As I approach the new self-checkout area at a local supermarket, a clerk comes over to guide me. She is probably at least a decade or two older than me, although my sense of age is probably not as sharp as it used to be.
“Be sure to put your bag on the scale and add each item after you scan it. Do you have your own bags?”
“No, for the avodadoes, you should click the ‘enter code manually button.’ See how there’s a number on the sticker?”
It’s not like I’m new to self-checkouts, but as she deftly corrects a few of my actions, it does facilitate a smoother transaction. Usually I have to click the “Get help” button at least once during these things, but today I don’t.
After it’s all over, I make my way to the exit, rolling shopping cart literally in tow. With its turquoise pseudo-Moroccan tile pattern, I think it’s cute – but by its very nature, it can never be hip. Even the word “hip” is un-hip, I fully acknowledge that.
Even though I leave feeling about a hundred years old, the whole thing was somehow quite a satisfying experience.
You hid out for four days, undoubtedly terrified, waiting.
Then one morning, you plucked up every ounce of your feline courage and found your way back home at five o’clock in the morning. You walked through the door I’d left open and into the kitchen and scarfed down as much food as you possibly could. You looked up at me when I saw you, seeming almost puzzled as I burst into sobs.
Since then, you’ve curled up with me at night while I slept with my elbow tightly around you. You’ve tucked yourself under my arm while I typed on my laptop with the other. You’ve dozed soundly on your bed while I worked a foot away on my desk.
You diligently caught mice in my old apartment and have enjoyed bird- and squirrel-watching vantage points at my new condo.
You don’t meow excessively and you haven’t broken or scratched things, only adding some wear and tear to the couch… a small price to pay for your constant companionship throughout the pandemic.
On this Fête Nationale holiday in my home province of Québec – aka Fête de la Saint-Jean-Baptiste – there’s been much talk about the promotion of homegrown music.
But listening to a radio show today focussing on the wealth of music generated in this province made me reflect back on one time I was in the close presence of a real vedette québécoise.
I think I was about 15 at the time. I was heavily into acting, obsessed with anything related to performing in theatre, TV, film, and as fate would have it one day, commercials.
My dad was working on a commercial for Coke Diète and they needed someone to serve as a stand-in for a very famous Québec singing star named Diane Dufresne. As I happened to be around the same small stature as the performer, I was well suited to take her place during lighting and camera setups, allowing Mme. Dufresne to swoop in and do her bits once the technical setup was all ready.
I remember being quite hot under all the lights, so they let me wear my shorts, alongside the odd bellhop-reminiscent pink hat, and a top made out of the same satiny material the star would be wearing.
I can’t recall much else – it was a loooong time ago – but I do remember feeling like it was a cool, probably once-in-a-lifetime experience. And indeed it was.
Miraculously, the entire commercial is up on YouTube, so if you dare, go ahead and feast your eyes on the marvel of Diane Dufresne shilling for Coca-Cola in the 1980s, in what is probably one of the weirder commercials of the decade.
Well. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? While I didn’t intend for there to be such a long pause after my last post, as the saying goes, life happened.
And speaking of gaps….
Have you ever looked over at a cluster of small, irregularly shaped holes or circles, and recoiled in disgust? All my life, that’s been me. I never knew until fairly recently that this phenomenon is actually a thing. Like a real thing with a name!
Yes, I know it’s weird!
No, I don’t know why I cringe when I see a poor, mild-mannered crepe on my plate. (Trypophobes, look away now, you’ve been warned.)
Or why the sight of small coffee-coloured bubbles on a plastic lid floating in the sink sends shivers down my spine:
Apparently trypophobia hasn’t been studied very much – and I don’t blame the scientific community, which has much bigger fish to fry.
According to the same Wikipedia article, there’s a hypothesis “that it is the result of a biological revulsion that associates trypophobic shapes with danger or disease, and may therefore have an evolutionary basis.”
I suppose that makes sense, so I’ll just keep reminding myself that the crepes are not out to attack me or make me sick, and get on with it.