When I was littler, my mum’s job was to translate instruction manuals for tractors and cranes. Sometimes the machines needed translating on the weekends and I’d get to watch.
When the watching got too much, Maman would set me up at my tiny desk with Dance Mat Typing, where a goat called Gary encouraged me to type with both hands. I liked how he called me rock’n’roller in his goat accent. I especially liked clickclacking in the same room as Maman.
From ages seven to seventeen, I grew up in Canberra. There, winters are cold. Canberran houses have also tricked themselves into thinking they belong to the rest of Australia where it’s always balmy. So to the freezing air, Canberran houses say FOR SURE COME IN. I remember Maman would wear fingerless gloves a lot and when she rubbed her hands at her computer, it sounded like shrackshrack.
At one point Maman bought me a pink pair of fingerless gloves for my own typing affairs. I kept trying to wear them to the dinner table but Maman said no, that I was no child eating soup in a drafty orphanage.
When it was time for a break, Maman would say “bon !” and type a bunch of Zs so she wouldn’t forget where she was in her work and so her work knew it was time to rest. Everything would be in crane speak, all colour coded and professional, and then ZZZZZZZZ. A rude interruption from a sleepy bee. Truly thrilling.
Maman once told me that she felt self-conscious when other people were in the house while she breaked. But I like that she could decide when to stretch her legs. When to cut herself a piece of Emmental cheese. When to sniff the winter sun outside. I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship to work and rest, and I think Maman’s taught me how to do both.
My favourite thing about Maman working from home was seeing her suspended. And though I wasn’t supposed to regularly interrupt her focus bubble, occasional pops were okay. If Gary was stressing me out, she’d say “une seconde” and draw out the “une”. Then, turning to me, “oui ma puce”.
And she’d drop down from her work. For me, her flea.
Written in September 2022, shared with Maman’s permission.
This week I interviewed for a communications job at a clown school (lol) in the woods (lol), cried over a broken fridge, and laughed hard when Di performed stand-up for the first time in years. Also, it snowed !
Thank you for your replies re: last week’s zo zine. Feels less scary out here ! Fred, my ex-performance art prof, sent back a story about the time she was sailing along the south coast of the St-Laurent with her partner. They arrived to an anchorage, waved to people on a boat and went to sleep. Later they’d find out that the boat with the waving people had a hole in it.
It had left, started leaking, called for help, almost drowned and got rescued all while we were sleeping with our radio off a few miles from it.
No metaphorical sinking ships there.
— zo
PS: If anyone wants to share their Crave subscription with me, hmu. I will pay!
"her flea" 🥺 so tender, I could melt
Picturing lil Zo with the lil glasses trying to wear lil fingerless gloves to the dinner table is the highlight of my week