tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51591940021451461832024-03-19T15:36:19.158-07:00Diary of a Spinster Auntthe upside to being the last piece of luggage on the carouselUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger78125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-49730396017101128822015-08-19T19:10:00.000-07:002015-08-25T20:08:14.753-07:00Entry #77 - Difficult to Love<br />
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Dear Diary,<br />
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I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps with this:<br />
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Forgive me Blogger, for I have sinned.<br />
It has been 348 days since my last blog entry.<br />
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The continued adventures of Miss Frizzle</h2>
Not long after my last entry I got a full-time position teaching grade two...which monopolized almost every waking moment of my life from September-June. It was a marathon. There was blood, sweat, tears, and more wiggly teeth than you can shake a stick at. Wiggly teeth totally give me the gags, by the by, and that's no lie. Empowered by this knowledge, the children would gleefully seek me out whenever they were in possession of a central or lateral incisor precariously hanging on by the root. Revolting.<br />
God I loved those little sadists.<br />
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Though I was working crazy hours every week, I can say that I was truly content to go to work each day. My school was amazing, my colleagues were first class, my students were lovable little dreamboats, and I got to work everyday with my own personal Jesus. His name is Francisco. Now, before you get all excited you need to know that it was not like that. It's love alright, but the kind of love that is an immense respect tinged with awe. Reverence. He is a magical, mystical unicorn in the truest sense. Mimama humoured me on the phone in the Fall when I would call home and talk about how magical Francisco was, and how much fun we had everyday; but then she came to visit in December and at the <u>first opportunity</u> she was whisper yelling "HE HAS AN AURA". It's a real thing. For once I am not exaggerating. I should get a button made that says "ask me about Francisco", for the few rare instances when I fail to pontificate about him unsolicited. Vanessa phoned me the other day to say she saw him on the street and had to stop herself from reaching out to greet him, forgetting momentarily that she only <i>feels </i>like she knows him...she pulled her hand back just in time, but assured me she could feel the magic.<br />
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<h2>
The Statistical Improbability of The Stars Aligning </h2>
In university I took an astronomy class with a professor named Russ Robb. Russ Robb was to astronomy what Richard Simmons is to Sweatin' to the Oldies; he absolutely and completely LOVED it. This class was once a week for three hours in the evening, and I looked forward to it every week because you cannot help but delight in that kind of unbridled enthusiasm. One day Russ got on a tangent about the ridiculously improbable chain of events and conditions that allowed Earth and humans to exist, the infinitesimal odds of another earth-like planet existing, and the vastness of the universe. I was fascinated, but somewhere around the virgo supercluster I started to get the cold sweats and began to feel a bit panicky. I was overcome; by my own insignificance, by the brevity of the human experience, and by the sheer impossibility and unfathomableness of it all. Russ Robb had, quite literally, blown my mind with science.<br />
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I tell you this because this feeling of overwhelming improbability and uncontrollable dependence on star alignment (resulting in cold sweats and panic), is how I often feel about finding love; and much like the search for a planet that can support life, it's not looking good.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So you're saying all these things need to be in place...</td></tr>
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<h2>
"The infinite longing and inevitable weakness of the human heart"</h2>
In my experience, finding compatibility in love is like trying to crack a twenty digit numerical code in which I am always off by a digit or two (or twelve). The thing that always gets me, especially in relation to the unfathomable age of the universe and the shortness of a human life span, is what I like to call the "near-miss". This occurs when compatibility and chemistry are perfect but you were simply born at the wrong time (you are either too old or too young for that person) OR, conversely, you were born at the <i>right time </i>(similar age to said person) but you meet that person at the WRONG time in life. Either way, the space-time continuum has screwed you over.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This 8-year-old may be my soul mate. </td></tr>
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When you consider that the universe is 13.8 billion years old, missing love by 5, 10 or 20 years is like missing the podium at the Olympic games because some attractive European was one one-hundredth of a second faster than you. It feels like this:<br />
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In my twenties I dated people who were wrong for me even though we had chemistry (near-dodge), but I also dated people who were right for me at the <i>wrong time</i>. I am not alone in this experience, and have several friends who experienced similar near-misses in their twenties. I think right-person-wrong-time type of near-miss is the most keenly felt relationship failure, as proven by Adele who wrote "Someone Like You" at age 21...and because, as <a href="http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2012/9/13/15-Q-junot-diaz/" target="_blank">Junot Diaz put it:</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2012/9/13/15-Q-junot-diaz/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"> <b>"The half-life of love is forever"</b></span></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2012/9/13/15-Q-junot-diaz/" target="_blank">"y<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">ou can get over a person romantically and never fall out of love with them" and when you stand back, you </span></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;"><a href="http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2012/9/13/15-Q-junot-diaz/" target="_blank">begin to understand that "there are a few {relationships} that never seem to diminish, neither in {your} mind nor {your} heart. You just manage them".</a> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">...you just...manage them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">Take a moment to picture Ashley Husband-Finder, who just lost her mind after I read that aloud to her (the read-aloud is her preferred method of experiencing blog entries). </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; line-height: 23px;">Amen, Junot Diaz. Amen. </span><br />
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Finding chemistry with men seemed so much easier in my twenties, easier to convince myself to like someone through sheer force of will alone; perhaps because I was still figuring out who I was and could be more flexible about accepting approximations in terms of common ground and connection.<br />
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Now that I am in my thirties, I seem to meet men who I have no chemistry with (hard pass) OR men who <i>I DO</i> have chemistry with...but it matters not, because they are already married/in relationships (near-miss, thirties style). There are even a few guy friends whom I refer to as "my husband in another universe", because sometimes you feel such an immediate connection and ease with a person that you are 100% sure that somewhere in a galaxy far, far away you have looked at paint chips together in the Home Depot and both agreed that <a href="http://www.benjaminmoore.ca/en-ca/for-your-home/benjamin-moore-colour-trends-2015" target="_blank">"guilford green"</a> is not only the colour of the season, but also the future colour of your master bathroom.<br />
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I have gone on dates this year with some perfectly nice, polite, respectful men. Men who made an effort to communicate and even one who even brought me flowers.<br />
Men I should have been interested in.<br />
Men I had... <u>zero</u> chemistry with.<br />
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This is where the near-misses of your twenties and the unicorns of your thirties come back to haunt you like Casper the Friend-Zone ghost. This is when knowing what chemistry with another human being CAN feel like becomes a handicap.<br />
It must be so much easier to settle for a fizzle-of-a-spark when you are ignorant of what it is like to have lightning in your underpants.<br />
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So, long story short, I haven't given up on love entirely, but I have put some work into lining up a sperm donor for 2017. One should always be prepared. Sometimes with a turkey baster.<br />
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I've been practicing for 2017 by helping myself to other people's handy work...<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Zut Alors!</span><br />
Vanessa and I went to Paris for ten glorious days this summer. We ate everything.<br />
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We wandered the streets, visited museums, and in general simply delighted in life. Proving that cosmic miracles do occur, Harry Potter: The Exhibition was in Paris while we were there, so we got our fill of horcruxes, quidditch, and Hogwarts - Oh my!<br />
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You know who else came to P<span style="font-family: inherit;">aris? <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16.5454540252686px;">François</span> the </span>Surrogate Unicorn; because co-dependency issues, much like habits, die hard.<br />
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Well, I think that's all for now. I mostly wanted to say "hi" - and let you know that after 5 years and more than 100,000 page views I am still alive, single, and hesitant to mingle. Gus sends his best, he continues to be fluffy and adorable and LAYING ON THE CLEAN LAUNDRY.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rude!</td></tr>
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<span id="goog_1049355853"></span><span id="goog_1049355854"></span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-47797672530239709752014-09-01T16:48:00.000-07:002015-01-09T15:29:32.057-08:00Entry #76 - Depression, Regression, Confession<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We meet again. </td></tr>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Depression</span></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PJDTP-xQIh2Q46LP6tX88AENtReF8HG-TiK-m2SdpNzuPno5bWZQpuF0g7ezJwwOEAEOJ9xhDA56UUIa2SubZYjpaIAWgeRUb_fpzB90a6NOy41gLzHc25DBcHR2J0BVbTsSQcRP6OQ/s1600/IMG_20140610_155139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-PJDTP-xQIh2Q46LP6tX88AENtReF8HG-TiK-m2SdpNzuPno5bWZQpuF0g7ezJwwOEAEOJ9xhDA56UUIa2SubZYjpaIAWgeRUb_fpzB90a6NOy41gLzHc25DBcHR2J0BVbTsSQcRP6OQ/s1600/IMG_20140610_155139.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why yes, that IS a Harry Potter reference. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first two weeks of summer were spent walking a picket line, which, if you have never had the pleasure of experiencing first hand, is demoralizing, frustrating, and depressing in ways usually reserved for online dating or the assembly of Ikea furniture. Upon further reflection I have realized that these seemingly disparate activities all have one thing in common: getting screwed; either literally, emotionally, figuratively, and/or financially. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As the strike wore on with no resolution in sight, my despondency increased. The smug, dismissive, and self-righteous attitude of my employer was eerily </span>reminiscent<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of other sanctimonious clowns I have dealt with...and as we all know, arguing logic with clowns is a tiresome and frustrating business that usually results in pulling ones hair and yelling "I feel like I'm taking CRAZY pills!", Mugatu style. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the time summer proper arrived, I had descended into a general malaise and was, to be honest, somewhat disconsolate. I found some comfort in drinking tea and reading the eighth </span>installment<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of the Outlander series,"Written in My Own Heart's Blood", which </span>mercifully<span style="font-family: inherit;"> numbered more than 800 pages and kept me distracted for a number of hours at a time. Thank you, Diana Gabaldon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">While at my parents house I rediscovered my love of gin, backyard </span>swinging, and eating other people's cheese. I also discovered the magic of leggings as backyard leisure wear thanks to my sister Amy, who brought no less than a dozen pairs with her from Texas. We combined our familial love of gin with Amy's leggings in order to create our Family Portraits for 2014:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggX3OpRIxHhg6KhsVKAOAOhCtVMDwSBL2lrpSInDhfE6aGRQ0bJSuYJWXxFsH9RC60sQ5eHawLOEawYASh5lDSH55b9NBEq3PW6q-Vt6WKJFvgnxfdNahX_RbvJiD3d9S-x0EvuEpqoiU/s1600/Family+Portrait+2014.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggX3OpRIxHhg6KhsVKAOAOhCtVMDwSBL2lrpSInDhfE6aGRQ0bJSuYJWXxFsH9RC60sQ5eHawLOEawYASh5lDSH55b9NBEq3PW6q-Vt6WKJFvgnxfdNahX_RbvJiD3d9S-x0EvuEpqoiU/s1600/Family+Portrait+2014.png" height="640" width="448" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adam's "Dead Cat" may be my favourite drunk yoga pose of all time. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Regression</span></h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I erroneously presumed that as I aged I would become more intrinsically motivated to find a manfriend, that the pressures of my waning fertility would force me to quick dicking around (pun not intended, but awesome all the same) and start a<i>ctively </i>seek a solution to the "Dying Alone and Being Eaten by My Cat" problem. It's not that I don't think about this problem quite frequently - I do. But you know what else I think about frequently? How I should <i>really </i>go to the gym. Sometimes I save on brain processing power and think about both these conundrums at the same time, usually when I am naked, or when I am eating a dinner-sized serving of cheese. So far I have yet to act on either problem whole-heartedly, my gym attendance and attempts at dating could be described as intermittently sporadic. That's right, intermittently sporadic. Pathetic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, at a time when I should be ramping up the manhunt, I am sad to tell you that I am totally regressing. This summer I unconsciously resigned myself to developing school-girl crushes on </span>completely<span style="font-family: inherit;"> unattainable/unavailable/unsuitable men. In short, I found joy in the safety of staring longingly from afar. </span><br />
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Confession</h2>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: inherit;">Dreamboat Real Estate</span></h3>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When Ashley Husband-Finder asked me to join her in the viewing of some real estate, I heartily accepted the invitation. It is a little known fact that I really love some real estate; it is a <i>well</i> known fact, however, that I can't actually afford any...ergo, I was pretty excited to be invited along. I gave little thought to the realtor before he and Ashley arrived at my house to pick me up, probably because realtors have a reputation for being sleazy, phony, perpetuators of the "no" feeling, akin to car salesmen or Ryan Seacrest</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't even notice him at first, likely because I was busy trying to transverse my way into his large SUV wearing a pencil skirt, which, when you are not even 5'5, is an immense challenge. Needless to say, my grand entrance involved the ignominious squelch of leather and some heavy breathing on my part. Once I righted myself, I was finally able to fully drink in all that was (and is) the Dreamboat Realtor. I think I said my name, or maybe Ashley said it, I have NO idea because I was otherwise cognitively engaged...staring disbelievingly. </span>Leave it to Ashley Husband-Finder to have the ONE realtor who is a total friggen dreamboat. How does she DO IT? It's not like she trolled the internet for a handsome realtor, either, he was just <i>gifted</i> to her via a recommendation from a friend. A guy friend. Anyway, the man is a delight. Good looking, strapping, dapper, and funny. So funny, you guys. He and I like to joke about getting bunk beds and sharing Ashley's second bedroom...and by that I mean <i>he</i> jokes and I would like nothing more than to do<b> just that</b>. I would even let him have the race car bed. SIGH.<br />
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I hope his ladyfriend appreciates him. He totally has one. My money is on "long limbed supermodel". </div>
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Crush Theme Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvIjQSFLb3U" target="_blank">Melanie - Brand New Key (The Roller Skate Song)</a>,because Dreamboat Realtor would <u>for sure</u> be down with some knee-high striped socks and some roller skates.</div>
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: inherit;">Politically Incorrect Longing - The FNF</span></h3>
Okay, bear with me. Over the summer I was working six days a week at a facility which belongs to (and is run by) one of our local groups of first nations people. I use the term "working" loosely, because what I was really doing was gazing longingly at the maintenance guy, better known to my friends as my "First Nations Fantasy" (FNF).<br />
In this life we all go through the motions of greeting people, and I am just as guilty as the next person of the robotic and distracted "morning". What made The FNF so delightful was that when he said "good morning" or "hello" his whole face lit up and his eyes kinda, well, twinkled...I know, sounds ridiculous right? I have fully regressed to myself at 15 years old, which was the last time that just walking by someone would make my day (yes Kristen and Nicola, I am talking about Neal, and I am still sorry you had to suffer through that in Social Studies 9). Anyway, the beauty of The FNF being the maintenance guy was that he would just pop up randomly around the building. I would open a door and there he'd be (in all his twinkly eyed glory). Once he caught me unaware on my way to the elevator and, as I craned my neck to get an extra dose of that award-winning smile, I unceremoniously walked my shoulder straight into the wall. When the elevator door closed I gave myself the "get your shit together" talk. This in no way helped me become less of a ninny.<br />
Finally, during my last week of work, I finally got the sweaty, vigorous alone time with FNF that I had been dreaming about all summer...when he showed me how to remove adhesive residue from the windows using WD-40. LE SIGH.<br />
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The FNF fully has his children's names tattooed on his forearms, and I am 80% sure he has a lady friend. I hope she delights in that smile EVERY DAY. I know I did. <br />
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Crush Theme Song:<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dj0drevGOgA" target="_blank"> Redbone - Come Get Your Love</a> , because in for a politically incorrect penny, right?<br />
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The Nigerian Prince</h3>
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The Nigerian Prince is living proof that liking the<i> idea</i> of someone is not the same as actually liking someone. The NP came into my life through a good friend. We had met a couple times while out socially and then we were both invited to stay at my friend's cabin together. The few times we had met I had found him interesting and intelligent, and looked forward to getting to know him a bit better. Sometimes, however, getting to know someone better means that they will attempt to sleep with you, and then when you decline they will confess that they weren't interested in you anyway...and that they are still sending their ex-girlfriend flowers.<br />
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Fucking hell. It's a minefield out there. </div>
