Monday, April 21, 2014

Entry #75 - The Sequel

I had a blog once.

Please accept this Darth Vader Valentine as an apology for disappearing without explanation.
Be thankful, it's more than I have received from most men. 

Blogging - The Sequel

WA POW! I'm back! Like that obnoxious, self-important, blogging spinster whom you so desperately wished would stop writing about her feelings on the internet.


I need to warm-up a little bit. The metaphors and similes are obviously a bit rusty. 

I wasn't entirely joking last blog when I said that I kinda felt like dropping the mic and walking off the stage post-unicorn. I mean, what else does one really have to say after declaring to the world that thou hast slayeth the unicorn? Nothing, that's what. Everything is hot garbage after that. The unicorn is the spinster holy grail, and once I achieved it I completely lost all focus and direction. I lost the will to blog for a while there, guys...coincidentally, I also found both "Scandal" and "Suits". God, Harvey Specter does things to me.

The satisfaction in taking a break from blogging (and then popping back up out of nowhere) is that I imagine it strikes fear in the heart of those who would duct tape my mouth shut, if given the opportunity. It is highly gratifying to know that they feel compelled to read this. And this. And also this. Cue the Imperial March, and practice the keyboard shortcut for screenshots! 

Here is 10 full hours of the Imperial March, in case you want to re-read all 75 entries (and require a soundtrack). I am a menace, you know. A MENACE.  

Vanessa's Insides - The Sequel

Vanessa was back in the hospital back in December for what I refer to as "Explosion - The Sequel". Same hospital floor, same bed by the window (different room, but they all look the same), same nurses, same incision (the "zipper unzipped...and rezipped"), same adverse itchy reaction to hydromorphone - you know, that old chestnut. It was the most indignation-inducing deja vu I have ever experienced.
Vanessa was very upset to be back in the hospital, as you can imagine - mostly because she did not coincidentally have freshly french-manicured toes and a fresh pedicure like she did last time. This was very, very upsetting for her; so much so that I brought all the stuff to paint her toes...and proceeded to squat on the bathroom floor in order to give her a makeshift pedicure. Keep in mind the word "squat" is usually stricken from my vocabulary altogether.
The good news is Vanessa did not require blood this time, which is for the best, as I had not donated any recently enough that we could not lie to ourselves that it was my blood she received, like we did last time.
"It was totally my blood, sweetheart, I guarantee it" 

I helped out a lot, much like I did last time, by asking annoying questions, touching buttons I shouldn't touch (apparently it's illegal to touch someone's morphine button for them), scratching (like I said, hydromorphone = itchy), making inappropriate jokes, and by opening the curtains so the lady in the next bed can see the snow outside. Like I said before, when you are hospitalized you should probably call me, I'll bring you steeped tea from Tim Hortons. 

In truth, Explosion the Sequel was not all that funny; in actual fact it was the singular most unjust thing that has happened to someone I love. "F*CK YOU, UNIVERSE" was my general response. 

If I had three wishes, they would be:
1. Unlimited cheese
2. Naked time with Jason Momoa, as himself, Khal Drogo, and Conan
3. Fix Vanessa's insides

But if I only had one wish, I would give up both Jason Momoa AND cheese in order to fix Vanessa's insides. If that doesn't convey to you how deserving Vanessa is of functioning insides, I don't know what would. 

Here is the picture I sent to Scott, Vanessa's husband, as proof of life after he entrusted me with her care post-op. I totally took her to Home Sense after - you know, for exercise, because I am responsible and trustworthy. 

Thanks (the sequel) for not dying (the sequel), dearest love. 

Unicorn - The Sequel

The Unicorn reappeared briefly after the last blog entry. He was unicorny and illusive once again, in accordance with the aforementioned prophecy. I must concede that I am still not entirely certain what happened there. You know when you are walking toward someone on the sidewalk and, in anticipation of getting out of their way, you awkwardly and inadvertently mirror their motions in a kind of blundering two-step? It was a lot like that. I was the one making corny jokes ("ha ha, maybe we should dance!") and he was the one trying to step around my awkwardness with a polite but conciliatory smile.


For the visual learners:

He is my kryptonite. KRYPTONITE, I SAY. 

So he is gone for real this time, I made certain of that by somehow rolling "Total Eclipse of the Heart" into a sexual metaphor about pants. That is a real thing that happened. There is, after all, nothing one can do about a total eclipse of the pants, right?....yeah...not my finest work. Or, perhaps it WAS my finest work. I like to walk the fine line between "famous last lines" and "Liz Lemon-ing it". He hasn't attempted to sue me yet, so I am going to call it a resounding success. 

While the unicorn may be gone (the sequel), the ability to recall how he looked in the dappled morning sunlight remains. Thus it was worth the repeated chagrin. In for a penny, right?

"We all learned something..."

"What is your type, anyway?"

I was recently asked what my "type" is. You would think by age 31 I would have an answer for that question beyond "". Apparently not.

My friend Anna likes "tall, handsome jocks", so a gentleman has to be sporty, good looking, and well over six feet tall in order to grab her attention. Anna's friend Heather, on the other hand, has one requirement: smart. And I mean gifted smart - intellectual, if you will. No height range, no hair colour preference, no ethnic restrictions, not even an age range (as far as I know). No limitations beyond the the ability to stun her with your massive intellect. I imagine it to be exactly like a televangelist healing, except with less "casting out of the devil followed by swooning", and more "explaining the intricate inner workings of the bitcoin currency...followed by, well, swooning".  (Heather also said that she plans on growing her hair down to her ankles and owning 17 cats in the near future, so we might be kindred spirits.) Some women like "bad boys" or "fixer-uppers", some like men who are taken, some like alpha-males and some avoid them like the plague. Some like 'em clean shaven while others enjoy a nice, bushy beard. Some women really enjoy a man-child, and to them I say "thanks for saving the rest of us".  

