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.