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Crush Theme Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9f4CyQto-0E" target="_blank">Jean Knight - Mr Big Stuff</a> , because "who do you think you are?"</div>
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The Highlander</h3>
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If you have not yet partaken in the absolute delight that is Outlander, then you need to reassess your priorities. Jamie Fraser is perhaps the crush to end all crushes, and watching him being brought to life on TV has resulted in giddiness and a feeling which I can only describe as "makes me feel like melting off the couch". By some miracle Kim was visiting Canada when the first episode became available on the Starz website, so we got to watch it together. I attribute Kim moving to Scotland (in part) to the Outlander series, which we read in tandem when we lived together back in 2007, so watching the first show with her was the best part of my summer. I love you, Kimmy. You and Jamie Fraser. </div>
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Crush Theme Song: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ledHVF1ZtDI" target="_blank">The Outlander Theme Song </a>- because what else!?<br />
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The Unicorn. Again. </h3>
It was that time of year when my beloved friend Megan visits from China, and, because my life is a series of minor humiliations strung together with chagrin, I once again got to sit across a table from <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2013/08/entry-72-becoming-model-and-slaying.html" target="_blank">the Unicorn</a>. Same place, same people; it was like Unicorn Groundhog Day, except secretly mortifying. I went <span style="font-family: inherit;">knowing he'd be there, for a few reasons:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">1. Megan is important to me, she is my capital "F" Friend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">2. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">"</span><span class="ft" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">If he wishes to avoid seeing me<wbr></wbr>, he must go"</span></span> - Pride and Prejudice quotes for all occasions.<br />
3. Taking excessive care to avoid men who are not interested me seems like a slippery slope that ends in agoraphobia.<br />
4. Perhaps seeing him would allow me to strip away the Unicorn mystique, and we could all just call him by his real name.<br />
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The Unicorn seemed a little disconcerted to see me which I attribute to the continuity dissonance he experienced when he was forced to acknowledge that I do, in fact, <i>still exist</i>. That, and the fact that one of the last things I said to him was "total eclipse of the pants". Like I said, mortifying. He composed himself fairly quickly once he realized that my chosen strategy was "play it cool, bitch", and I would even go so far as to say that he was very pleasant. After dinner the Unicorn went off to some meeting and as I said farewell to him I congratulated myself heartily on keeping my act together. Perhaps, I told myself, I had humanized the Unicorn somewhat.<br />
Off we all went to a different place for more drinks, which we are still drinking sometime later <span style="font-family: inherit;">when (lo and behold) the Unicorn returns. FRAAAAAAK. I remind myself of my "play it cool, bitch" mantra. I continue to play it cool and remain largely unaffected by his presence until it happens...I am forced to make eye contact with the Unicorn. Previously we had all been outside on a patio wearing sunglasses, thus I had been safeguarded from the following:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> The Unicorn shares a Harry Potter meme, smiles, and makes direct eye contact with me. Then, to quote Jessica Darling,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">“a lightning bolt shot straight through my </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">skivvies</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-size: large;">. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: x-large;">Sha-ZAM</span><span style="font-size: large;">!”.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sweet, merciful Allah. He is my Kryptonite, that's all there is to it. He will forever render me incoherent and lustful. So much for demystifying the Unicorn. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the end of the night he says that we should all go for Waffles, and then proceeds to look me in the face and say (with a knowing smile, no less) "I know <i>you</i> want a waffle with some chocolate,cheese and bacon". I was momentarily speechless.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Unicorn drove me home. I didn't invite him inside, nor did he offer to escort me</span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">As I got out of the car I told him it was nice to see him, because it was...even if he is my Kryptonite. I walked straight inside without turning around, and after locking the door I proceeded to sit down on the floor and take a moment...</span></span><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">because</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> there are times that playing it cool is </span></span><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">really</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> lonely, and sometimes, going back to <i>not</i> existing to someone is humbling in a way that momentarily incapacitates you ...most notably when that someone fills your undergarments with lightning. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">Crush Theme Song - The first 30 seconds of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtVyEZymUFo" target="_blank">R. Kelly's Bump N' Grind</a>, because my mind is telling me no...but my body...my body's telling me YES. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">Crush Theme Song (according to my body) - The first 10 seconds of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXODvzQpVzY" target="_blank">Blue Swede' Hooked on a Feeling</a> because Sha ZAM! </span></span></span></div>
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Spinster Reformed</h3>
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A big shout out to my former Spinster's Apprentice, Amber, who recently got engaged. In spite of her insistence that she would be a Spinster for life, I always knew that someone would snap her (and her Kate Middleton collection) up, because she is an absolute treasure. Congratulations, pal! We can safely say that no one who attends your wedding will describe it as a "blatant display of narcissism", which is just one of the many reasons you are a delightful human being. Amber's ring "Vera" has joined the collection of "Other People's Diamond Rings I have Named" along with "Lord Cavelti" (Vanessa), "Stuart Shineman"(Katie), "Sapphire White Tiger" (Danika), and "Holy Shit" (Rebecca). </div>
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<h3>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Random Internet Shaming</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When my sister, Amy, visited from Texas I told her that her bronzer brush was the nastiest thing I had ever seen. I also told her that I was taking a picture and that I would later shame her on this blog. Never say I'm not a woman of my word. Never. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why, AMY? WHY IS THIS LIKE THIS??</td></tr>
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This cat, for sometimes making it hard to get anything done.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-14396536713050227542014-04-21T00:39:00.000-07:002015-08-26T15:36:46.405-07:00Entry #75 - The Sequel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had a blog once.</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please accept this Darth Vader Valentine as an apology for disappearing without explanation. <br />
Be thankful, it's more than I have received from most men. </td></tr>
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Blogging - The Sequel</h2>
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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.<br />
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...Whoa...<br />
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I need to warm-up a little bit. The metaphors and similes are obviously a bit rusty. </div>
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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 <i>found</i> both "Scandal" and "Suits". God, Harvey Specter does things to me.<br />
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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! </div>
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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. </div>
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Vanessa's Insides - The Sequel</h2>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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"It was totally my blood, sweetheart, I guarantee it" </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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If I had three wishes, they would be:</div>
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1. Unlimited cheese</div>
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2. Naked time with Jason Momoa, as himself, Khal Drogo, and Conan</div>
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3. Fix Vanessa's insides</div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks (the sequel) for not dying (the sequel), dearest love. </td></tr>
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Unicorn - The Sequel</h2>
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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.<br />
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Ugh.</div>
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For the visual learners:</div>
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He is my kryptonite. KRYPTONITE, I SAY. </div>
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So he is gone for real this time, I made <b><i>certain</i></b> of that by somehow rolling "Total Eclipse of the Heart" into a sexual metaphor about pants. <b>That is a real thing that happened</b>. 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. </div>
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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?<br />
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"We all learned something..."<br />
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"What is your type, anyway?"</h3>
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I was recently asked what my "type" is. You would think by age 31 I would have an answer for that question beyond "...men?". Apparently not.<br />
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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 <b><i>gifted</i></b> 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". </div>
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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.<br />
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To say that "Men I have Dated*" would be a complex venn diagram is perhaps an understatement.<br />
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Let's make one just to see:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPiKw9j03XOK3kQKYNefsemCNPq0Y47n5g2ks1UU2VypmQEammEsXbjBHcS-vPycutXPwDkk3p2AVhjpIWQpTsLl-T-GWfnuUDE1NhdhyphenhyphenUq5paW2PWIYLaO3YhTEbEpVInfynJwbiQ9c/s1600/vennofdating1-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwPiKw9j03XOK3kQKYNefsemCNPq0Y47n5g2ks1UU2VypmQEammEsXbjBHcS-vPycutXPwDkk3p2AVhjpIWQpTsLl-T-GWfnuUDE1NhdhyphenhyphenUq5paW2PWIYLaO3YhTEbEpVInfynJwbiQ9c/s1600/vennofdating1-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keep in mind that "feels feelings" in most cases means "is <i>capable</i> of feeling feelings, but has none for me".</td></tr>
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Yup, that's <i>ridiculous</i>.<br />
Even the cast of criminal minds would have struggled to find that commonality.<br />
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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".<br />
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What a heart-warming realization. I'm gonna go lay...lie...whatever, I'll be on the bathroom floor for a while. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">"I find your lack of interest in me arousing"<br />
That's right, VADER VALENTINE THE SEQUEL<br />
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Spinster Mansion - The Sequel</h2>
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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 <b>window seat! </b>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.</div>
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When I first took possession it became apparent that the tenant before me was not, um, fastidious about cleanliness. </div>
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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:</div>
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"OH MY GOD, it's smells like rotting meat juice *gag*"</div>
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From that moment on, and to this day, Vanessa simply refers to the prior tenant as "The Savage".</div>
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At one point Sarah called out:</div>
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"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".</div>
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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.</div>
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Mens underwear.</div>
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In the radiator.</div>
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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.</div>
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I Can Hear You - The Sequel</h3>
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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".</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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The next morning I received this under my door:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVdsX1t3uql3suktuvTmNOPJOAd4nQPhF4QAqASPEtpCaWrWc8P5zXDbGZ6MQZHS-DnxikUER7gL2fWOwRHPSanPXKRsgYQLR2w-43ozs1iNS9vAvpX_Kuu4pRvK-95q03hwR_BnMW5I/s1600/2014-04-12+11.38.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVdsX1t3uql3suktuvTmNOPJOAd4nQPhF4QAqASPEtpCaWrWc8P5zXDbGZ6MQZHS-DnxikUER7gL2fWOwRHPSanPXKRsgYQLR2w-43ozs1iNS9vAvpX_Kuu4pRvK-95q03hwR_BnMW5I/s1600/2014-04-12+11.38.16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grammatical errors and...duct tape? Super. Somehow you seem less sorry WHEN YOU DON'T PROOF READ. </td></tr>
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Tiny Boyfriends - The Sequel</h2>
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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! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBErDKglA_RAmb6oC-pdZUreY1AN1OzL_BNGCZ_Cj1HztH0eYt5g5A2X17j-1pZVZ07LlWgbkx43U19EO09_Xp3fqYkBC5PXu1pT_50gnQjV07N7_8I44d9QaWVcvNbJmHsodDLYjRO8c/s1600/benjamin+peter.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBErDKglA_RAmb6oC-pdZUreY1AN1OzL_BNGCZ_Cj1HztH0eYt5g5A2X17j-1pZVZ07LlWgbkx43U19EO09_Xp3fqYkBC5PXu1pT_50gnQjV07N7_8I44d9QaWVcvNbJmHsodDLYjRO8c/s1600/benjamin+peter.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* I use the term "dated" very loosely, the way people include Kraft Singles as a "cheese". </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-59957180053722227312013-11-03T21:19:00.001-08:002013-11-03T21:57:53.920-08:00Entry #74 - My Career as a Leg Model Takes Off, But My Immune System Fails<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2fbxWqoSlfNsSHFVs7HuMA6TsLzKqRDMDSzzcGWLtMviygh82xah6eliHmj3OUFvTsb6RTcEXZSup5GSZ4EkDZ_Krl7q9WHzYf9b2IFYKDUWMzH7poVzUpWyVSJCUC-RYl5nHqoLaeY/s1600/bridal+store2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2fbxWqoSlfNsSHFVs7HuMA6TsLzKqRDMDSzzcGWLtMviygh82xah6eliHmj3OUFvTsb6RTcEXZSup5GSZ4EkDZ_Krl7q9WHzYf9b2IFYKDUWMzH7poVzUpWyVSJCUC-RYl5nHqoLaeY/s320/bridal+store2.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You should invite me to come with you when you try on wedding dresses, though I may show up wearing leopard-print rain boots and suffering from bronchitis. I'm helpful like that. As pictured above. </td></tr>
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Dear Diary, </div>
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There is something about late September/October that always results in me falling off the blog bandwagon, and this year was apparently no exception.</div>
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For a long while it felt like there was simply nothing to say <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2013/09/entry-73-exit-surveys-participation.html#more" target="_blank">post-Unicorn</a>. It happened, I wrote about it, and then it was like there was nothing left to do but drop the proverbial mic and walk off the stage. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">One of my 7-year-old students gave this to me, and yes, it is a unicorn blowing a bubble and saying "Naa". <br />I couldn't think of anything more perfectly symbolic if I tried. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">"I slayed a unicorn" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">*drops mic and never blogs again*</span></div>
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But we know that if I stop blogging The Terrorists win, and we just can't have that. So here we go again...</div>
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I must admit that unicorn aside, not much blog-worthy stuff has been happening lately, thanks in part to not one, but <i>two</i> bouts of bronchitis. You'd think that being sick would mean I'd blog more, but there is something about cough-gagging and feeling like hot-garbage that seems to limit me to reclining on the couch and binge watching TV shows on Netflix. Also, I'm quite certain that no one would want to read detailed accounts of my cough-gagging. Also <i>also, </i>I was drinking a lot of Hot Lemon drink at the time, which might as well be morphine for how out-of-it I am after drinking it. Long story short, TV is all I am good for after some extra-strength Hot Lemon Drink. I have watched more Dexter in the last two months than is even remotely healthy, and I must say that I could live a thousand years and never UN-see John Lithgow as Trinity. Ever. Anyone who has seen season 4 of Dexter knows <i>exactly</i> what I mean by that statement. </div>
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span style="line-height: 18.323863983154297px;">"I don't know how to put this... </span></span></h2>
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<span style="color: #351c75; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span style="line-height: 18.323863983154297px;"> but I'm kind of a big deal"</span></span></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2xc8XKn73a5MZedeWdNue92y6QBDdvV_aHzRk2aGnSOoXyugLjWCLYF5-bLB8kMDr0HzYg92zOFP4gNQvIrtUNnys5R4Ohyo_gttUfrNHKufp8Np98e3iQbrylvLZYKHD5OA6eNk29E/s1600/those+are+my+legs!+Nailed+it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2xc8XKn73a5MZedeWdNue92y6QBDdvV_aHzRk2aGnSOoXyugLjWCLYF5-bLB8kMDr0HzYg92zOFP4gNQvIrtUNnys5R4Ohyo_gttUfrNHKufp8Np98e3iQbrylvLZYKHD5OA6eNk29E/s400/those+are+my+legs!+Nailed+it.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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That's right, take a close look. Those are MY LEGS, bitches! Yup. There they are, doing some bike riding. It's a good thing that riding a bicycle is like, well...riding a bicycle, because I am pretty sure that I had not ridden a bike for at least two decades before that day. I should also mention that the last time I rode a bike as a child it resulted in road rash up one side of my body. Some of us are not born athletes. Some of us are just built for leisure.<br />
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I'm not surprised, however, that the professionals chose to showcase my legs (*cough* cut out my face *cough*). I mean, I once dated a man who said to me: </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You have nice legs for someone who is in no way athletic" </span></div>
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to which I, of course, replied,</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> "..thank you?"</span></div>
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I truly revel in a backhanded compliment, there is something magical about being innately offensive and complimentary at the same time. </div>