Going through my mental rolodex of suitors (a short, yet perilous journey) I realized that my former suitors are a disparate group, to say the least. If I were to line them up mug-shot style for you, it would be quite apparent that they are not joined together by their physical appearance. IQ scores would range from average to above average. They have covered the gamut from mature to juvenile, ectomorph to endomorph, sensitive to emotionally compromised. Most of them were funny, I suppose, but in very different ways; humour, after all, can be subtle, dry, brash, intelligent, droll and sometimes, in poor taste.

To say that "Men I have Dated*" would be a complex venn diagram is perhaps an understatement.

Let's make one just to see:
Keep in mind that "feels feelings" in most cases means "is capable of feeling feelings, but has none for me".

Yup, that's ridiculous.
Even the cast of criminal minds would have struggled to find that commonality.

That's my type apparently, men who possess a vague inclination toward me. That is the only thing they all have in common. Some women ignite passion, romance, and the urge to send flowers *cough*Ashley Husband-Finder*cough*, and some of us inspire relative indifference, punches in the arm, and the attraction/passion equivalent of "I'm not hungry, but I could eat".

What a heart-warming realization. I'm gonna go lay...lie...whatever, I'll be on the bathroom floor for a while. 
"I find your lack of interest in me arousing"

Spinster Mansion - The Sequel

At the beginning of March I moved into a Spinster Mansion of unparallelled gloriousness. For once I am not speaking sarcastically. It has a window seat, guys. A window seat! The best part by far, though, is the abundance of windows in general. There are windows everywhere; a feature that was somewhat lacking in my last place. There are also glass-fronted cupboards for my china collection and space to display my extensive collection of various editions of "Pride and Prejudice". None of those things are jokes.

When I first took possession it became apparent that the tenant before me was not, um, fastidious about cleanliness.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Vanessa and Sarah, both of whom cleaned for about 10 hour each (low-ball estimate). Fairly certain we went through an entire set of those cannisters of cleaning wipes from Costco and two giant bottles of Lysol, among other things. Vanessa actually gagged while cleaning underneath the refrigerator, I believe she said something like:

                             "OH MY GOD, it's smells like rotting meat juice *gag*"

From that moment on, and to this day, Vanessa simply refers to the prior tenant as "The Savage".

At one point Sarah called out:

"Her lack of cleanliness is consistent with my findings in the bathroom - judging from what I just pulled from the drain she was also a redhead".

 While cleaning the dust out of the radiator in my bedroom I unearthed a pair of men's underwear. Take a moment to digest that.
Mens underwear.
In the radiator.
I completely lost any coherence when I discovered them, I simply ran out of the room yelling "Underwear! Radiator!". I am clearly not living life to the fullest, since I have not removed a man's underpants with such ferocious passion that I lodged them in a radiator. Perhaps that should be my goal for 2014.

I Can Hear You - The Sequel

On the same day that I moved in, the Hippy/Hipster/Gangster girls moved in to the unit above mine. They are Hippy/Hipsters in most ways, but one sports a sideways flat-brimmed hat, so I threw in gangster for good measure. While we were cleaning, Sarah told me that she was going to open the front door, so I could bear witness to what was about to pass by - turns out it was the two HHGs struggling to carry a gigantic piece of driftwood(read: sizable log) up to their unit. This is what we call "foreshadowing".

The HHGs make a lot of noise, mostly related to the fact that they consider themselves and their merry band of pals to be "musicians" of sorts. Acoustic guitar sing-alongs are a common-place event upstairs; they really enjoy a kumbaya circle, if you know what I mean. I have taken to singing along loudly whenever I know the words ("I think my life is passing me byyyyyyyy" (irony not lost on anyone), "and we'll never be ROY-als" (significantly less cool when my brother, Adam, is not here to take the top)). Sometimes the HHGs are so into their advanced musicianship that they begin to drum on their bodies, and, on special occasions, on the floor.

One afternoon I was incredulous to realize that one of the girls had a dude playing keyboard while she was practicing vocal arpeggios. I shit you not. Arpeggios. I was thankful that Sarah arrived at that exact moment, because I did not believe what I was hearing and needed another human to validate what was happening. It was happening, all right. It turns out, though, that she was just warming up for her solo of Bonnie Rait's "Angel from Montgomery" later that week, a performance I'm sure she wanted the Kumbaya Circle to believe was inspired entirely by the moment and was in no way rehearsed.
                                                           0:50 - Arpeggios

When it isn't acoustic guitar/banjo and a sing-along, it is the most pretentious, repetitive, ambient-style indie electronic music; so repetitive that I am now able to sing along with one song. One night I had to go up there to ask them to turn it down, because I am old, and I like to sleep. After banging on the door four of five times someone finally answered, that someone being a shirtless, bearded male hipster with long blond hair. Our brief conversation ended with him sticking his hand out toward me and wishing me sweet dreams while shushing me.

The next morning I received this under my door:

Grammatical errors and...duct tape? Super. Somehow you seem less sorry WHEN YOU DON'T PROOF READ. 

Tiny Boyfriends - The Sequel

Because I like to end on a positive note, here is a picture of my newest tiny boyfriend, Benjamin Peter. He is as delightful as his name, which is pretty darn delightful. Good gestating, Katrina! 

* I use the term "dated" very loosely, the way people include Kraft Singles as a  "cheese". 

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