet. Incredible.
Even after this ordeal, he still finds hoody drawstrings irresistible. He’s incredib…ly infuriating.
Aanyway, aren’t these dog ownership-level problems?
Many of my posts are inspired by conversations I have with Yann. He’s my one-man test audience. Whenever a horrified look spreads across his face, I think, “Ooh, this is definitely blog-worthy.”
The night I posted about my impending exit from InstaCrap, the bedroom light suddenly switched off. I had angered God (who is now owned by Facebook).
My first thought was that Yann had grown impatient of me treating the bedroom as a makeshift office, and had shut off the light as a way to announce bedtime. This wasn’t rational as it’s not his style. If anything, it’s something I would do.
The glow from my notebook was enough for me to see that Yann wasn’t standing at the bedroom door as expected. I jump to conclusions poorly: the wind had knocked out the power, blacking out our building.
At 11:59pm on December 31st, I stood behind Yann as he washed the dishes. I had Enfoiré in my arms and an eye on the range display, waiting for 12:00 to pop up. At midnight, I yelled Happy New Year at the back of Yann’s head.
The scene an hour earlier had been even grimmer: I was hunched over on the couch, trying to comb the mats out of my toque’s pompom, which had shrunk in the washer. (The entire thing shrunk, actually. I aimlessly restored a pompom on a now too-small toque. I should have known better than to put a toque in a washer. Fuck.)