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Where was I? Oh yes, my leg model gig...</div>
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So I see the website, spot my legs, and I completely did one of these:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpuJtGO4N9MQiP6BjK-DZwGMt5pbxHmsy-adal50s7uBhlJFIaELKNlrWSJf02upuscU3YsQyIrGCy7qHjSAxLJFfCOg8WQUrKz9A8qf6I5AsspixiTsdlQzeadyMIhwQAPTOFQUvNhM/s1600/I'm+on+the+cover+of+a+magazine!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpuJtGO4N9MQiP6BjK-DZwGMt5pbxHmsy-adal50s7uBhlJFIaELKNlrWSJf02upuscU3YsQyIrGCy7qHjSAxLJFfCOg8WQUrKz9A8qf6I5AsspixiTsdlQzeadyMIhwQAPTOFQUvNhM/s320/I'm+on+the+cover+of+a+magazine!.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I managed to add this sound clip all by myself using the HTMLs, which I am immoderately proud of. "Why is it off center?" you ask?...I have <b>absolutely no idea. </b></span></div>
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Right after that I sent Vanessa the link along with this message:</div>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="color: #ffd966; font-size: x-large;">"It's my leg! It's MY LEG!!!!"</span></div>
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She was appropriately overly-excited for me, and said that she thought my legs were supermodel quality for sure. If supermodels were 5'4 3/4 , obviously. Vanessa can always be counted upon to feed into my raging narcissism. God bless you, sweetheart!</div>
When I arrived at my parents house for Thanksgiving, I gathered my family around my parents' PC so we could partake in my fame and eternal glory. Together. As a team. We're supportive like that. Turns out the family unveiling was extra dramatic and exciting due to the fact that my parents larger, superior computer screen allowed more of the photo to be seen, thus revealing - prepare yourself - MY BUTT!!! We cheered. We exchanged embraces.We high-fived. Elaborate champagne toasts were made.<br />
We discovered later that my face was visible in a couple of other pictures, however nothing would go on to rival our initial excitement of seeing my butt used as part of an advertising campaign.<br />
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<span style="color: #45818e;">"MY BUTT WAS USED TO SELL MICRO LOFTS"</span></div>
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<span style="color: #45818e;">*DROPS MIC AND WALKS OFF STAGE*</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"That's the first and last time we'll see <i>you</i> in a helmet" - Vanessa</td></tr>
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A few days ago Vanessa and I went to see the show-suite for the micro-lofts and what do we see on the wall??? You guessed it! My ass! When the presentation center opened to the public one week later they sold 80% of the building in one day; success I will forever attribute to my rear end. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My butt on the wall at the presentation center, which we (of course) treated like it was fine art. I'm quite certain we scared off prospective buyers as I shouted "MINI LOOK!That's totally MY butt!". </td></tr>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">In Transit</span></h2>
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Traveling during any holiday season is usually a somewhat stressful experience. Strangely enough, though, many of the highlights of my Thanksgiving weekend this year were the portions when I was in transit. </div>
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The Thanksgiving weekend on B.C. Ferries is one of the busiest times of year for walk-on passengers. Every first-year Uvic student (newly insufferable and obnoxiously self-important thanks to six weeks of Philosophy 100) boards the ferry and heads for the mainland. This means that rather than having a nice quiet sunny seat for yourself, a seat for your bag, and an empty buffer seat (as is my preference), one has to settle for any available seat...often a seat awkwardly jammed between strangers of questionable origin,smell, or disposition (not my preference). I was once stuck beside an individual who thought is was socially acceptable to clip his nails. It's not. On the sailing home I was on a ship so jam packed that people were sitting on the floor, giving the ferry the feeling of a refugee ship (if a refugee ship laden with hipsters existed). My tolerance for the ferry during the Thanksgiving weekend is low to say the least. So much so that my mother was surprised when I said I was coming home. </div>
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On the ferry I decided that I would partake in the Seawest Lounge, as it is an uncrowded and child-free area of the ship that also happens to have cheese, crackers, tea, cookies, and magazines, all for the low price of $12.00. Totally worth it. As I walk in I see that my friend, Chloe, also a teacher, had the same great idea. I immediately force myself upon her and her unsuspecting boyfriend and talk their faces off for the rest of the sailing. Right when they thought they were free of me they found out that I <i>too</i> was getting on the bus. Sorry about your luck. The bus was jam packed, of course. We made it on but there were no seats left, so we ended up holding on near the back of the bus, right after the accordion part (this makes sense if you take buses in Vancouver). Visibility is poor. It is as this time that Chloe informs me that she sometimes gets a little motion sick. I then inform her that I feel about vomit the way that many people feel about spiders, heights, or confined spaces. Chloe is a trooper and totally makes it to the Skytrain station without vomiting, though right as the bus pulled up to the final stop she said:<br />
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"Thank god, my tongue is totally sweating"</div>
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"What?" </div>
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"You know right before you puke, when your mouth waters"</div>
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"HA! My sister always talks about her mouth watering in a threatening way! I've never heard it described as "tongue sweats" though, I'm going to be using that"</div>
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There you go, Amy. You can now say "my tongue is sweating". You're welcome.<br />
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Prince Rupert</h3>
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From the Skytrain went on meet my brother, Adam, downtown for some quality sibling-friend time. We had some delicious noodles, hung out at his apartment, drank some wine, watched some "Eureka"...and we realized eventually that we should probably drive down to my parents place. I knew that Adam had recently purchased a car, but this was my first time actually seeing it and going for a ride. </div>
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"DOES IT HAVE A NAME ?" I demanded loudly as we rounded the corner in the underground parking. </div>
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"Not yet" Adam replied.<br />
As soon as I saw it, I knew. </div>
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"RUPERT. His name is RUPERT". </div>
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"...YES! It totally IS".</div>
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Insert jumping high ten here.</div>
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So we piled into Prince Rupert and head out. While I flipped through radio stations Adam informs me that he really likes Lorde's "Royals". I find this surprising because I have never known my brother to be aware of or into anything Top 40ish. Turns out that commuting every day in a car with a cassette deck has really opened up the world of popular music to him. As we approach the tunnel on the highway the stars align and Miley Cyrus' "Wrecking Ball" comes on - Adam and I exchange a silent look of acceptance for the challenge that has been laid out before us by the universe. What happened after that was the highlight of my entire Thanksgiving weekend. I assume that any humans who drive through places where the radio signal will be briefly lost automatically know that the challenge is to keep singing that song by yourself, and to see how close you are in terms of timing and correct pitch when the signal returns. I'm quite certain this is a universally acknowledged challenge. I might go so far to say it is part of the human experience.<br />
<br />
Adam and I attacked "Wrecking Ball" in a way so fierce that it would have been played in slow motion on the Discovery channel. As we descended into the tunnel the signal faded then cut out - right in time for the chorus - which we belted out in perfect harmony (thanks to Adam's Bachelor of Music (and no thanks to me)), and yes, Adam took the falsetto. As we burst forth into the evening twilight on the other side of the tunnel it was to join Miley <u>RIGHT ON TIME</u>! We totally NAILED IT! The victory and sense of accomplishment we felt could rival that of Olympic gold medalists.<br />
<br />
<br />
So there you have it, a condensed version of September and October. I am down to one season of Dexter, but I have started re-watching all the Harry Potter movies. I have also started making this season's jam. So far I have screwed up a number of batches and have sprayed my arm with burning hot jam, which I promptly licked off, just like a trained paramedic.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYdpTFt0md4xaDUjwZeWc8nY357oX5tA3Lqe6thNiLOWJppO3ikCNa_FnT_vLqUh-pgxMlqvMK4qcTSvttB7_FDk2ykpu0yv-LsCcmx7zDCXoCIqjZ8q-DAMNp2nfg7l5CLSscEiSLwo/s1600/2013-10-20+18.51.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQYdpTFt0md4xaDUjwZeWc8nY357oX5tA3Lqe6thNiLOWJppO3ikCNa_FnT_vLqUh-pgxMlqvMK4qcTSvttB7_FDk2ykpu0yv-LsCcmx7zDCXoCIqjZ8q-DAMNp2nfg7l5CLSscEiSLwo/s320/2013-10-20+18.51.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Other reasons I have a hard time updating this blog. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-50067668836835703612013-09-03T22:36:00.000-07:002014-04-23T22:19:31.771-07:00Entry #73 - Exit Surveys & Participation Ribbons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO2uvYPgE2yH31Gg-o3bhIX1JBOKa3OF398Z8woKPza7QvmNcfgfyvoTWffvzW8BDcxKpPWFN57LvHRrleQu8Go8p6gPMBcz-8Q5AhDzRF9_cEWzbjHBGojia_UFdlyMI8Gk9ZixBjxU/s1600/guscollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO2uvYPgE2yH31Gg-o3bhIX1JBOKa3OF398Z8woKPza7QvmNcfgfyvoTWffvzW8BDcxKpPWFN57LvHRrleQu8Go8p6gPMBcz-8Q5AhDzRF9_cEWzbjHBGojia_UFdlyMI8Gk9ZixBjxU/s400/guscollage.png" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
(If you didn't catch <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2013/08/entry-72-becoming-model-and-slaying.html#more" target="_blank">Entry #72</a>, this one might be a tad confusing)<br />
<br />
Dear Diary,<br />
<br />
Well, bitches, The Unicorn is gone, so we're back to me taking pictures of myself in bed with Augustus, my flamboyant MaineCoon-Cross. Oh. Happy. Day.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<i>Sigh</i>.</span><br />
<br />
I predicted it. It was far too good to be true and it had to come to an end.<br />
<br />
We saw it coming, like a freight train down the track. We braced for impact.<br />
<br />
It still kinda sucked.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, in this life, you just want someone to prove you wrong.<br />
<br />
That being said, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not even a little bit. This adventure fundamentally changed my perception of myself and what I am capable of. Apparently I had been limiting myself to the cupboard under the stairs, not knowing that I had an invitation from Hogwarts in the mail.<br />
<br />
The universe briefly gifted me with a Unicorn, and that experience will be vividly emblazoned in my mind for as long as my synapses are firing, and perhaps even beyond. I will probably be that inappropriate little old lady at the nursing home; I won't know <i>where</i> I am or <i>who </i>I am, nor will I recognize my great-great nieces and nephews, but I will still be talking about "that time I slayed a unicorn".<br />
<br />
"Did I tell you about that time I slayed a unicorn, Ava ?"<br />
"It's Eva, Auntie Hannah, and yes, just this morning you told that story, remember?"<br />
"Like one of those marble statues of Adonis, he was...you should have seen his - "<br />
"OKAY! - time for lunch!"<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #073763; font-size: x-large;">The Dangers of Cautious Optimism</span></h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1E028ni4sUUD2zg3SlZUFzE3Ktc1CQ7jvx-ibM4CkmYAENy8TalVmWw-w6lnTVTjxsKXC3xF2X9lg6ujT54zLve03VQyEtHIj7B55QFKKFVW7EWTed9m-zf9DGuD5GQLw-OuM4VRTgwQ/s1600/spinstertruth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1E028ni4sUUD2zg3SlZUFzE3Ktc1CQ7jvx-ibM4CkmYAENy8TalVmWw-w6lnTVTjxsKXC3xF2X9lg6ujT54zLve03VQyEtHIj7B55QFKKFVW7EWTed9m-zf9DGuD5GQLw-OuM4VRTgwQ/s400/spinstertruth.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
At the moment of our initial meeting when he unintentionally slighted me, my expectation of The Unicorn had been low to the point of non-existent. I actually believed myself to be invisible to him - no joke. If that doesn't equal zero expectation then I don't know what does.<br />
<br />
Then, slowly but surely, he unknowingly raised the bar...<br />
<br />
It looked something like this:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">The long list of </span><i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">scandalous falsehoods</span></i><span style="color: #6aa84f;"> I subscribed to in an effort to remain gloriously pessimistic and hope-free:</span></span></h3>
<div>
<ul>
<li>He's ridiculously strapping and handsome, therefor he is probably an arrogant jerk. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>He can't be smart, funny, and kind <i>as well</i>. <b>Surely</b>. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>He cannot be interested in you in <i>that </i>way. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>A man like that will not take you anywhere with him. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>He did not just invite you to eat waffles with him. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>"Bitch, you are <b>hallucinating</b>..." (internal monologue after he removed his shirt). <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>The, um, hugs, probably won't be that good. <span style="color: #cc0000;"><u><b>FALSE</b></u></span></li>
<li>He's probably a really selfish hugger. <span style="color: #cc0000;"><b><u>FALSE</u> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">SCANDALOUSLY SO</span></b></span></li>
<li>After he hugs you, he is <u>for sure</u> going to unceremoniously kick you out/call you a cab. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE </span></li>
<li>He did <b>not</b> just offer you breakfast. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>Okay, NOW he's going to kick you out. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>So he's driving you home...but that's where it ends. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>He's just asking for your number to be nice. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>He will NOT text you, and if he does it will be three weeks from now at 12:37am. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span></li>
<li>Just because he texted you in a very timely manner does not mean he will ask you on a real date. <span style="color: #cc0000;">FALSE</span> </li>
</ul>
</div>
So, as you can see, that Unicorn was making it more and more difficult to be the fully pessimistic fatalist I so longed to be<i>. </i>I had expected nothing, I had expected the <b>worst</b> (repeatedly), and he had surprised me every single time. I can only imagine some of the expressions that he must have seen cross my face - wary, skeptical, surprised and quite frequently, incredulous.<br />
We went on 1/2 of a date (hard to explain), then on a real date - and to be honest it was one of the nicest dates I've ever been on. When it was over, I would say that rather than being a pessimistic fatalist, I had metamophosized into a very cautious optimist. This feeling in itself should have been a glaring red flag - like any moment in Jurassic Park when you are lulled into a false sense of security and allow yourself to believe that someone has outrun/outsmarted a dinosaur. Apparently my Unicorn was actually a Unicorn-Velociraptor hybrid; he raised the bar just high enough so that I could trip over it ignominiously. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKRnEOUxZm0" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">"Clever Boy"</span>.</a><br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">and then, in accordance with the prophecy</span></h2>
Rather than asking me out on another date, as my cautious optimism had allowed me to believe was possible,<br />
he just...<br />
...disappeared into the mist...<br />
...after making my bed...?<br />
as Unicorns are wont to do.<br />
<br />
He didn't really disappear <i>per se</i>, but <i>something</i> changed. I could read between the lines, so I bowed out gracefully to save him from having to spell it out for me. When given the opportunity for a dignified exit: take it. <br />
<br />
I will solve the puzzle, Vanna, because this s*it is excruciating.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8E9kqzci6PMwymlAF1N5EzsM_vFPkvUeKuVoZIQCo-eDgFI3HrNW2EB49R4-TCKDWSEf3ANJY1M_eBrl9jOvYnCoaCyZ_xhYbFq7hy4n7sZ3KenVx5esVS6QEN2Hm2VfFOoNNOtF1a0/s1600/hardtruth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP8E9kqzci6PMwymlAF1N5EzsM_vFPkvUeKuVoZIQCo-eDgFI3HrNW2EB49R4-TCKDWSEf3ANJY1M_eBrl9jOvYnCoaCyZ_xhYbFq7hy4n7sZ3KenVx5esVS6QEN2Hm2VfFOoNNOtF1a0/s400/hardtruth.JPG" height="279" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"...well f*ck..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Honestly, I was pretty indignant at first. I had made every effort to follow his lead...and I still got screwed. Pun intended. On every level. I felt like he'd convinced me to come to the dance, only to leave me standing alone by the punch bowl for the entire duration of "<i>November Rain</i>". I couldn't help but wonder: <span style="font-size: large;">why did he even bother?</span> It was frustrating because I had not <i>expected</i> or even <i>solicited</i> an invitation. I had <i><u>expected</u></i> to stay home alone and watch Pride and Prejudice for the 187th time.<br />
<div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #ffd966;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YbiJ-TDd2xI" target="_blank">"<span style="font-weight: normal;">Analyzing </span><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">everything</span></u> <span style="font-weight: normal;">(that ain't worth thinkin' 'bout)</span>"</a></span></h2>
<div class="header" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13.513513565063477px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; text-align: left; word-wrap: break-word;">
<h2 class="me" style="color: black; display: inline; font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
dis·com·fi·ture</h2>
<span style="bottom: 1ex; font-size: 0.75em; height: 0px; line-height: 1; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;"></span> <span class="pronset"><span audio="http://static.sfdict.com/dictstatic/dictionary/audio/luna/D03/D0349900.mp3" default="http://dictionary.reference.com/audio.html/lunaWAV/D03/D0349900"></span> <span class="show_spellpr" style="display: inline;"><span class="prondelim" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">[</span><span class="pron" style="display: inline; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">dis-<span class="boldface" style="font-weight: 700;">kuhm</span>-fi-cher</span><span class="prondelim" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">]</span> </span></span></div>
<div class="body" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana; font-size: 13.513513565063477px; margin: 0em 0px 0em 0em; padding: 0px;">
<div class="pbk" style="font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">noun</span></div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword">1.</span></span><br />
<div class="dndata" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px; text-align: left;">
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">disconcertion;</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">confusion;</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">embarrassment.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword">2.</span></span><br />
<div class="dndata" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px; text-align: left;">
