Friday, August 12, 2011

Entry #47 - Subterranean Spinster

Dear Diary,
   I have neglected you for too long, and it shames me deeply. I'm sure my prolonged absence led you to believe that I had died alone and been eaten by my cat run off with some attractive and charming suitor. I am deeply depressed delighted to report that this is not the case and that I am still as spinsterly as ever!

The good news is that I have finally moved into the new Spinster Mansion after more than a month of squatting at Vanessa and Scott's house. Perhaps I should be more specific, allow me to rephrase; the good news for Scott and Vanessa is that their overgrown, sarcastic, perpetually hungry, dependent, and intrusive baby bird has finally left the nest...for the second time. Hurrah! So I am now settling in to my new home, which I have christened "Subterranean Spinster Mansion" in honour of its location 3/4 below ground level. I tossed around the name "Cavern of Lonliness" but it wasn't well received, neither was "Bunker of Solitude" nor "Spinster Grotto". SSM it is!

Subterranean Spinster Mansion is really, really nice. Some might say...too nice. I have an uneasy feeling about just how unbelievably great it is. I mean, the windows open and close, the heat works, the floors are even, the electrical wiring and stairs are installed and built to code, I know how hot the oven is when I turn it on, I can do my laundry without fearing for my clothes and life, and my landlord is a reasonable and caring human being. My pessimistic nature tells me that this, much like a man expressing interest in me, must be too good to be true; so much so that I sometimes just sit on the couch, looking around, waiting for something bad to happen. As I did this the other day, the prophecy fulfilled itself in the form of strange noise drifted down from the end of the hallway. I was quite certain that my doom was imminent, this was after all far too good to be true. I could tell that Gus was of the same mind by the way his ears perked up prior to him turning around and scurrying into my bedroom and under my bed. I thanked him for his support "Cowardly Lion!"  and then went to investigate the sound. My sleuthing skills led me to discover that the origin of the noise was actually...prepare yourself... the washing machine. It turns out that when the machine has finished it's wrinkle-release low-spin cycle (or whatever other magical combination of buttons you choose to press) it sings a a little ditty to let you know that it's done. No harsh buzzers, no uninformative silence (unless you so choose), just a nice little melody. I can't say for sure, but there is a distinct possibility that my mouth was agape when this realization fully formed in my mind, it is also possible that I physically embraced the washed and dryer.

It's not all honey and roses though, Diary, there are downfalls to moving out of the ghetto. These downfalls include but are not limited to:

Loss of Status: After living in the original Spinster Mansion for nine months I (along with Kim) had grown accustomed to always being the classiest person around, and this without ever really trying. I could have rolled out of that apartment with cut off jean shorts, clear heels, and a bumpit and still would have been the Audrey Hepburn of the building. I was a 6 out of 10 a midst a sea of 4s, and by golly, it was good to be on top.  So I'm sure you can imagine that moving into a classy neighbourhood has really knocked me down a few pegs. On an average day, when I walk out to my car from my subterranean basement suite, I often feel like someone is going to demand identification. My car went from being the nicest on the street to the most budget on the whole block. To sum it up, I feel like I'm wearing a pink velour sweatsuit (not that I own one) at a black tie event (not that I get invited to any).
No "Frisky Business"??:  Subterranean Spinster Mansion came mostly furnished. Unlike me and Kim, the owner of the house does not shop for furniture at the Salvation Army, nor does she subscribe to the belief that irony, satire, and hilarity are words that should inspire interior decor. Thus, my cat plates remain securely nestled in their box, wrapped up in bubble wrap, for putting them on display in this house would create a very awkward juxtaposition; like putting a clown nose on a super model.
Lonely Spinster Fridge: Living by myself for the first time I have discovered that I am "un" : Unable/unwilling/uninterested/unmotivated to eat properly when living alone. The first dinner I ate consisted of two hard-boiled eggs and some yogurt which I ate straight from the container. Breakfast wasn't much better in that it was multiple bowls of Honey Sunshine cereal (which if you haven't tried both delicious AND is the closest thing I've found to eating Captain Crunch without being an adult who buys and eats Captian Crunch). Both of the aforementioned meals were eaten while standing alone in the kitchen. My fridge has about 10 things in it, my cupboards aren't any better. I have multiple pickled foods. I've consulted the GPS on my smartphone, it has confirmed that I am living and eating somewhere between "pathetic" and "pitiful".
Save me from Myself: Living alone means that you have no one to share food with, so if you open a giant bag of Kettle Corn you are at risk (hypothetically speaking, of course) of eating the whole bag and then buying two more from Walmart. You may also find yourself snacking in inappropriate places such as in bed, on the living room floor, and in the bathtub, because no one is there to be embarrassed in front of and your standards for yourself are so low you could trip over them. At some point you may be forced to put the Kettle Corn in "single serving snack bags" in order to be able to exercise some sort of control over how much you are consuming in one sitting. You may then have to take some snack bags over to your friend's house in order to save you from, well, yourself. This is all hypothetical, of course.

Long story longer, my new home is absolutely lovely, but in accordance with the feelings of any man who has dated me (and even Gus who has taken to sleeping on the floor with his back to me), I find my own company to be somewhat lacking. Lucky for me (or orchestrated by my friends), my beloved Spinster's Apprentice, Heather, moved back to the island and into Subterranean Spinster Mansion as of yesterday. Break out the zebra print rompers and let the labeling  of everything as "Hers & Hers" begin!


  1. Hannah, you're a solid 8, even a 9. Ok, just had to get that out of the way.
    Here's to many bags of Kettle Corn and many sets of hers & hers towels until the man I have dubbed "Handsome Mr Professor" comes to sweep you off your feet. You should probably be more demanding of Gussles in the mean time.

  2. 1. You have cat plates? These I would like to see.

    2. I need to get me some of that Honey Sunshine cereal.

    3. Stay away from Wal mart!