Our country has been on lockdown since late March. It’s now mid-May, and we’ve only just had some of the severe — and incredibly necessary — restrictions lifted, meaning my lovely hairdresser is once again taking appointments.

By the time I get there, it will have been almost three and a half months since I last had my hair done. Not really a big deal, in the grand scheme of things, but I have noticed a few unwelcome changes.

I also have a running joke that I’m getting old, even though I’ve only just cracked thirty-one.

Me: “Oh, man, I’m so old, my greys are showing! Look!”

Partner: “I really can’t see anything.”

Me: “It’s right there!”

Partner: *Stares intently* “Don’t worry; that’s white, not grey.”

Me: “…”

Partner: “Uh, I mean…”

Me: “Yeah, that didn’t make it better, thanks.”

Partner: “No! It’s fine! You don’t even notice it!”

Me: “Mmm-hmmm.”

I totally don’t care — I’d love a white streak a la Claire Saffitz –but watching my partner trying to backtrack made me giggle which, during this rather scary time, is always welcome.

My husband and I are visiting Seattle. We approach the Seattle Monorail and my husband, who is a massive fan of The Simpsons, gets this big goofy grin on his face.

Husband: “Mono—”

Me: “Nope!”

He mock-sulks and I can hear him humming THAT song. A few moments later, we pass another couple.

Couple Husband: *Under his breath* “Monorail, monorail!”

I look at the wife.

Me: “You, too?”

The wife laughed. I did eventually let my husband sing the song on the monorail, and he later said it was one of the highlights of his day!

This story has been included in our June 2020 roundup as one of that month’s most memorable stories!

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I’ve just completed a shopping trip at a local chain store. I picked a bunch of items, including some new bras. I head to the cashier, as self-checkout does not exist yet. He is a young man and obviously new, but I’m not in any rush.

He starts scanning the items and bagging them. There’s no problem until the bras arrive. They are on a little hanger. He plucks the hanger up by the size tab at the top of the hanger with his two fingers. He’s holding it delicately as if touching it was hazardous. He tries to scan it by waving it but the tag won’t scan. 

A look caught between panic and horror crosses his face as he realizes he will have to touch the bra. Now, I know I should bail him out, but it’s a bra, not a bomb. He’s a cashier; someday, panties, too, may be purchased. So I let the torture continue. 

He looks at me and then at the bra he’s trying desperately to ring up when he realizes the hand scanner might work. It does scan the tag hanging innocently from the bra cup. He repeats this process for the next two bras. He even bags the bras in their own bag!

I’m sitting at the front desk of the assisted living facility where I work, going through my opening tasks, when a coworker comes around the corner to talk to my boss near my desk.

Boss: “Hey, [Coworker], you doing all right today?”

Coworker: “Not really. My stomach is upset and I feel awful, honestly. I was going to ask—”

Boss: “Oookay!” *Backs up* “Go home! Get out! UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!”

The boss makes shooing motions and then an X with her fingers. [Coworker] puts their hands up and laughs.

Coworker: “Thank you. I’m going! I’m going!”

The boss runs and hides in her office as my coworker starts toward my desk.

Me: “NO! Unclean! Go awaaaay!”

I hide under my desk.

Coworker: “Nice to know I’m loved! Bye, [My Name]!”

Me: *From under the desk* “Bye! Feel better!”

We’ve been dealing with a norovirus here for twelve days and counting now and we’ve pretty much all had it, me included. We’re all a little punchy and sick of it.

I’m a new secondary school student. Our school is holding a fair where all the clubs advertise themselves to the new students the next day.

This happens right at the end of the school day. A student dashes past our classrooms with what looks like a bunch of bodies with their heads and limbs dangling out of the sack slung over his shoulders.

Student: *Bellowing* “Out of the way, out of the way! Guy with a corpse coming through!”

Half a dozen other students run right behind him, each carrying what look like body bags with heads sticking out of them and shouting the same line.

Classmate: “What the f***?!”

That basically summed up our reaction to those corpse-carrying students.

The very next day, I found the club that had done that. Apparently, it was a school tradition for the Saint John’s Ambulance Brigade to run through the corridors with their CPR dummies slung over their shoulders and shouting that line while carrying them from the storeroom to their assigned classroom the day before the fair — especially in front of the secondary one classrooms — both to amuse and to serve as advertisement.

Their advertising worked. I signed up, and for the next four years, I got the honour of being one of the corpse carriers and the leading corpse bearer — the guy in front that carries the big four-bodies-in-one dummy — in the last two.

In fact, the original corpse-carrying student that I first saw became my best friend.