<span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">frustration</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">of</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">hopes</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">or</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">plans.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="luna-Ent" style="background-image: none; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px;">
<span class="dnindex" style="color: #7b7b7b; display: block; float: left; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; width: 28px;"><span id="hotword">3.</span></span><br />
<div class="dndata" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px; text-align: left;">
<span class="labset" style="display: inline;"><span class="ital-inline" style="display: inline; font-family: Georgia, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-style: italic;"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">Archaic.</span> </span></span><span id="hotword"><span id="hotword" name="hotword">defeat</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword">in</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">battle;</span> <span id="hotword" name="hotword" style="cursor: default;">rout.</span></span></div>
<div class="dndata" style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 37px; text-align: left;">
<span name="hotword" style="cursor: default;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
If you really want to experience some top notch discomfiture, I highly recommend believing wholeheartedly that a date went really well and then allowing yourself a number of days to slowly come to the realization that, in fact, only <i>one person</i> had a good time on that date - that one person being <b>you</b>. Allow the shame of that realization to really wash over you. Then, after feeling good and mortified that you misread the situation so colossally, give yourself a<i> thorough</i> mind f*cking in a vain attempt to deduce what particular thing - or cluster of things - you said or did that was/were problematic.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Question your decor - especially the floral</li>
<li>Question your choice of outfit and movie</li>
<li>Question whether you should have bought soda water</li>
<li>Question your jokes</li>
<li>Then question if your jokes were <i>obviously</i> jokes </li>
<li>Just question <b>everything</b> you said </li>
<li>Question your cat's stupid haircut </li>
<li>Question how much you <b>love</b> that cat AND his stupid haircut </li>
<li>Question your decorative hand-towels</li>
<li>Even question the type of soap in your shower (for good measure)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Just question it all.<br />
<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;">Playing the hamartia card; desperation at its finest</span></h2>
After I accepted that The Unicorn had indeed disappeared, I said to Vanessa:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"In his defence, he had no idea what he was dealing with",<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
and I don't mean that in the sense that I am secretly the daughter of a violent mobster who will break his legs for this show of disrespect <span style="font-size: xx-small;">*cough*Ashley Husband-Finder*cough*</span>. I mean it in the sense that he <i>actually</i> had no idea what he was dealing with in terms of my history, or where I was coming from. As far as he was concerned, I could be a serial dater who would think nothing of it and just walk it off. There was no way for him to know just how far beyond my comfort zone I had extended myself, how far outside my usual pattern of behaviour I had acted, and how personally I would take his unexplained loss of interest in me. He did not have the benefit of knowing that I was born too sensitive for this world.<br />
It was this line of thinking that made me realize that I had no idea where HE was coming from either. Maybe I needed to give The Unicorn some credit. God knows that I haven't made it this far unscathed, so perhaps he deserves the benefit of the doubt. I have some scars, so it's only fair to assume that he might be dealing with some stuff as well, and that this is all he had to offer me at this time.<br />
Because I like to believe that he could not possibly be as delightful as he seemed(as that would be extremely depressing), I have also made a long list of possible hamartia that he could be afflicted by; I am partial to the ones that explain his disinterest in me AND make it easier to run into him in public, such as "an inexorable love of women who wear a lot of leopard print".<br />
<br />
What!?<br />
It's possible...<br />
<br />
A girl can hope.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.cdn.bigcartel.com/bigcartel/product_images/52957477/max_h-1000+max_w-1000/Hamartia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://images.cdn.bigcartel.com/bigcartel/product_images/52957477/max_h-1000+max_w-1000/Hamartia.jpg" height="320" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> "I"m sorry...I just really love women who wear A LOT of leopard print"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #9fc5e8;">Exit Surveys and Participation Ribbons</span></h2>
After replaying the game-tape over and over in my mind, I still cannot put my finger on exactly what scared away The Unicorn. Sometimes I wish I could have given him an exit survey and a participation ribbon, to have used this as an "opportunity for growth". Most of the time though, I'm relived to <i>not know</i> which of my many inappropriate jokes or sexual ineptitudes resulted in my dismissal; after all, this makes it MUCH easier to blame everything on an unknown outside force, and allows me to remember him fondling.<br />
FONDLY.<br />
Remember him <i>FONDLY</i>...<br />
<br />
The sad truth is I was just being myself <span style="font-size: x-small;">(albeit an ever so slightly skittish version of myself)</span>, and while it stings to think he didn't see value in that, there's no sense in regretting or being apologetic about who you are*; unless, of course, you really love futility. In that case I suggest you spend time trying to convince someone you are worth their time or effort, maybe some time trying to change somebody, or perhaps you should just get back together with the person who made you miserable <i>last time</i>. If you're feeling like you really require a <i>truly</i> futile endeavour, I suggest combining ALL THREE. That might be on the same level of futility as resisting assimilation into the Borg collective. Good luck with that. I'll be over here...watching from behind the safety of this big rock.<br />
<br />
In the end, my litmus test is always this:<br />
<ul>
<li>Did I treat him with the same kindness, respect, and courtesy that I would want my brother, Adam, to be treated with by the women he dates? <span style="color: #6aa84f;">CHECK</span></li>
<li>Did I expect that same treatment for myself? Did I stand up for myself in a respectful manner if I didn't get it? <span style="color: #6aa84f;">CHECK</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
If I can answer "yes" to these questions, then I am content to carry on without regret.<br />
<br />
Now, to begin the search for a man who can...follow a Unicorn...?<br />
<br />
Well, f*ck.<br />
<br />
Nowhere to go but down, bitches. Nowhere to go but down.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyIQl7ELf8d7D7APGVGpp9y-GnQP_ljQZkmmybZCzVYKrgvMNwhZTrHNUDnoYBOBn_0bvjBZP0LYoOIq0Vmej7xsG7dqYvAfR8qwrbs0vIoBTSyYYOHhdXcfn1S50iE4anpUTze9yX8k/s1600/DSC_0785-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiyIQl7ELf8d7D7APGVGpp9y-GnQP_ljQZkmmybZCzVYKrgvMNwhZTrHNUDnoYBOBn_0bvjBZP0LYoOIq0Vmej7xsG7dqYvAfR8qwrbs0vIoBTSyYYOHhdXcfn1S50iE4anpUTze9yX8k/s400/DSC_0785-1.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the best humans I know: my little brother, Adam.<br />
Treat him right, bitches, or I will <b>shank</b> you.<br />
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<h2>
<span style="color: #134f5c;">LOCKED OUT OF HEAVEN...YET AGAIN </span></h2>
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</tbody></table>
Bruno Mars references have graced the last couple blog entries, because that sexy man is singing my life these days. Clearly "<i>Treasure</i>" is off the table, so I will sign out with my favourite performance of the song that is a tribute to unicorns and miracles, "<i>Locked out of Heaven</i>":<br />
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(3:38 - you're welcome)</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/13oXf68zRcM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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*<span style="font-size: xx-small;">You should probably be apologetic about who you are if you are a notoriously insufferable douche-bag. In that case you should probably work on that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-4053453154708111552013-08-24T11:51:00.000-07:002014-04-23T22:15:41.509-07:00Entry # 72 - Becoming a Model and Slaying a Unicorn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgng4vBdZSzpqlrZhQr1p8lpdklqolsqZH5LAkNXzclN4XjeqQVg_cJ_tJvRfcUeBpxT9UdN3GG3lIOlmOen2Ell_d4eIBxNnWML118DVFfrOUOVsxpd520I5iJprRyFQx_gjk5NwWNHyw/s1600/DSC_0690B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgng4vBdZSzpqlrZhQr1p8lpdklqolsqZH5LAkNXzclN4XjeqQVg_cJ_tJvRfcUeBpxT9UdN3GG3lIOlmOen2Ell_d4eIBxNnWML118DVFfrOUOVsxpd520I5iJprRyFQx_gjk5NwWNHyw/s640/DSC_0690B.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
Dear Diary.<br />
<br />
August has been a busy month to say the least, including (but not limited to) work, blackmail, threats of legal action, my first gig as a model, and an unfathomably beautiful man. Go ahead, scroll up and double check you are reading the right blog. I'll wait.<br />
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<h2>
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-size: x-large;">Did you ever think there might be more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking?</span></h2>
You can look forward to my face selling you micro-lofts in the very ne<span style="font-family: inherit;">ar future, which is appropriate, because who better to live in a 250 square foot condo than a spinster with a cat? Nobody, that's who. If I get approved for financing, it'll be me and a bunch of wealthy businessmen who have a spare $110,000 and require a </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">pied</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">-à-</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">terre. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my close family and friends who have had to listen to me refer to myself as a "teacher/model" for the last few weeks, I am pretty sure I have redefined "insufferable narcissist". Sorry, team. And yet...also, not sorry?</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I wasn't sure exactly what to expect when arriving at my modelling gig, I mean, this was my first time. I had to bring a selection of casual clothing for the shoot, which really shone a light on my lack of runway worthy clothing. My 6'7 male-model counterpart was deemed to look "perfect" in the clothes he arrived in, I was more of a...task. I erroneously presumed it would just be a photographer present, turns out it was a photographer, an </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">artistic</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> director, a </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">photographer's</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> assistant, and a lovely lady who was </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">coordinating</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> all of us. She had muffins, which was awesome. The fact that I thought muffins were awesome proved pretty quickly how UN model-like I am. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I recently stated that you have not lived until someone has shouted at you about how happy they are, I now need to </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">amend</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> that statement: You have ALSO not lived until you have had five people commentate both you and your wardrobe as if you are not present. At one point someone tied a sweater around my shoulders. I was declared to look "too J Crew" one moment and "too catalogue" the next. Someone <i>actually</i> said <span style="font-size: large;">"<i>hate</i> the cardigan, <i>love</i> the scarf"</span>. I stood there and bit the inside of my lip really hard in an attempt to not laugh and completely out myself as a non-model. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Eventually I was deemed "acceptable" and we went out into the city with our branded bicycles. I chatted up the handsome photographer as we walked to our destination, asked him about his work only to discover that while he lives in Vancouver, his agent is in Toronto and he was flying to Los Angeles for a shoot the next day. My response? "...uh, sorry you have to photograph me". I'm pretty sure a photographer of his caliber taking pictures of me is like a professional race-car driver being forced behind the wheel of an '87 Hyundai Pony. Pretty </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">lackluster</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> and disappointing. Sorry about your luck, handsome photographer. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I got to walk my bike along side my male-model counterpart whilst looking up at him adoringly, I got to ride my branded old timey bicycle along the sea-wall, I got to casually take a break and drink some branded water, all while looking like I'm having the best time of my life. I totally nailed it, probably because it's easy to pretend you are an average citizen of Victoria who is loving life when you <i>are </i>an average(looking) citizen of Victoria who is totally loving her life. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">At the end of my two hour photo shoot I signed on the dotted line where it said "signature of model" (further lip biting) and was handed a bunch of cash that totaled far more than I get paid to educate the youth of this province. I was pretty sure that this would be the highlight of my August.<br /><br />Then this happened:</span></span></span><br />
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<h2>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">And then I TOTALLY slayed a Unicorn</span></span></span></h2>
<h2 class="me" style="background-color: white; display: inline; font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="color: #0b5394;">u·ni·corn</span> </h2>
<span class="prondelim" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[</span><span class="pron" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span class="boldface" style="font-weight: 700;">yoo</span>-ni-kawrn</span><span class="prondelim" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">]</span><span style="color: #444444;">(noun) a man of unspeakable perfection, usually admired longingly from afar, defined by lack of attainability, best viewed in slow motion while "Dreamweaver" plays in the background. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444;">Unicorns have been discussed previously, <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012/11/entry-64-land-of-unicorn-slayers.html">click here</a> if you need a refresher. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">You know that saying about when God closes a door he opens a window? Well I very recently closed two doors, emotionally that is, by dealing with my feelings (or lack thereof) about my exes. One door was gently closed after a metaphorical hand shake/European double cheek kiss, and the other was kick-slammed Rambo style, bolted, and marked with a red X - like a motel room infested with bedbugs. The two experiences could not have been more opposite, yet the resulting feeling of closure was the same. I can say that I have not felt that kind of freedom and resolution in a long time. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">So I closed a couple doors, and God opened a window; and by opened a window I mean he threw open some french doors, white curtains billowed, sunlight sparkled, and in pranced an honest-to-God unicorn. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">One Saturday night I met up with my friend Meg and her boyfriend for some farewell drinks (as they were shortly moving to the Asian </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">continent</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">). Meg made mention that some of her boyfriend's friends may be joining us, and while I </span></span><i style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">hear</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> this fact I don't take much note of it as I have met many of these men before (as a fresh-faced university student). Most of them are strapping athletes who take little to no notice of my existence and if they do they tend to immediately forget my name or call me by the wrong one. "Anna, right?", or "Hey Heather, nice to see you again", both of which are usually followed by a patronizing hair ruffle or a punch in the shoulder. </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">So for the first little while it's just me and Meg and her boyfriend. I am having a great time. Meg and I have a pretty long history of shared antics, which makes getting together with her very entertaining (at least for the two of us). After a few double gin and tonics with extra lime, more people arrive to join us - one of Meg's boyfriend's friends, his sister and her friend. Meg's boyfriend introduces her to the friend as I </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">introduce</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> myself to the ladies, and as I go to introduce myself to what turns out to be a </span></span><i style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><b>very handsome and strapping</b></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> man across the table from me, the universe interjects and his attention is drawn away by the server and I am left half-standing, saying my name, </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">with my hand extended to <b><i>no one</i></b>.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> It was as awkward and cringe-worthy as you just imagined. I turned to Meg, slack-jawed and incredulous that the prophecy of my invisibility has been fulfilled so expediently, and she, having fully borne witness to what just </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">occurred,</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> is failing miserably at hiding how hard she is laughing at my humiliation. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">It goes without saying that I immediately filed him under "Well Never F*cking Mind Then" in my mental rolodex and went back to being my uncensored self; telling ridiculous teacher stories, </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">inadvertently</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> spraying people with lime juice, and cackling wholeheartedly. The evening wears on, more G&Ts are consumed, and at one point I am visually tracking the conversation back and forth across the table and as I do so, I am caught half-way by the gaze of the Ridiculously Handsome Friend(henceforth refered to as RH), who is (by some cosmic miracle) looking at me with a knowing half-smile, like he knows a very funny and very sexy secret, or perhaps a really good knock knock joke. I don't know, because I am rarely on the receiving end of such looks. With gin-fuelled confidence I looked right back at him with my very best "I am very much interested in knowing your sexy secret/knock knock joke" expression. I then look behind me to make sure that I have not just further </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">humiliated</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> myself by intercepting a sexy look meant for some 22-year-old blonde bombshell seated behind us. Nope, no bombshells, that look was for ME. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">HOLY. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">CRAP. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">It occurs to me that he could be having some kind of stroke or </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">aneurysm</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> and that the ethical thing to do would be to get him some medical assistance. I sneak a peek. He smiles again. Ethics be <b>damned</b>. