Proof of Life

Roy knows I hate missing deadlines. Maybe that’s from years of client work (I don’t miss that), or my Navy days (I do miss them), but I’m never late to post. The “tell” for Roy is that I pre-post a draft the day before deadline, and schedule it to publish at 0830 on Due Day. So, this week, there's no draft from me at all, and Roy texts, tongue-in-cheek, “I need some proof of life.”

     I can’t imagine a better proof of life than a hike in the woods. So here's my proof, and my excuse for almost missing deadline. 

Inspired by Roy who is our Exquisite Corpse choirmaster. Photo by Jacquie Maund.

How I Wrote This Drabble

Spent the previous four days procrastinating
Reread Laurie’s drabble
Took a shower to think about it
Spent an hour phone scrolling
Made a cup of tea
Cleaned off the cat hair from my office chair
Answered emails
Went pee
Read Laurie’s again
Wrote
Deleted
Wrote
Deleted
Played Candy Crush
Wrote 340 words
Had lunch while watching an episode of Deep Space Nine
Answered emails
Cut it down to 88 words
Put some words back
Now it was 108 words long
Cut 10
Added three
Hyphenated-something
Got it to exactly 100 words
Found an image at the very last moment
Posted

Inspired by Routine. Photo by Nancy of Daisy, the culprit who sheds hair over Nancy’s chair.

Routine

Body dysmorphic clothes buying (63–6*=57 years)

Three species daily pill-taking (38 years)

Vegetarianism (40–1.5†=38.5 years)

Friday meals in the living room (32 years)

Over planting then bored by August (27 years)

ELE but still buying wool‡ (20 years)

Bringing Donna pecan buns 

              at exactly 11:00 A.M, December 25th (18 years)

Pirates at Hallowe’en (10 years)

Misko barks at bottle lady (3 years)

Pip finishes Rich’s cereal milk (2 years)

A clean, decluttered home (2 hours, 15 minutes)

─────────
* The year mom took me to Weight Watchers
† Regular visits to Nipissing First Nation
‡ Knit Café, 1350 Dundas Street West

Inspired by Pasquale Fuoco. Image, Pip sous la vitre, by Laurie.

Pasquale Fuoco

In 1972, Pat was renting a chair at Charles and Yonge. We had just moved to Toronto, and Promenade Men’s Hair Stylists was simply the closest barber, and his was the first empty seat.

     Still, in 1983, when Pat started his own shop, I followed him there on the 45-minute trip up to Steeles, with no guarantee he’d even be working that day.

     And I’d probably be going there still, were it not for the fire that gutted the entire plaza. I didn’t have Pat’s phone number and—after sixteen years of haircuts—I didn’t even know his real name.

Inspired by Oh Claude. Image by Barbicide.

Oh Claude

I’ve always had long hair, except when I was seven and solo-parented by my father, whose barber gave me the go-to ’70s bowl-cut. More recently, I wore it short when I thought it was faux-pas to have long hair over 50 and worse, long and gray. Then, with my growing indifference to everything, the mane flourished. Claude judged me—I’m trying too hard, wrote he. I was planning to home-chop it, when I ended up in a random conversation with a human on Bloor carrying a Gucci under her silver flow. 
     Leave it and love it, she said. 

Inspired by Being Judgey (or, Okay Boomer!) Image from The New Knew.

At The Pearly Gates

Something had happened below. There was an ungodly crowd at the Gates. A burly man with a red tie pushed to the front. 

     “Table for one.” 

     St. Peter was taken aback. “This isn’t―” 

     “This guy’s low IQ, I can tell you that,” the man told his followers. 

     Peter exchanged glances with the Archangel Michael. “Sir, we aren’t―”

     “Check your list. They’re expecting me.” 

     Michael whispered something to Peter, who nodded. “Ah, yes,” Peter told the man, pointing. “Our golden escalator will take you straight there.” 

     They watched him descend. “‘They’re not sending their best’,” Peter muttered. Michael shrugged.

Inspired by Being Judgey, and the numerous versions of Heaven I've imagined, the first one being on this link. Image by Marjorie at NightCafe.

Being Judgey (or, Okay Boomer!)

I don’t understand selfies. Who needs so many pictures of themselves? I don’t understand taking a selfie while pulling down a branch laden with cherry blossoms (right beside a sign that says: “Don’t pull on the branches please. It damages the trees”) and then getting into a car and leaving. I don’t understand people who post a picture of their food before every meal. I don’t understand spending every second of your vacation taking photos (most of which you delete eventually) instead of just being there. Are these experiences not real unless they’re recorded? Do we only exist on screen?

Inspired by The Rule of Turds. Image by Nancy not understanding.