Saturday, June 1, 2013

Entry #69 - In Which, Ironically, Nothing is Sexy

Is that cat wearing a bow tie? that cat WINKING at me?!
Yes and YES.
You're welcome. 

Dear Diary,

How does a person really get inspired to write? How does one get spurred into blogging after a months long absence? I will tell you: a singular cat turd. That's right, I said it. ON THE INTERNET. Not five minutes ago my cat jumped up on my desk and walked directly between me and my laptop.
"Oh HEY buddy," I said "that is a highly inconvenient place you have chosen to...why do you smell like that?"
"MEOW" (head butt into my face)
"No seriously," I replied "why do you smell like cat poop?"
At this point, he can sense my panic and makes a break for it; and as he runs (read: prances) across my living room, tail held high, I can see one singular cat turd...stuck to his fluffy pants. For a moment I don't move. I am momentarily paralyzed (except for my jaw, which has slackened considerably).

"So it's come to this..."  I said aloud to no one in particular before accepting my fate and grabbing a kleenex.

So there you have it, things that I am compelled to share on the internet.

Shouting into Traffic Cones

My life continues to be heavily, heavily dominated by my collective of half-sized humans. My time with these children has certainly helped me to better understand the stereotype of spinster schoolmarms, because after spending six hours a day with the 22 children, I really, really value quiet time and sleep. I've also become aware that reproducing really is the Russian roulette of the ovaries, where most of the chambers are loaded. That being said, I really love them. Many of them are impulsive, rude, and lack any form of self-control, but I delight in them all the same. They are special in every sense of the word:

spe·cial   [spesh-uhl]
1.of a distinct or particular kind or character: a special kind of key.    
2.being a particular one; particular, individual, or certain: You'd better call the special number.
3.pertaining or peculiar to a particular person, thing, instance, etc.; distinctive; unique: the special features of a plan.
4.having a specific or particular function, purpose, etc.: a special messenger.
5.distinguished or different from what is ordinary or usual: a special occasion; to fix something special.
6.extraordinary; exceptional, as in amount or degree; especial: special importance.
7.being such in an exceptional degree; particularly valued: a special friend.
8.pertaining to people with singular needs or disabilities, or to their education: disabled students with special needs; state funding for special schools.
9.a special person or thing.
10.a train used for a particular purpose, occasion, or the like.
11.a special edition of a newspaper.
12.Theater . a spotlight reserved for a particular area, property, actor, etc.: Give me the coffin special.
13.a temporary, arbitrary reduction in the price of regularly stocked goods, especially food; a particularly worthwhile offer or price: The special this week is on sirloin steaks.

Okay, I exaggerated, numbers 10-13 don't really apply...but the rest of it is BANG ON - hand to God. I wish that the fear of losing my job and moral obligation didn't exist, because the day-to-day stories of working with 8 & 9 year olds are some of the best of my life, and were it possible, I would share them ALL with you, Internet. Not only would I share the stories, but there would be pictures as well...and work samples. So many work samples.
The one tidbit from my job that I will share occurred one sunny afternoon when I took my kids outside to play. Half were playing soccer, half were on the swings, and one little boy sat on the grass with me between the two, where we took turns yelling into an orange cone, making Star Trek noises, and touching dandelions to our faces to see how soft they were. It may seem weird, but sometimes being invited by a child to yell into an orange traffic cone is on par with pulling the sword from the stone.  I was the chosen one.

"Which version of the Enterprise do you like best, Miss G?"
"Why, which ever one has Jean Luc Picard on it, my darling"
""D" or "E"?"
"I'm not picky"
""D" had a warp core breach and crash landed on Veridian III"
"...valid point, #1. I shall endeavor to be more discerning"

Painting Things Purple

So, I recently inherited a whole bunch of china along with the contents of an eighty-year-old man's liquor cabinet, but more on that later. First, I'm going to take you on a trip down memory lane. 

Back in my 20's, during my solid decade intermittent times of hurt feelings, my emotional lows could be directly related to the frequency with which I attended the gym. The more out of control/sad/anxious I felt, the more I would run away from my feelings. Literally. I would get on a treadmill, turn on some music, and run away from my feelings as fast as my sports-deficient body would carry me. It wasn't sexy lulu-lemon gym either. It was sweaty, beet-faced, headband sporting, geese t-shirt wearing gym. At one point I was doing Pilates, "power and performance" yoga, AND going to the gym. We can just go ahead and label that section of the timeline "rock bottom and digging".

So, if my 20's were all about sweating it off, my 30's are thus far characterized by décor-ing it off. Not decorating. Décor-ing. In my mind there is a difference. I blame Vanessa, that bitch loves home stuff significantly more that your average bitch...bear?..whatever.
It is not uncommon for the two of us to go to Home Sense simply to figure out what to have for dinner.