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">We change pubs and RH sits down beside me, we converse, and lo and behold he is not just handsome and strapping, he is also nice...and smart. Apparently I had crossed into some alternate universe where Jon Hamm and Zachary Quinto had a very athletic Disney Prince love child, and that love child somehow found me appealing. We leave the pub at closing time, Meg and her boyfriend say goodbye and head off to their hotel and I am left standing on the sidewalk with RH. He looks down at me, and I mean down, because he is 6'3, and says: </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">"Want to get a waffle?" </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><i>With YOU? Why, YES. Yes, I do! </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><i>(in fairness, I would have gotten strep throat if he asked me to). </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I gaze upward, probably blink slowly a few times, nod, and reply,<br /><br />"...waffles are good..."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br />And so he takes my hand and we walk to the waffle place where we share a bacon, chocolate and cheese waffle and he continues to prove that he is far too good to be true. I am pretty sure by this point that I am being punked, either that or my friends have crowdfunded an enormous sum of money and paid this man to pay attention to me (a la 30 Rock: "He <i>certainly</i> wasn't a Swiss prostitute Martha Stewart recommended"). I am absent-mindedly chewing some waffle and contemplating how this may affect the space-time continuum when I have an epiphany: </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">this is my present from the universe</span></u>. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">I was being rewarded for the unbelievable bullshit I had dealt with the week prior. I had put up with some <b>whack</b> nonsense. This beautiful man was my reward. This was karma in action. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">The </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> universe </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> was </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> lending </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> me </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> a </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"> unicorn. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">Then this happened:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Okay, so the Dirty Dancing part didn't happen, though I am 100% certain he was physically capable of it. As an aside, the character's name is Hannah in that movie <b>-</b> <b>coincidence</b>? But in seriousness, it was delightful. Nay, capital "D" Delightful. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Now, my <u>only</u> regret (except not really at all) is that I didn't have the self-control to say no to exchanging phone numbers. Part of me wishes that I had been capable of allowing this to be a perfect isolated experience; to place it in a decorative box, tie a bow on it, and place it on the shelf marked "More and Better than You ever Imagined</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">". There would have been power and safety in only allowing it to go that far. As I dictated my phone number to him, I'm sure the universe was like, </span></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-large; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">"way to push your luck, bitch".</span><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">. </span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">The thing is, I really did want to see him again - he had surprised and intrigued me. The idea of going on a date with him was </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">irresistible;</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> even if dates are irrevocably tied to vulnerability and rejection. Let's be honest, <i>far</i> lesser men have rejected me after one date. Painful but true. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">So I have gone on one date and there may or may not be more to follow (heavy on the "may not") . As this is a favour from the universe, I'm not sure how long it will last. There is a distinct possibility that my karmic reward has a dairy-like expiry date and that after that I will be forced to sell myself based on my charms alone...which means I'm pretty much f*cked.</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I would say I have slightly better odds than a snowflake's chance in hell; however, not as good as the odds of pigs flying, especially if there are catapults. Are there catapults? It's not that I don't believe I'm good enough; it's more that I have accepted that I</span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> am an acquired taste. I am a special </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">combination</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> of both too much and not enough, <i>all at the same time</i>. Too much enthusiasm, not enough confidence. Too much honesty, not enough censoring. Too much cackling, not enough melanin. I could go on. I'll just say that if Bruno Mars saw my face, there might be a few things that he would change, know what I'm sayin'? Can we all agree that's </span></span><b style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K-kOxh_5OBQ" target="_blank">the saddest song in the world</a> </b><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">sometimes</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">? Gaahhhhddd. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I can admit that a momentary glimmer of light is nothing to be scoffed at, and that even a brief respite from loneliness is sometimes worth the subsequent and inevitable void created.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">I can also tell you that, while it may feel awful sometimes, the safety of being invisible is pretty tempting when compared to allowing yourself to be seen, <i>really seen</i>, and to risk being found lacking or unworthy. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">In a way I guess I didn't </span><i style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">slay</i><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> a unicorn...but one got disoriented and mistakenly stumbled in my direction, and I enjoyed </span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">every single minute of it.</span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eHqISU_BvvosMcMkXesqX9x03YfiE-uOhVRHc7PkRBxNpNAL5otlKeo0btzXffRoXGmCGXyIsVY-zZgf_QvByt-KGATQ9R0JpC_FKk5eWvH7t0yeQ54LQe2qcwHNPz_GwG-28lRAT4Q/s1600/places+to+rest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eHqISU_BvvosMcMkXesqX9x03YfiE-uOhVRHc7PkRBxNpNAL5otlKeo0btzXffRoXGmCGXyIsVY-zZgf_QvByt-KGATQ9R0JpC_FKk5eWvH7t0yeQ54LQe2qcwHNPz_GwG-28lRAT4Q/s400/places+to+rest.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My hero, Riki Lindhome, has a song for every life occasion -<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-yUkmKuqZk" target="_blank"> "Places to Rest"</a> fits this one pretty well, the exception being that this man was not younger than me...but he was so pretty. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-2041885375740569502013-08-04T21:29:00.000-07:002013-08-04T21:35:37.275-07:00Entry # 71-B - Engaged, Enraged, Potato, Potatoe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">Dear Diary,</span><br />
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I didn't foresee this. My life has been an exercise in juxtaposition. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here is an excerpt from my last blog:</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> </span><a data-mce-href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIeGti0luXKVFYK318L1eWRIIgBe3kUR2nyGvoSjgcI8xIwKIXGu8ZAPOqOEuLrWsz1UjPj9e9zG5cymZ_LW-Kn__kjnHicNW_MAHFh_Z0CzyLyO4HxkHdLycd5gwrIq34Ajb9X1HYPs/s1600/subjectivity.JPG" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIeGti0luXKVFYK318L1eWRIIgBe3kUR2nyGvoSjgcI8xIwKIXGu8ZAPOqOEuLrWsz1UjPj9e9zG5cymZ_LW-Kn__kjnHicNW_MAHFh_Z0CzyLyO4HxkHdLycd5gwrIq34Ajb9X1HYPs/s1600/subjectivity.JPG" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-mce-src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIeGti0luXKVFYK318L1eWRIIgBe3kUR2nyGvoSjgcI8xIwKIXGu8ZAPOqOEuLrWsz1UjPj9e9zG5cymZ_LW-Kn__kjnHicNW_MAHFh_Z0CzyLyO4HxkHdLycd5gwrIq34Ajb9X1HYPs/s640/subjectivity.JPG" data-mce-style="border: 0px;" height="97" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIeGti0luXKVFYK318L1eWRIIgBe3kUR2nyGvoSjgcI8xIwKIXGu8ZAPOqOEuLrWsz1UjPj9e9zG5cymZ_LW-Kn__kjnHicNW_MAHFh_Z0CzyLyO4HxkHdLycd5gwrIq34Ajb9X1HYPs/s640/subjectivity.JPG" style="border: 0px;" width="512" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This blog was my way of expressing both acceptance and closure in regard to the men I had loved, to convey my recognition that they had found what was perfect for them (their treasure as it were), and to express hope that though I had been these two men's "trash" that I would one day find someone who considers a sassy, redheaded harpy to be "treasure". What can I say, I was feeling both generous and hopeful that day. I considered the matter of "Men I Loved" laid to rest. They were getting married and riding off into the sunset, case closed. No need to ever speak about them again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Or at least the case <i>was</i> closed....</span></div>
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<span data-mce-style="color: #274e13; font-size: xx-large;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Engaged</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Text received:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Hey, are you free to Skype at some point today?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">PANIC PANIC PANIC PANIC RED ALERT</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You probably just furrowed your brow…wait for it…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That text was from:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">My ex boyfriend from long, long ago and a galaxy far, far, away whom I had very recently written about in my last blog entry about exes getting engaged. The blog entry in which I had very candidly written about my unrequited love for him; not imagining there was much of a chance that he would read it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh GOD. He knows! And now I have to look him in the face” I mumbled through my elbow, which was firmly planted in front of my face at this time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Strange but true - I was willing to tell EVERYBODY else I had loved him, but the idea <b>him</b> knowing that I had loved him was bizarrely disconcerting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“OH...” Even Enisa looked slightly nauseated at the prospect, or she was just nauseated because she's pregnant, hard to tell. “Well, you don‘t have to talk to him if you don‘t want to” .</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“No, no” I replied, dramatically removing my arm from my face “if he has something to say, I will hear him out…”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">and so I texted back: </span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">“I'm out right now, how about 2:30?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so we Skyped, and he totally sang Bruno Mars’ “When I was Your Man”.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">Yeah...no...that </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18.99147605895996px;">didn't</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> happen. But it would have been awesome, right!?. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">But we did talk for a long time. We caught each other up on current events, talked about movies, and books, and TV shows we've been watching and websites we like. We laughed about old times and eventually, after about an hour </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">(</span></span><em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">right when he lulled me into a false sense of security and I </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18.99147605895996px;">believed</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> that this was all a crazy coincidence</span></span></em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">)</span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> he told me he saw my last blog. Evasive action was taken in terms of eye contact (on my part), because if there was pity in his face I did NOT want to see it. HARD PASS ON THE PITY. Social norms demanded that I eventually look back at the screen, and when I did he was perfectly at ease and mildly amused at my obvious awkwardness at being called out. When I asked him if he felt mad or upset that I had written about him, he responded </span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 18.99147605895996px;">with his standard frankness:</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">"Well it's not like you used my name"</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">He had a point, we only have twelve mutual friends, and of those twelve only a very select few would be able to identify him as the ex in that story. This has made for a very interesting game of "Guess Who?" As in "Guess Who <i>texted him to tell him he was on the blog</i>?". My instinct had been right, you see, he hadn't seen it on Facebook! HA! I KNEW IT! </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">He was a real gentleman. He asked me some questions, I asked him some questions. He spoke to some of the things I had said and clarified some things from the past. We really problem solved that sh*t.We were even able to joke about the many ways in which we were totally wrong for each other (mostly my </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18.99147605895996px;">aggressive</span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> indoorsyness); and he kindly and matter-of-factly told me about the ways he and his fiancee are really great for each other. And you know what, by the time we said goodbye I was really glad that he had been man enough, and respected me enough, to speak to it in such an adult fashion. </span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">I never expected him to read what I had written, and I <b>certainly</b> never imagined getting to talk to him about it. </span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 18.99147605895996px;"> For me, writing about that experience had been catharsis enough, </span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">so I was surprised by how redeeming it was to talk to him about it</span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 18.99147605895996px;">.</span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 18.99147605895996px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18.997394561767578px;"> There was redemption in being reminded that he was worthy of that love, even if he could not reciprocate it at the time; and there was power in knowing that I felt happy for him in the love that he had found. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">I hope he buys her flowers </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 18.997394561767578px;">I hope he holds her hand.<br />Maybe Bruno Mars will marry me. </span></span></span><br />
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<span data-mce-style="color: #274e13; font-size: xx-large;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;">Enraged</span></span></h2>
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<i><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; font-weight: normal;">The opposite of love is not hate, it's </span><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; font-weight: normal;">indifference</span><span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; font-weight: normal;">.</span></i></h3>
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I apologize if the content of this blog has offended you.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I </span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">politely</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> suggest you refrain from reading it in the future. </span></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-54824018732713383572013-07-19T14:47:00.000-07:002014-05-19T22:20:21.630-07:00Entry #70 - And Then All Your Exes Get Engaged<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWjhn1SQ39FABQP21Kdsda2vZhswV7vsSk3bpPg41GODlxDkts2s-_IU6Tem-Y6FveGmthOQzCULEA0_MvgZQ-eaQed3tPoA8R_JWE_WmAqAwAeAll1OOueRzwZRLqecymTi1MDGRS4I/s1600/DOSA2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWjhn1SQ39FABQP21Kdsda2vZhswV7vsSk3bpPg41GODlxDkts2s-_IU6Tem-Y6FveGmthOQzCULEA0_MvgZQ-eaQed3tPoA8R_JWE_WmAqAwAeAll1OOueRzwZRLqecymTi1MDGRS4I/s400/DOSA2013.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Diary,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been home visiting my family for the last 10 days, a very large percentage of which has been spent partially clothed and somewhat intoxicated on the swing in my parents backyard. It was like the school year ended, accumulated exhaustion set in, and I could not bring myself to do <i>anything</i>. I drank only tea and gin & tonics (sometimes both at the same time), read teen fiction, napped, and moved slowly and in small increments, much like a human sloth. It has been glorious to say the least. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Proof: Drunk. Also, asleep. My sister Amy Edwards would like to claim photography credit on this masterpiece.</span> </span></td></tr>
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After my ten days of shameful laziness, I have decided it is time to finally time to belatedly blog about one of life's most blessed and glorious events: the engagements of your exes.Grab yourself a Pimm's Cup and get comfortable, this is a lengthy one.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Preface</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">United Kingdom 2001</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After high school I lived for a year in England with my Aunty Ruth, Uncle Martin, and cousin Beth. At the time, Beth was 16 and was currently in a phase of watching <a href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/wedding_planner/">"The Wedding Planner"</a> on <i><b>repeat</b></i>; yes, the one with Jennifer Lopez and <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">Matthew McConaughey that received a generous 17% on Rotten Tomatoes.</span> My cousin Beth is pretty awesome,so when I was not working at Marks & Spencer (or working toward gaining 30lbs - truth), I would often end up joining her in the sitting room to drink tea, eat Hula Hoops, and watch "The Wedding Planner" for the umpteenth time. I can't say for certain just how many times I watched that movie, but I can say that more than a decade later I could probably act out that whole movie as a one woman show; albeit a poorly acted one, very likely featuring my cat Gus as Matthew McConaughey, but I digress. The important thing about my numerous viewings of this movie is the staying-power within my psyche of the "Poor Man's Wendy"...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you have seen this movie 156 times (approximately) like I have then you know exactly what I am talking about. If you have never seen it (fair enough), have only seen it once (also fair), or perhaps have only caught a glimpse of it on TV(read: came across it while flipping channels during a commercial break then watched <b>the whole thing. AGAIN</b>), here is the gist of it:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After a mortifying run in with her ex-fiance, Keith, and his pregnant wife, Wendy, Mary (Lopez) gets very intoxicated ("NANCY PONG? 2C?"<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(if you just laughed then that was <i>knowing laughter, </i>and you are so busted)</span>)<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>and confides in Steve (McConaughey) how she feels that she just wasn't enough, that she was just a stand-in...a poor man's Wendy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Knife. To. The. Heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course Matthew McConaughey's character is quick to point out that perhaps Wendy is, in fact, a poor man's Mary, but it was too late - the seed had been planted. Even at age 18 the idea of being a place holder for someone more worthy resonated deeply within me, and <i>horrified</i> me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It gets me every time, like that scene in "Love, Actually" when Emma Thompson opens her gift only to realize her husband has given a gold necklace to someone else. Stabby stab stab stabums. I've looked at love from both sides now, too, Emma Thompson.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so it has remained for the last 12 years that the concept of the "Poor Man's Wendy" is ever present; sometimes lingering subconsciously, sometimes actively conscious in the way that only obsessive neuroses can be.