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.

The Rule of Turds

Our neighbourhood is beautiful. And Judgey. For flavour, have a look at the Roncy/Parkdale Friendly Neighbours Facebook page which boasts a toxicity rate of three. Feeling spicy? Write something about dogs . . . or kids . . . or kids interacting with dogs. Here’s how it works:

(1) The Micro-aggressive Opener: “Hi gentle neighbours, just a PSA to pick up after your floofs!”

(2) The Axe-grinding Second: “My toddler stepped in dog shit yesterday at Sorauren Park . . .”

(3) The Closer: “Dogs should be banned from public spaces!” (Followed by an AI-generated image of a Rottweiler chasing a terrified child). 

Grab your cortado, and watch the fur fly.

Inspired by Judge Not. Photo—Placement—by Laurie.

Judge Not

Sure, I hadn’t shaved for days; and maybe I hadn’t had a haircut in months. And yes, I’d most definitely fallen into the habit of wearing my jeans till the knees wore through—though in my defense, it was sort of the fashion at the time. Still, I was my own boss, making good money—and so, who really was I trying to impress?

Turns out it was the social worker outside the Metropolitan United Church downtown, who met my eyes with such a bald expression of Christian love that I knew in that instant he thought I was homeless.

Inspired by Devastation. Image cropped from an ASOS fashion shoot.

Devastation

The #20 bus rolls along East Hastings Street like the Mars rover across an alien landscape. We passengers, safely behind glass, are like scientists observing previously unimaginable life forms. We pass shabby storefronts, Edwardian hotels fallen to flophouses, crumbled hoardings, junk-strewn alleys, and on the sidewalk, piles of filthy garments, soiled sleeping bags, broken personal effects, and humans: brothers, daughters, sons. Some are slumped in unconscious disarray. Some stagger or shuffle desultorily, bent at the waist in the fentanyl fold. Others huddle in conversation, a community despite everything. We pass through blocks of devastation, en route to pristine Stanley Park.

Inspired by Now That’s Customer Service and a recent ramble through Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. Photo from r/UrbanHell.

Now That’s Customer Service

On a train from Ottawa, we’re told, due to maintenance, there’ll be an hour-long detour towards the Toronto end of the line. We slow to a crawl—stop for minutes at a time—than inch forward again.

     An announcement comes on: “Attention passengers, the detour today isn’t going very well. Thanks for your understanding.”

     We erupt in laughter. Then the train starts going backwards. 

     Another announcement: “In case you were wondering, we’re not heading back to Ottawa, we’re just backing up to merge onto another track. Thanks for your understanding.”

     When we finally make it to Toronto, we’re still laughing.

Inspired by a recent train trip. Photo by Via Rail Canada.

Just for the record, the real answer was No.

I started Grade 6 with a kid whose favourite dirty word by far was dick. And he sure got to use it a lot, because even now I’m surprised how often that topic came up in a schoolyard full of eleven-year-old boys, and probably still does.

     Then the administration decided to add sex education to our gym classes.

     Then I got the chicken pox, and those damn spots got everywhere.

     “Even on your penis?” he asked.

     “None of your business, Kevin.”

     Though I’ve got to say I’m still pretty impressed that even he had started using the correct anatomical terms.

Inspired by Birds, Bees, Viruses. Original photo by Jenny Walters.

The Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries

After Auntie Annemarie dressed up like a sozzled Santa in 1966, the mysteries of Christmas were revealed to me. My parents never really “did” kid-centric holidays. And the way that adulthood was served up in the Cayer-Leclair household, I wasn't going to Nancy-Drew that future anytime soon. For me, magical mysteries were found in other people’s homes: baskets filled with shiny green grass and chocolate eggs at Carolyn’s; individually wrapped Twinings teabags at Christine’s; store-bought clothing FROM DETROIT; family trips to warm places.
     So when Dan was born, thirty-one years ago today, I hocus-pocus’d it all back. Especially Easter.

Inspired by Birds, Bees, Viruses. Photo—Birthday Boy—by Laurie.