"What do you want to eat?"
"I dunno. You?"
"I dunno. Shall we walk around Home Sense til we figure it out?"

In my 20's my living situations always felt temporary. University housing or cheap, shitty rental apartments were the flavour of the decade, meaning that everything that I put in those abodes was in turn cheap...and relatively shitty. Ugly, second hand furniture belongs in run-down rental units, that's just science - when in Rome, right? Or in my case, when in the slums of Esquimalt and Quadra Village.
No slum, however, was as notorious or as appropriately decorated as Spinster Mansion. Knowing that we would only live there for nine months (along with the reality that any and all furniture had to be dragged up the "death stairs" to our apartment) meant that Kim and I embraced the craziest melange of furniture/decor known to man, and by God, we embraced it wholeheartedly. We were aware that putting nice furniture in that place would have been a total farce and akin to putting lipstick on a decrepit pig, so we just went whole hog in the opposite direction (was that an accidental pig pun?); cat plates and self-portraits in the style of the masters, but painted by Kim.
Post Modern Art and Post Break-Up Accommodations

When I turned 30 in March I came to the realization that my living situation isn't temporary anymore. I am 30. My reality is that I am a spinster who lives with her cat in a basement suite. That whole "I live in a house with a husband and a couple of rude, entitled, yet surprisingly adorable children" dream? Not happening any time soon, so perhaps it is time to begrudgingly embrace reality. And even though I cannot afford to own a the land for a trailer, I can still afford to make the basement suite I rent feel like a home where an adult might reside. I think. Or at least this is what I must do until Vanessa and Scott buy a property on which I can build my "aktiv" model ideabox.  It will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine.

So I set out to make my home mine by finding things that I actually liked, and not in the sense that I like making a mockery of myself (see: cat plate collection). Vanessa has really been in her element throughout this transformation, because she loves to shop for home stuff and is swiftly running out of things to perfect in her own house (see: Christmas, perfection of and anxiety related to. See also: acrylic coffee table, holy grail quest for. See also: bathrooms, Rolls Royce of).
So we set out to make my place my own, and boy have we gone to town. It is an explosion of Floral bed spreads, baroque picture frames, botanical themed pictures, throw pillows and bamboo. I call it Spinster Chic, which is like Shabby Chic...only less shabby. And lonelier.

Prior to this long ramble I mentioned inheriting some china and the contents of a liquor cabinet, let's get back to that.

So I was given all this glorious china, and had no where to store it as cupboard space is somewhat limited. I remembered that at Spinster Mansion Kim and I had used a dresser to store our extra kitchen stuff in, so I decided to go to some second hand stores and see what I could find. I found a pair of supremely ugly dressers built in August of 1980, or so they were stamped. I felt like this date was a sign of sorts as this is the exact month and year that my sister was born. I can also tell you that my sister has aged much more gracefully. But hey, they were only $30 for the pair, so I figured I'd go on Pinterest and figure out how to make them attractive, or at least less ugly.

So I spent my May long weekend out on my patio area, drinking adopted booze, consulting Pinterest, sanding, consulting Pinterest, priming, consulting Pinterest, painting, and consulting google on "how to move furniture alone". At one point I even borrowed Rachel's husband (and my friend) Dallas to help with the sanding and to squire me to Star Trek: Into Darkness in Imax 3D. Confession: sometimes I listen to the main theme music on youtube. Majestic

There is for sure R2D2 paraphernalia in the background.

It wasn't til I finished painting everything, got it in this house, and set it all up that I sat back, congratulated myself on being such a crafty bitch, and then stopped...and thought:

"F*#%ing hell, you just painted your furniture purple".

As far as degrees of hopeless resignation go, painting your furniture purple exists somewhere above "refusal to shave legs for 6 months" but below "moving to a monastery in the French Alps". I am quite certain that every man I have dated would draw the line at having purple furniture in his house; and while clearly none of those men were the man for me, and that perhaps dating men who put the kaibosh on coloured furniture is part of the problem, I couldn't help but wonder: was this the sign that I'd finally given up? Was this dresser my symbolic middle finger to the male population? "Enjoy your "Beige Curtains", losers! I have a PURPLE dresser! HA!" 

Vanessa says I am being crazy about this and that the purple dresser has no real or symbolic meaning.

I'm not so sure. 

"30 year old Spinster White Female seeks handsome, humourous, grammatically correct male. Must be able to maintain arousal while transversing numerous baroque picture frames, purple furniture, a floral bedspread, and a cat with a bow-tie."

No comments:

Post a Comment