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">At age 30 I can say that I have been in love twice. As you may have inferred form the title of this blog, neither time turned out well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">These two men have only two things in common:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-They dated me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">-They both got engaged to be married to... <strike><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U8s9aAbjs6c">Beige Curtains</a></strike>...<strike>Poor Man's Hannahs</strike>...perfectly nice women who are <i>not me</i> in the year of our lord two thousand twelve. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">Victoria 2012</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">It shames me to admit that I even know that they are both getting married, but I suppose that social media and overlap of acquaintances make it hard for anyone to avoid these landmines anymore. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Now, I wiffle-waffled (technical term) for a long time about whether or not to share these stories on the interwebs. It is rare that I speak specifically about the men I have loved, and when I have it's mostly been in passing; </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">perhaps a <strike>jab</strike> <strike>cheap shot</strike> sentence or two in a larger story, I tend to err toward broad sweeping statements of "all men" or "exes" and save specific stories for the men I have dated casually or simply been rejected by. This is in part due to vulnerability issues on my part and in part due to my vague legal understanding of libel and defamation of character.In the end I decided that it was worth sharing, in part because hearing that an ex is engaged is a pretty universal experience, in part because </span></span><i style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">not</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"> talking about has felt like lying by omission</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">, and in part because after admitting my struggle to my friend Sarah, she sent me this:</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-large; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Old School Love</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Being in love for the first time is like drinking alcohol for the first time; you're not as cautious as you should be due to the unfortunate fact that both broken hearts and hangovers need to be <i>personally experienced</i> in order to be truly understood, respected, and feared. It is also interesting to note that the aftermath of both include lying on the bathroom floor, wishing you were dead, and swearing you will never, <b>ever</b> do that again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Looking back, I can't even say for certain how long I "dated" this man for, which feels rather absurd and is embarrassing to admit. It also seems ridiculous that I considered for a moment simply asking him via the old Facebook messenger before realizing that a) he would have absolutely no idea, b) he would wonder why I was asking, and c) that would be really f*cked up. If pressed in a court of law, under oath, I would say that we were together "somewhat sporadically between 03 & 06". I am fairy certain I would not be perjuring myself with this statement. Coincidentally this would also be the answer I would give to the questions "have you ever dabbled in yoga?" and "did you ever watch <i>Smallville</i>?". Clearly it was a time of growth all around. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">So, the nature of this relationship was long-distance vacillating between official, semi-official, and unofficial. There was an abundance of MSN Messenger...which is now, appropriately, defunct; a bygone technology of an erstwhile love. </span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">God, did I love him - I loved him the way a fat kid loves cake; unhealthy, unrequited, and prone to lust filled gorging. How is the picture I'm painting of this situation so far? Abstract? Perfect. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">It ended the way only a long-distance non-relationship relationship <i>can </i>end, which is without pomp, circumstance, or closure. The <i>when</i> and <i>how</i> are foggy, which speaks both to my advancing age and to the brokenness of my 22 year old heart; I think he emailed me, but don't quote me on that. It was hard to get over because I had loved him ("pink puffy glittery heart" loved him, in the words of my sister), and he had...<i>liked </i>me. Boy did he...like me. To be fair I think he <i>quite </i>liked me, perhaps more than he initially thought he would. I think he had a certain respect for me and found me to be entertaining, but he never loved me. Ah, unrequited young love - tis a spinster badge of honour. The </span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">trickiest part was that my brain was hard-wired to miss him and to wonder what he was doing, and that habit was hard to break - it took longer than I care to admit to myself or the internet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Years later at a house party, a friend of his said to me both drunkenly and casually "I was surprised that relationship went on for as long as it did, he only dated you to get over Angela, he really loved her". Stab stabby...stab. Stab. The dormant dragon known as the "Poor Man's Wendy", or in this case, "Poor Man's Angela", reared it's scaly head, took a deep breath, burned the smug and oblivious expression right off his face, then went straight for the crown jewels. Meanwhile in reality, I think I just nodded my head thoughtfully, took a big hit of my white wine spritzer, and said:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">"Is that so?" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Impervious to the horror he had unleashed with his prior statement, he went on to further explain some mystical man logic which involved </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">preemptivel</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">y breaking up with the person you love before you have to leave, and replacing that person with someone who is easier to leave behind. If I understood his drunk ramblings correctly (debatable) I had been a pawn in a chess game of emotional avoidance? There may have been a metaphor about cleansing ones </span></span><span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">palette, it's hard to say as I was otherwise occupied, you know, trying not to vomit. Was what this guy said true? Was I some kind of pawn selected for the ease with which you can forget about me? I have no idea if any of what he said was true, but if I had to guess I'd say that it was a pretty vague facsimile of what the truth probably was and is. However, similar to my previous life experience with the idea of being a Poor Man's Anyone, the very suggestion was like a swift kick to the solar plexus. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Yeah. So there's that. Aren't you glad I shared? You're welcome. Onto the part where he marries someone else. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Because our relationship just kind of fizzled out, and did not implode or explode, I am still friendly with this ex. We wish each other a happy birthday, we text once in a blue moon, we're cool. We are even Facebook friends, which is how I found out he got engaged last year. Scrolling, scrolling, laughing at something funny George Takei posted, drinking tea, scrolling, BLAM! There is was - ENGAGED - with a nice big picture and everything. I would best describe my response as a paper-cut to the heart; it caught me off guard, stung for 5 seconds, then I was fine. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 14.545454025268555px;">Not so fine that I clicked "like" or sent him a Hallmark card or anything...but still fine. </span><br />
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This was last spring, then winter rolled around and I was...<br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">(being pleasantly surprised by your own indifference)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So perhaps that is what is comes down to. Maybe it's not about them being Poor Man's Hannahs or me being a Poor Man's Whatever Her Name Is. Maybe it's about subjectivity, about beauty being in the eye of the beholder, about casting pearls before swine, about one man's trash being another man's treasure. Or in this case, <i>two </i>men's trash...is another man's treasure. At least God willing it will be. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Preposterous Family Photos - 2013</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In accordance with the prophecy, and in <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/06/entry-45-spinster-at-homestead.html">alignment with a sacred family tradition</a>, my sister's visit </span>signaled<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the need for a new set of preposterous family portraits. This year we went for vintage meets intoxicated, Mad Men meets 007. I rolled out the Spinster Couture just for the occasion. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span>I will end with a picture of me and my four year old niece, Eva, getting our prancercize on at a full gallop. She loved it. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-28932951010514315252013-06-01T18:24:00.000-07:002013-07-10T11:20:28.411-07:00Entry #69 - In Which, Ironically, Nothing is Sexy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is that cat wearing a bow tie?..is that cat WINKING at me?!<br />
Yes and YES.<br />
You're welcome. </td></tr>
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Dear Diary,<br />
<br />
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.<br />
"Oh HEY buddy," I said "that is a highly inconvenient place you have chosen to...why do you smell like that?"<br />
"MEOW" (head butt into my face)<br />
"No seriously," I replied "why do you smell like cat poop?"<br />
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).<br />
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"So it's come to this..." I said aloud to no one in particular before accepting my fate and grabbing a kleenex.<br />
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So there you have it, things that I am compelled to share on the internet.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Shouting into Traffic Cones</span></h2>
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, <i>really</i> 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 <i>every</i> sense of the word:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">spe·cial</span> [spesh-uhl]<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">adjective</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">1.of a distinct or particular kind or character: <i>a special kind of key</i>. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">2.being a particular one; particular, individual, or certain: <i>You'd better call the special number</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">3.pertaining or peculiar to a particular person, thing, instance, etc.; distinctive; unique: t<i>he special features of a plan.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">4.having a specific or particular function, purpose, etc.: <i>a special messenger</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">5.distinguished or different from what is ordinary or usual: a special occasion; <i>to fix something special</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">6.extraordinary; exceptional, as in amount or degree; especial: <i>special importance</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">7.being such in an exceptional degree; particularly valued: <i>a special friend</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">8.pertaining to people with singular needs or disabilities, or to their education: <i>disabled students with special needs; state funding for special schools.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">9.a special person or thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">10.a train used for a particular purpose, occasion, or the like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">11.a special edition of a newspaper.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">12.Theater . a spotlight reserved for a particular area, property, actor, etc.: <i>Give me the coffin special</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">13.a temporary, arbitrary reduction in the price of regularly stocked goods, especially food; a particularly worthwhile offer or price: <i>The special this week is on sirloin steaks.</i></span><br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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"Which version of the Enterprise do you like best, Miss G?"<br />
"Why, which ever one has Jean Luc Picard on it, my darling"<br />
""D" or "E"?"<br />
"I'm not picky"<br />
""D" had a warp core breach and crash landed on Veridian III"<br />
"...valid point, #1. I shall endeavor to be more discerning"<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Painting Things Purple</span></h2>
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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. </div>
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Back in my 20's, during my <strike>solid decade</strike> 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. <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/04/entry-39-spinster-fitness.html">It was sweaty, beet-faced, headband sporting, geese t-shirt wearing gym</a>. 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".<br />
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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.<br />
It is not uncommon for the two of us to go to Home Sense simply to figure out what to have for dinner.<br />
<br />
"What do you want to eat?"<br />
"I dunno. You?"<br />
"I dunno. Shall we walk around Home Sense til we figure it out?"<br />
"Done"<br />
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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 <i>in</i> those abodes was in turn cheap...and relatively shitty. Ugly, second hand furniture <i>belongs</i> 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.<br />
<a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/05/entry-41-mansion-on-market.html">No slum, however, was as notorious or as appropriately decorated as Spinster Mansion</a>. 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.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3xwEy4V8I697jNlX0-xc2v7zGtpy9hpq0OedzvTye0Hq8ttAg8AiWIn-ZdBdvkA4cxhK2muFYeW61g1dMu9G1PXuBxjGnm9lW5k-aiWf4fH7goBebqP3eCSdGoSFRFNwtxVSrOt0jLA/s1600/spinsterdecor.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3xwEy4V8I697jNlX0-xc2v7zGtpy9hpq0OedzvTye0Hq8ttAg8AiWIn-ZdBdvkA4cxhK2muFYeW61g1dMu9G1PXuBxjGnm9lW5k-aiWf4fH7goBebqP3eCSdGoSFRFNwtxVSrOt0jLA/s640/spinsterdecor.png" width="448" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post Modern Art and Post Break-Up Accommodations</td></tr>
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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 home..duplex...town-home...condo...or 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 <a href="http://www.ideabox.us/models/aktiv/">"aktiv" model ideabox. </a> It will be mine, oh yes, it will be mine.<br />
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So I set out to make my home mine by finding things that I <i>actually</i> liked, and not in the sense that <i>I like</i> 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).<br />
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.<br />
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Prior to this long ramble I mentioned inheriting some china and the contents of a liquor cabinet, let's get back to that.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">Confession: sometimes I listen to the main theme music on youtube. Majestic</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is for sure R2D2 paraphernalia in the background.</td></tr>
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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:<br />
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"F*#%ing hell, you just painted your furniture purple".<br />
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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".<span style="font-family: inherit;"> 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 </span><b style="font-family: inherit;">this</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> the sign that I'd finally given up? Was this dresser my symbolic middle finger to the male population? "Enjoy your "Beige Curtains", losers</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">!</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i> I</i></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> have a</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i> <span style="color: #741b47;">PURPLE</span></i></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> dresser! HA!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Vanessa says I am being crazy about this and that the purple dresser has no real or symbolic meaning.<br /><br />I'm not so sure. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"30 year old Spinster White Female seeks handsome, humourous, </span>grammatically<span style="font-family: inherit;"> correct male. Must be able to maintain arousal while transversing numerous baroque picture frames, purple furniture, a floral bedspread, and a cat with a </span>bow-tie."<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-47296415783977014282013-03-22T15:31:00.000-07:002013-03-22T15:32:20.822-07:00Entry #68 - Spincognito: In which I get a real job, turn 30, and eat a lemon meringue pie by myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While Gus may not be surprised, he is deeply disappointed to belong to a human who is such a piss poor blogger.</td></tr>
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Dear Diary,<br />
I have been far too busy winning the lottery, vacationing, getting in shape, and gallivanting about with my smart, funny, attractive gentleman caller to update this blog. Okay, so none of that was even remotely reminiscent of reality. To be perfectly honest, one could not refer to that as even a vague facsimile of the truth, but I am working on this "positive thinking" <strike>bullshit </strike>business so you'll just have to bear with me.<br />
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In which I become (at least til June) a Big Girl Teacher</h2>
Back in January I finally applied for, and was awarded, my very own classroom. Yup, that uncomfortable feeling in your gut is correct, I am responsible for the well being and education of twenty-two miniature humans. You are right to be terrified and appalled; most days I feel the exact same way. My mettle is being tested in ways I did not know possible, and to be frank, in teaching much like in dating, I am found (by both myself and others) to be seriously lacking. I am also living in perpetual fear that my students' parents will stumble across this blog. I'm not ashamed of my spinsterly ways, but I'm not sure that any parents would be excited to discover that their child's teacher is <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/06/entry-44-synonyms-for-burden.html">prone to crying on other people's bathroom floors</a>...it wouldn't really, shall we say, instill confidence.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Valentine's Day card from a student - when incorrect spelling reveals a deeper truth.</td></tr>
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In which I get promptly and unceremoniously rejected (again)</h2>
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I was feeling pretty positive about 2013 at the beginning of the year. I think this was a result of having spent the latter half of the Christmas holidays watching all six seasons of Numb3rs back to back on Netflix. I mean, If those two handsome Jewish men could solve all those crimes using advanced mathematics then <i>surely </i>I could solve my problems using unifix cubes and an abacus. <i>SURELY</i>. </div>
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So I was set up once again, this time by a mutual acquaintance. I figured I might as well give it a go as it went medium-well <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012_06_01_archive.html">last time</a> ; you know, at the end it was a little tough and hard to swallow, slight heartburn, not as tender as you'd like, but overall pretty hot and mouthwatering because it's a friggin <i>STEAK</i> and you had been an unwilling vegetarian for a long time....and even a little toughness and heartburn doesn't stop you from thinking about that steak from time to time and feeling really, <i>really </i> h...ungry. Somewhere between cold and burned is a perfect medium-rare, bitches. Emphasis on the <b>rare.</b><br />
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Wow, that steak metaphor really took on a life of its own. I've been into the red wine, the metaphors and correct use of grammar will only degrade from here on out. </div>
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Okay, so during a bout of baseless positive feelings I agree to go on a blind date. Going on dates is no big deal for many people, but it's hard for me. I really need to work myself up to it, and it generally makes me feel anxious and ill before hand (ask Vanessa, who routinely talks me off ledges). Perhaps this was why I didn't want to write this guy off after one date, I mean, it's so hard for me to get myself out there that it's hard to imagine that all was for naught. I can tell you that he had no such qualms, and was happy to tell me after one date that I was a very nice girl, but not the girl for him. I swear, the next man who tells me how great I am while rejecting me is getting punched in the neck. Seriously, guy, give me some constructive criticism - I can take it, the hard part was me doing my hair and walking out to your car without vomiting. The worst part about this one date/non-date was that I found out on the date that the only reason we were introduced was a mutual love of <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012/11/entry-64-land-of-unicorn-slayers.html">Whitesnake</a> - meaning that being swiftly rejected by this man has tainted my beloved Whitesnake forever. Every time "Here I Go Again" comes on I feel a sense of burning shame and embarrassment, which is seriously f*cked up, because that shit is sacred to me. I've been forced to switch to "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen, which is also awesome, but lacks a certain <i>je ne sais quois</i> that "Here I go again" possessed. DOUBLE BALLS. I hate putting myself out there. </div>
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<br /></div>
<h2>
In which I turn 30</h2>
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Yup. That happened. Remember when I was in my twenties and this blog was super hilarious because of <i>course</i> no woman in her twenties could actually considered a spinster...HA HA ...OH GOD.<br />
I can tell you that my gift to myself for my birthday was a variety of Spanx, because I may be a woman in my 30's who eats a lemon meringue pie alone in a hotel room while contemplating the odds of Peter Bishop from Fringe appearing to <i>share my pie</i> AND ravage me, only to realize that the Vancouver library was Fringe headquarters in the <i>ALT</i> Fringe universe and that Peter died as a boy in that world and therefor <i>cannot</i> appear to share pie and ravage me...<br />
I'm pretty sure we all realized about 1/3 of the way through that rambling sentence that Spanx cannot even begin to help with my problems, but that they can help me trick people into thinking I have the body of a women in her (late)twenties<i>...</i>who eats lemon meringue pies...alone. Suckers.<br />
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<h2>
In which I take Vanessa to Denny's</h2>
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Anyone who knows Vanessa knows that this is completely and utterly f*cked. It's possible you just read that twice to be sure that you weren't mistaken the first time. You were not.<br />
<br />
Vanessa and I were in America for a shopping expedition and had just left Trader Joe's when she opened her mouth and said something truly unprecedented:<br />
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"We should got to IHOP for breakfast".</div>
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"...Bitch, WHAT?" was my reply.</div>
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"Let's go to IHOP and get American sausage patties and pancakes".<br />
Now, Vanessa has not been in a McDonald's for more than a decade. She buys everything organic and loves all things fancy. She had literally just bought $70 worth of organic groceries from Trader Joe's not 30 seconds prior to making this statement. I was shocked to say the least that she would even consider eating at an IHOP, let alone that she herself would suggest it. So of course my reply was:<br />
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<i style="font-size: x-large;">"YESSSSSSSSSS</i><span style="font-size: large;">, BITCH!!! AMERICAN BREAKFAST!!!"</span></div>
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<br />
So we couldn't find an IHOP, but what we DID find was a Denny's, which as we all know is IHOP's inbred, redneck cousin who may or may not be sleeping with Chuck E Cheese. From the moment we pulled in the parking lot it was a showstopping clustercuss. </div>
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"I'll be with y'all in just a sec"<br />
Words of the "host" as we walk in, we are thirty minutes from the Canadian border where no one says "y'all". Ever. </div>
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"Two of y'all? Table or booth?"<br />
Words of the host directly after "just a sec", both of us were too distracted by the overwhelming display of ice-cream-cone shaped plastic cups and Las Vegas rejected carpet to respond at first, but then Vanessa pulled it together enough to respond with<br />
"booth...?"<br />
This type of response, the statement that doubles as a question due to confusion, would prove to become standard in the following hour.<br />
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<div>
"Hey y'all my name is Tammy and I'll be serving y'all today can I start yous off with a coffee or something from the bar mimosa spanish coffee?"<br />
This lacks punctuation because there was none. Tammy hit us full force, no pause, with a combination of questionable grammar, teased bangs, and an offer of alcohol at 9 am. She is probably in her early twenties, I mention this because I haven't met anyone named Tammy born after 1980. Ever. There was a momentary stunned silence followed by laughter, which thank God, Tammy presumed was only in regard to the idea of alcohol early in the morning.<br />
"I'd like a tea?" I say.</div>
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"We have Lipton Black and Lipton Orange" replies Tammy.<br />
"Lipton Black?" I respond. </div>
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Tammy diligently writes this down without comprehending the confusion in my reply.<br />
"Me too?" says Vanessa.</div>
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Tammy heads off to brew up our Lipton's Black, meanwhile Vanessa and I discuss the legality of serving booze before noon and try to quickly figure out what Lipton's Black IS. If black tea is usually orange pekoe then what is Lipton's Orange? Orange like the fruit? If so what is the black tea we are about to receive? Is tea at Denny's like Kool-aid? labeled by colour? We are still discussing the tea quandary when Tammy returns with the aforementioned hot beverages. As she places the (Lipton's Black) tea on the table, Tammy says, and I am not messing with you:<br />
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"Would yous like to start with some strawberry pancake puppies for $2.00?"<br />
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I was still recovering from "y'all" and "Lipton's Black" and was now teetering dangerously on the precipice of uncontrollable hysteria. Vanessa and I have had a long standing love of the Arrested Development bit which we simply refer to as "plate or platter?". For instance, we might be walking through a store and one of us will hold up a particularly hideous/hipstery piece of clothing, to which the other might reply "plate or platter", signifying that we don't understand what's going on and we refuse to dignify its existence with an actual response. </div>
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This was the first time that "plate or platter" was happening to us in real life, this was our golden opportunity to say "I don't understand the question and I won't respond to it", and it was almost <b>TOO MUCH</b> for us to handle. Imagine a 14 year-old girl meeting Justin Bieber. That is how I felt on the inside; uncontrollable giddiness mingled with excited disbelief .<br />
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All I got out was one snort before Vanessa blurted out:<br />
"YES. YES, WE WILL SHARE AN ORDER OF THOSE"<br />
As Tammy walks away I ask Vanessa "What in the hell is a "pancake puppy"?"<br />
"I have no idea, but they're $2.00 so we are going to find out" was her response.<br />
<br />
They are deep fried pancake balls, or as Tammy called them "a breakfast appetizer".<br />
We ate them, frosting and all. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bottom right is an excerpt from the "Baconalia" menu at Denny's...on for a limited time only. Maple Bacon Milkshake? Salted Caramel Brownie Sundae with Bacon? only $3.99<br />
Also note the deep fried mozzarella sticks INSIDE a grilled cheese. Oh, America. </td></tr>
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<div>
For reference, the lady seated behind Vanessa actually ordered alcoholic coffee at 9:30am. When asked if she wanted another her response was "How much was this one? $5.50?... Naw". </div>
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<div>
Another lady spent about 30 minutes refilling the claw machine with toys (and arranging those toys with some impressive precision). A skinny middle-aged dude in a trucker cap walked up and pumped some quarters in almost immediately. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
A couple across from us sat down and didn't even open their menus, just ordered a grand slam to share and two waters. They then proceeded to judge us as we ate pancake puppies followed by our own respective Grand Slams including hash browns slathered in sausage gravy.<br />
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<div>
"These pancakes taste like re-used frying oil and sawdust" - famous last words.<br />
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Thank God I bought myself those Spanx.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to the lovely Enisa (The Man Magnet) for referring to me as "woman" lovingly, letting me use her giant soaker tub, allowing me to play dress up in her drool-worthy closet, forcing handsome men to buy me drinks, and for her use of social media to (gently) strong arm me into writing this blog. </td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-52434088797024156732012-12-25T11:26:00.001-08:002012-12-25T11:26:44.131-08:00Entry #67 - Christmas at the Homestead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Dear Diary,<br />
First of all, congratulations to everyone on the world not ending, that was a total bonus, no? Worst apocalypse ever, thank goodness. I'm grateful to still be floating somewhat aimlessly through space (in a slightly elliptical orbit) with all of you. <br />
<br />
Okay, <i>most </i>of you.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Christmas at the Homestead</span></h2>
<br />
I have returned to the homestead for the holiday season to spend some quality time with the family. Anyone who has met my family knows that this is slightly more like a Griswold family Christmas and significantly less like a Martha Stewart Christmas. My family is very close, which is one of the things I am truly thankful for in this life (along with being born in a developed nation, indoor plumbing, and cheese). Along with this closeness, though, comes a certain...familiarity. A familial familiarity that breeds, shall we say, eccentricities. If there is a limit to what we can say, admit, or do in front of one another, I have yet to find it.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, for example, my mom and I Skyped my sister in Texas. We were chatting away and I happened to compliment my sister on how great her boobs looked. "You did what?" you just said to yourself (and the best part is, that isn't even the weird part!). Nope. It gets better. My sister, not one to be ashamed of how awesome her <i>everything</i> is, takes this opportunity to show us one boob. That's right(and the right breast coincidentally), my own sister flashed me and my mom on Skype. I, of course, had no choice but to retaliate by pulling up my own shirt so she could see my Calvin Klein Seductive Comfort brassiere. Feel free to Google that, by the by, it is in no way seductive and in all ways supportive and comfortable. Just. Like. Me.<br />
<br />
Flashing one another in front of our mother is only the proverbial tip of the iceberg...<br />
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Welcome Home, Check Out This Roast</h3>
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As soon as my brother and I got home, my dad pulled the various meats he had purchased for the holiday season out of the fridge. My parents live right beside the Canada/US border, and as everyone knows, everything is less expensive south of the border. The buying power of the extra 300 million people living there really drives down the cost of everything. My dad takes special pride in the deals he gets down there, especially on meats and cheeses. He proudly pulls out various lamb shanks and rib-eye roasts and gives us a price breakdown. As you can see below, it is not enough just to describe it, he must pull the meat out of the fridge and slam it down in front of you. I find this to be a particularly awesome and unique ritual. I should note that this need to bond over raw meat is not limited to face-to-face meetings, no no. Whenever I call home my dad feels the need to tell me what meat he has roasted/will roast/is roasting currently, the particular cut/identifying details, and, most importantly, the <b>temperature</b> of the meat. This is a common conversation to have with my dad on the phone:<br />
<br />
"Hey Dad"<br />
"Hi Han, how is it going?" </div>
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"Pretty good, how are you?"</div>
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"Oh I'm well, just putting a particularly fine lamb roast on the spit, I've prepared it with some Mediterranean spices. They say to cook it to 160, but I think I'll pull it off at 150 and let it sit"<br />
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Needless to say, I never cook meat for myself. When you grow up with a dad like mine, you become accustom to a certain level of excellence in regard to meats. Is that seared to perfection? No? Not interested. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother Adam listens intently to the details of this particular joint o' meat .<br />
"Ranchers' choice" "Special sale once a year" "extra coupon"</td></tr>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Ridiculous Re-Creations</h3>
I feel that our <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/06/entry-45-spinster-at-homestead.html">family portraits</a> really embody what it means to be a member of this family. If you aren't willing to wield an ax or a chainsaw for a picture, you probably won't fit in. Sometimes I feel for my brother-in-law, Jeffrey; I think he finds us a bit...much, at times, even from over 4,000 km away in Texas. He bears our antics with a silent stoicism, but I would bet money that he has thought to himself at least a half dozen times "Where did I find these crazy ass white people?".<br />
It has certainly crossed my mind that any man who could handle both me (wacky spinster) and my family (special brand of unique) would need to be pretty relaxed, imperturbable, and accepting. Aplomb will be required, along with a willingness to execute a perfect two-fisted Captain Kirk style punch for a picture. Oh, and an ability to correctly use homophones...their,they're, there...your, you're.. addition, edition..roll, role... to, too, two...discrete, discreet...yeah, I'm pretty sure this man is very much imaginary. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hXHUo76pUce-DLeJGTEbMWOsXcvmbADNwwv_t4AokpS6Gr4TENiwuQGsagDc_iGrajhnqBAJDil5HQzFegeztDQ5kcQ4J9siiRwonxFWpG9TJWyBZyDq_UeLvzvVRF-hFZcsB8OX14A/s1600/familycollage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hXHUo76pUce-DLeJGTEbMWOsXcvmbADNwwv_t4AokpS6Gr4TENiwuQGsagDc_iGrajhnqBAJDil5HQzFegeztDQ5kcQ4J9siiRwonxFWpG9TJWyBZyDq_UeLvzvVRF-hFZcsB8OX14A/s320/familycollage.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family portraits are a multi-hour activity. We really get into it. </td></tr>
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When not taking family portraits, we have taken to re-creating pictures from our youth. This entertains us to no end. My mom has even framed and hung a few of our more impressive recreations (along side the originals) in our house. In honour of the Christmas season, my brother Adam and I have chosen a few Christmas themed pictures to recreate.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's hard to tell, due to my technical skills, but I photo-shopped my sister Amy into one of those photos...</td></tr>
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<h4>
Our Family Christmas Traditions</h4>
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<ul>
<li>Getting incrementally more <i>enraged</i> as my dad takes forever to get the video camera out, find batteries, set up a tripod, and ensure a variety of other things I do not understand. When I tell you that this happened every single year from age 5 to age 18, I am in NO WAY JOKING. He always realizes he doesn't have a video camera right as we are about to start opening our stockings. My hand will be on that gloriously exciting first gift of the day, and then I will hear a voice behind me say "let me quickly grab the camera". I am still averse to videoing anything based on this experience.</li>
<li>Trying to figure out who was "Santa" last year, which no one EVER remembers, spending time debating who it might have been, then just arbitrarily picking someone to hand out presents. This sometimes involves a Santa hat with Mickey ears.</li>
<li>Saying loudly and sarcastically "THANKS SANTA" after opening stockings or any presents marked "from Santa", even in your late twenties or early thirties.</li>
<li>Being really annoyed when someone has the nerve, nay the <i>audacity,</i> to look even remotely presentable during stocking opening time. Everyone must roll straight out of bed and to the fireplace! No face-washing, no hair-brushing, no makeup, and certainly no bras! I'm talking to you, Adam!</li>
<li>Watching my dad take his sweet, sweet time opening every present; this involves shaking, inspecting, peeling back one side of the paper followed by more inspecting, making a series of noises I can best describe as "knowing exclamations", actually opening the gift, and then further knowing exclamations as if it was you (the person who wrapped the gift) who was in suspense the whole time.</li>
</ul>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Best Christmas Card of the Season</span> </h2>
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The award for Best Christmas Card of the Season (and mayhap best Christmas card of my life) goes to my friend Meg of <a href="http://www.megboormanphotography.com/">Meg Boorman Photography</a>. Meg is mom to one of my tiny boyfriends, the ridiculously adorable two-month old Alexander. She combined her and her husband's love of Star Trek with an appreciation for awkward family photos to create the mind boggling spectacle seen below. Since receiving this picture, I have showed it to every human I have come into contact with, which is perhaps in conflict with the prime directive.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqcsKuYMg_-UV8ofCFH9TD5hfsf-vxPxH0mVba6x_x2MLBPAehxbAM1OZpthFN1IXGelFFxNWjvNWMAkwgTLPjQaSp97G1-sYAsOrSAXSsUXhhSEyjiCdxSczmI9e4A-WTkG2UxSdh6M/s1600/trekmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqcsKuYMg_-UV8ofCFH9TD5hfsf-vxPxH0mVba6x_x2MLBPAehxbAM1OZpthFN1IXGelFFxNWjvNWMAkwgTLPjQaSp97G1-sYAsOrSAXSsUXhhSEyjiCdxSczmI9e4A-WTkG2UxSdh6M/s640/trekmas.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This makes me really, really happy. </td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-4697009966667201572012-12-13T19:16:00.000-08:002012-12-22T21:57:08.064-08:00Entry #66 - Guest Spinster Special - The Bake Off<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJZRjrh2m4iYkqADBdQVeZ1mNFw08lCCXKRa8ZRgJsE3dSR8m_BNAbAKodWBS1UzUrBs8Z77rdrm-mkZNg3s7-b-g4EBKcya9O8CdFr4TyTKLb78IleQuRIH32hc5eNSEC35Cwh7MLg0/s1600/doasagus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJZRjrh2m4iYkqADBdQVeZ1mNFw08lCCXKRa8ZRgJsE3dSR8m_BNAbAKodWBS1UzUrBs8Z77rdrm-mkZNg3s7-b-g4EBKcya9O8CdFr4TyTKLb78IleQuRIH32hc5eNSEC35Cwh7MLg0/s400/doasagus.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gus settles in to help with the blogging...</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">I love you, Amanda Marshall </span></h2>
I met Amanda Marshall (no, not that one) a couple of years ago at my friend Anna's birthday, and it was love at first bite...and sight. Not only did she make exquisite cupcakes (chocolate, banana butter-cream, I recall peanut butter), but she was also one funny bitch. In addition, at the time she was a Spinster with multiple married siblings and a whopping 12 nieces and nephews, ergo she trumped me in the <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012/10/entry-63-spinster-abc.html">Spinster Hierarchy</a>; a rare and impressive feat to be sure. She was my Spinster Superior.<br />
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Needless to say, we hit it off right away, and even though she is no longer a Spinster I have been looking for an excuse to force myself upon her for years. The golden opportunity finally arose when, (on the night of the <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012/11/entry-64-land-of-unicorn-slayers.html">Unicorn Slayers</a>) she jokingly said I should come to Vancouver and bake a cake with her. Now, Amanda Marshall is a cake <i>wizard (</i>see picture below), so I swiftly and deftly turned that just-kidding-ha-ha invitation into an a<span style="font-family: inherit;">ctual date. Sound <i>familiar</i>, men I have dated?</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUX2LTv2_5IG2yIWkYF7RCFVmliSrVMi8OUgH2XgKC6QHT-O0Ye0LsY7txl29PL3OqrvPhqpjdgRyKJWi6diVi2BlDbBPPwQCzcMNr5xsx8CBXU9Xe36u6s6Bt4qEq9HTgJi3KgocK00/s1600/mariocake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUX2LTv2_5IG2yIWkYF7RCFVmliSrVMi8OUgH2XgKC6QHT-O0Ye0LsY7txl29PL3OqrvPhqpjdgRyKJWi6diVi2BlDbBPPwQCzcMNr5xsx8CBXU9Xe36u6s6Bt4qEq9HTgJi3KgocK00/s400/mariocake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I understand accurate copyrighting about as much as I understand non-disclosure agreements,<br />
but I feel pretty good about slapping "Amanda Marshall: Cake Genius" across this cake.<br />
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And so it came to be that one month after Anna P's birthday, I packed my little blue suitcase and headed to the big city. Even though I grew up living only 40 minutes from Vancouver, I always feel like a little Spinster in the big city while I am there. I arrived downtown a little early, so I decided to partake in one of my favourite spinster sports for a few hours: Suit Watching. I grabbed myself a tea, sat myself down in a high traffic area, and commenced the ogling. Men in well-cut suits make me very, very, happy; as happy as a straight man at a Victoria's Secret Fashion show. A number of years ago I visited New York City with my friend Kristen, and she had to take me by the hand a few times as I wandered off after a number of particularly handsome men in a suits; "shoes match belt...cufflinks" I would mutter longingly, "I know sweetheart, I know" she would reply as she led me away. Where was I? Oh, right!<br />
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After my two hours of suit watching, it was time to meet up with Amanda Marshall for the festivities.<br />
My visit ended up having a distinct "sitcom" feel to it, as you are about to find out...<br />
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As soon as Amanda Marshall and I arrive in her parking garage, she gets a call from her room mate, Liz, saying some guy just buzzed up and was Amanda expecting anyone? Turns out an acquaintance of Amanda's, whom Liz had never met, had arrived to pick up his Big Lebowski themed birthday cake. This was a fun surprise for Liz, who pictured some murderer making his way up to the 9th floor in the style of Criminal Minds. Amanda and I arrive upstairs, and we go through every possible combination of introductions needed for Liz, Big Lebowski and I to be properly acquainted. Then we all move on to awkwardly discussing how awesome the cake is, in the way that only recently acquainted people can, because this is the way of the sitcom.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH6I8qAepKqnyqSvn1JbIuC9tMPFnTCXIs2DIRLJXpa7ajRito7yBoBg7aaZeTGjP8Y5vKdErCP7JG2isVk0igiMTlHUQuMBsKS1GPXGZUHeC3r3q3mp8WW3BGRRAcrcMkqhPBCkAPgI/s1600/biglebwoskicake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbH6I8qAepKqnyqSvn1JbIuC9tMPFnTCXIs2DIRLJXpa7ajRito7yBoBg7aaZeTGjP8Y5vKdErCP7JG2isVk0igiMTlHUQuMBsKS1GPXGZUHeC3r3q3mp8WW3BGRRAcrcMkqhPBCkAPgI/s320/biglebwoskicake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're welcome, Big Lebowski. </td></tr>
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I should mention that the first thing I noticed about Liz was that she was rocking an awesome high (loose) side pony, which in my mind denotes an immediate Spinster Seal of Approval. Oh yes, Liz. We are going to get along just fine.<br />
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After Big Lebowski leaves with his amazing cake, "don't drop it!" (helpful spinster advice), I decide to change into leisure wear so I am ready for cake making. Amanda Marshall does the same, including slippers that are blue terry cloth flip flops that were part of her Halloween costume(Energizer Bunny). Liz is already in her leisure wear, but has yet to pull out "Rumple" Crumpstein, her beloved leisure sweater. He would make an appearance later though, which no one was opposed to.<br />
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After opening some wine and eating some cheese, the magic commences...w<span style="font-family: inherit;">oah, <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.200000762939453px;">déjà vu...a</span>ny</span>way, we listen to(sing loudly over) a medley of Disney music, we drink wine...and Kahlua. We taste test everything, multiple times, for quality control purposes only.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52jsiFxfbVHmLrxmWyNKYuY4yhpKV2Mx9zQQXzEMIN5fAxs8_5Y7dc1zxxZyP4B7vAIYuO0Q_TPsMzwn-6gowee77g5ZcxxO1GxI_DLstbL8Jo4ioKATjiqAtoJs_lSxlb6EvKCQhbh8/s1600/Camera+Uploads4-edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52jsiFxfbVHmLrxmWyNKYuY4yhpKV2Mx9zQQXzEMIN5fAxs8_5Y7dc1zxxZyP4B7vAIYuO0Q_TPsMzwn-6gowee77g5ZcxxO1GxI_DLstbL8Jo4ioKATjiqAtoJs_lSxlb6EvKCQhbh8/s640/Camera+Uploads4-edit.jpg" width="576" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">In loving memory of Amanda Marshall's white iphone, which was lost the next night when we were out dancing. Spinsters party hard. </td></tr>
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Once the cakes are in the oven, and the buttercream frosting has been coloured a perfect Tiffany Blue, we take a few minutes to relax with our wine. It is at this point that a downstairs neighbour arrives for a visit with her two adorable dogs, Jack and Charlie. Wine fueled lady banter ensues, because this is the way of the sitcom.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFyI81ph6duKSDG-1UjzQ2H-I_oLUhc9ep9Ce7a6TJjqD3MFhEsduEy81DVctj_-XJaSm3C16s4zWEgLWlnkspBcHAAYwSAl2pgNVGUBZtCEhPBW-aVY8k4h5WcEoCm-CicdhCdrftSw/s1600/2012-11-30+19.54.35edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMFyI81ph6duKSDG-1UjzQ2H-I_oLUhc9ep9Ce7a6TJjqD3MFhEsduEy81DVctj_-XJaSm3C16s4zWEgLWlnkspBcHAAYwSAl2pgNVGUBZtCEhPBW-aVY8k4h5WcEoCm-CicdhCdrftSw/s320/2012-11-30+19.54.35edit.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Spinster Friday night, mixing up some frosting and hanging out in front of the fireplace with an adorable dog. </td></tr>
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When the cakes cool, we commence icing. At this point we have been drinking for a while. Even Amanda Marshall is nervous as this is her first go at this particular technique. She, Liz and I all take turns reading the instructions aloud on the ipad and then staring at the cake. Eventually, Amanda Marshall goes for it; she makes it look easy, so when she offers me a turn I give it a try. If you look closely in the pictures you will see where my work is...it's the part that looks like it was completed by an intoxicated toddler.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2zJzeHksk4XJzlMB5eWEydxkOO67M2s22OsJysHcPA-cId56GXH2Y4lzimRmYdpWcfviIGKabAORQcn-g6g6KCzRI1ya-x5XoOq7N37hw-YuMjOpvDJzqsXHKvzulHX08-lXggYIjlU/s1600/Camera+Uploads5edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2zJzeHksk4XJzlMB5eWEydxkOO67M2s22OsJysHcPA-cId56GXH2Y4lzimRmYdpWcfviIGKabAORQcn-g6g6KCzRI1ya-x5XoOq7N37hw-YuMjOpvDJzqsXHKvzulHX08-lXggYIjlU/s640/Camera+Uploads5edit.jpg" width="576" /></a></div>
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I was pretty impressed by the final product, it was the most beautiful and impressive cake I have ever made. Conversely, it was no even in the same league as the best cakes Amanda Marshall has made. I feel like there is a larger metaphor for life in there somewhere, something along the lines of me being "one man's trash", but I'm not sure I want to pull on that string.<br />
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In the morning, Liz makes us berry pancakes, because of course she somehow intuitively knows how <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2012/01/entry-55-spinster-new-year-resolutions.html">this girl feels about pancakes</a>. The downstairs neighbour, her boyfriend, and the dogs all join us in their pyjamas (the people, not the dogs), because that is the way of the sitcom.<br />
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I had a pretty great time, and in the near future I plan on inviting myself back to Vancouver to hangout with Amanda Marshall, Liz, her side pony, Rumple, the neighbours, their dogs, and some wine.<br />
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Thanks, Bitches.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-17938306936985683262012-12-09T16:26:00.002-08:002012-12-22T21:58:13.876-08:00Entry #65 - Yuletide Warm-Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzmvlsrbdFiLfNNftJsCDmJtEuFuethnAztG3hnxlPHzoFvlJc5A81ibRLc9pTbLaMRWsBP8HIvzFr3hVu-1MkFAf-5-1QpHKFv-mbqHLwXhKeGoUOQmjQwI3F6kvrt0GF7RLOy8zhVM/s1600/2012-12-03+19.32.38-1.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvzmvlsrbdFiLfNNftJsCDmJtEuFuethnAztG3hnxlPHzoFvlJc5A81ibRLc9pTbLaMRWsBP8HIvzFr3hVu-1MkFAf-5-1QpHKFv-mbqHLwXhKeGoUOQmjQwI3F6kvrt0GF7RLOy8zhVM/s400/2012-12-03+19.32.38-1.jpg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Dear Diary, </div>
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The holiday season is upon us once again, and with it my general disdain for the entire season. We already knew my heart was three sizes too small, but it becomes more apparent at this time of year, more pronounced. Nothing gives me a twitch quite like hearing "Feliz Navidad" or "Mary's Boy Child" for both the 1st and the 87th time. My feelings about Christmas are perhaps best summarized by the fact that I enjoy spending a large majority of Christmas Day participating in The Drunken Christmas Nog Tub. Nothing says "tis the season" like a spinster drinking alcohol AND milk products alone in the bathtub, no?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8hHUabnrSHftJaJO8ElWe9q0bWHde-uTY9QJZLJzaanqS6_I2YR_O4vSoLyjkZiNEV9bB-nU5xbDAymbehW9tj250vJgkzekj7eOjrNoSsN8Y3xdIw6SLThonP0RZ2Dlqo0MjaHKnRA/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="124" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8hHUabnrSHftJaJO8ElWe9q0bWHde-uTY9QJZLJzaanqS6_I2YR_O4vSoLyjkZiNEV9bB-nU5xbDAymbehW9tj250vJgkzekj7eOjrNoSsN8Y3xdIw6SLThonP0RZ2Dlqo0MjaHKnRA/s200/download.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spinster/Grinch heart. </td></tr>
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Conversely, my friend Vanessa loves Christmas. If Vanessa could send a Valentine to Christmas, it would be one of those awkwardly gigantic ones; handmade, handwritten, covered with gold glitter, spritzed with perfume, and sealed with a lipstick kiss. She <i>loves</i> it. She loves it the way only a mildly-OCD perfectionist individual can: in a colour coordinated, Martha Stewart, pre-lit kind of way. </div>
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Vanessa's husband Scott, however, seems to feel much the way I do about Christmas: bored disinterest mingled with a hint of disdain. I can't say for certain how he feels as he is an elective mute most of the time; this conclusion is based on many years of close observation of his facial expressions, unintelligible mutterings, and air punches/kicks. Long story short, Scott refuses to help decorate the tree or dismantle the tree. He will, however, haul it to and from the basement every year which is significantly better than nothing. Sometimes he also deigns to download Jingle Cats for us to listen to, which is significantly <i>worse</i> than nothing. </div>
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For the past three years, I have assisted Vanessa with her beloved Christmas Tree(s). There is a strict colour scheme, there is an order in which the ornaments must be hung, there is a deep and compulsive need for everything to be just so. I still help her. This is all the proof I will ever need of the depth and breadth of my love; it surpasses the show of love that was massaging her legs and feet for two hours when she was in the hospital, but I digress...back to Christmas...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTRB7ErAtyZxrC7h7OUnjgfOIz5Fa9GOxL4kMKehpNSDkwSgwhx50nGb0bdN2ti36n3OQREPc8mUCHRqPwTAvK5JHlGepJbEHD9IvFny2STwWRTdslrr6fyUoD1gzAXqq7rkaqHcPa8U/s1600/vanessatree.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkTRB7ErAtyZxrC7h7OUnjgfOIz5Fa9GOxL4kMKehpNSDkwSgwhx50nGb0bdN2ti36n3OQREPc8mUCHRqPwTAvK5JHlGepJbEHD9IvFny2STwWRTdslrr6fyUoD1gzAXqq7rkaqHcPa8U/s320/vanessatree.jpg.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Vanessa's kitchen tree, which stays up year round and changes decor with the seasons. </td></tr>
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This year the lights on Vanessa's pre-lit tree bit the dust. Scott brought it upstairs, we plugged it in, and about 1/3 of 1/3 of the lights turned on (picture <i>that </i>fraction puzzle, 1/9th?). And so we began looking for a new Christmas tree...</div>
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The Quest for the Replacement Christmas Tree made the Quest for the Golden Fleece look like a trip to the grocery store to buy milk. I can safely say I have now looked at every Christmas tree in the Greater Victoria area, and even a few in the western communities. I have pictures of trees on my phone, I have felt them, I have stared at them in contemplation, I have stuck my head inside them. I am all about "accepting approximations", in the words of my friend Kim "it's not good, but it's good enough"; other than some Chinese food once (and a boyfriend here and there), this motto has rarely led me astray. Vanessa does not subscribe to this school of though, as proven by the many and varied ways she found trees to be lacking, which include, but are not limited to:</div>
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-too short<br />
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-too tall</div>
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-wrong colour</div>
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-feels weird</div>
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-only one kind of branch</div>
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-too sparse</div>
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-not enough tips</div>
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-not enough lights (at least 100 per foot of height, or so I have learned)</div>
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-too thin</div>
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-LED lights (alien lighting)</div>
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-correct lights, but with an unreliable lighting system (which happened to be on a tree that was otherwise perfect)</div>
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-too ridiculous (my idea of buying two of the slim trees she liked (other than the slimness) and adding them to her existing tree to create a "<b>Forest Tree-umvirate of Power</b>" - I still stand by this idea)</div>
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-too expensive (just kidding, that <i>does not</i> exist to Vanessa)</div>
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Somewhere around mid-November it became apparent that Vanessa's search for the perfect Christmas tree was, much like my search for the perfect man, proving to be frustrating, disappointing, and fruitless. Vanessa finally conceded defeat:</div>
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"We will just have to buy lights and put them on the tree I have..."</div>
"No problem, buddy," I reply "that'll be easy!"<br />
"...right after we remove all the lights the tree came with"<br />
"uhhh...what?"<br />
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<tr><td> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Hb5ob1tAUPEutH8fNzwyM5yAQ_sDIX-ODBbrDZFOHqQCQkv7fPfRwsWhF0IWdgvruswPkFTn7DovIULc-O9Ohe7PEg-2TJ47thIsAdPyaMZNvRHIwgy5NXsU-OMN79keJCEDd-fcDnQ/s1600/IMG_9906edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Hb5ob1tAUPEutH8fNzwyM5yAQ_sDIX-ODBbrDZFOHqQCQkv7fPfRwsWhF0IWdgvruswPkFTn7DovIULc-O9Ohe7PEg-2TJ47thIsAdPyaMZNvRHIwgy5NXsU-OMN79keJCEDd-fcDnQ/s200/IMG_9906edit.jpg" width="195" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption"> Getting in the spirit of Christmas by stripping the tree of its lights...one by one. </td></tr>
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That's right, we had to "un-lit the pre-lit". Imagine all the weaving, clips, and zap straps it takes to attach multiple strands of lights to a tree...now imagine trying to <i>UN</i>do them. I think it took around four hours in the end, which included the creation of some colourful swear words on my part and thousands of microscopic paper cuts all over our hands an arms. At one point about half my body was <i>in</i> the tree as I searched for the reason the strand I had been working on had split into three strands. There was no logical answer, but scissors were a satisfying alternative. </div>
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If this process didn't assure my dislike of Christmas for years to come, the FOUR trips to Canadian Tire to get five sets of working lights sure did. Standing in line for our second exchange of the day, Vanessa noticed that the guy in front of us was buying the same lights that we were. </div>
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"You should probably open those up and have her(the cashier) test them...some of ours were faulty, and some were coloured lights in a clear lights box. This is our third trip here today."<br />
He opens them up, and sure enough, coloured lights in a clear light box.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>"AH! SEE!? You're WELCOME !"</b></span> Vanessa shouts.<br />
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I think it was around this point that we ran into Katie B's friend Andrew and his lady friend, who were probably drawn to us by the level of noise we were producing. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to him for the long-winded, maniacal rant we may have gone on about Christmas lights. </div>
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In the end, I must say that the living room tree is pretty spectacular. Then again, so are the pyramids...which were also built by slave labour. Coincidence?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLrHgb6Q2_FxeG1QUmTKXFsxKfB2BczZoRhR5XXPHC9zWrW2IQenFrlPAodNQSE4QAliqK5S0QCBrZV5C0f8JMcfFj2fBo0gt1NWbLJC_RqDNpthEbn77OlL2z0lUMg3xnUbCdGPCKpE/s1600/2011-11-14+21.56.38-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLrHgb6Q2_FxeG1QUmTKXFsxKfB2BczZoRhR5XXPHC9zWrW2IQenFrlPAodNQSE4QAliqK5S0QCBrZV5C0f8JMcfFj2fBo0gt1NWbLJC_RqDNpthEbn77OlL2z0lUMg3xnUbCdGPCKpE/s200/2011-11-14+21.56.38-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption">Vanessa both in and under the tree, seeking perfection.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEn3T7gSnZS2wRGs0OdxPRdtXa7XuveJF3cOtByYzduEqblX4ZD2UX8I-oYCv3lIeBV8g4Qu5TfXGxuEsdXq-PVU_3cH0k8xc-SBZeif8y6nEWSvvc2f39MXoX3drc0EHoK4del99Dt4/s1600/vanessamaintree.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifEn3T7gSnZS2wRGs0OdxPRdtXa7XuveJF3cOtByYzduEqblX4ZD2UX8I-oYCv3lIeBV8g4Qu5TfXGxuEsdXq-PVU_3cH0k8xc-SBZeif8y6nEWSvvc2f39MXoX3drc0EHoK4del99Dt4/s640/vanessamaintree.jpg.jpg" width="497" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perfection.<br />
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<h2>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Spinster Aunt Jam Factory</span></h2>
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Production at the old jam factory is winding down, and to be honest it makes me pretty sad. Almost everything has been canned, labeled, and packaged...I am worried I need to start thinking of a new hobby, you know, aside from spending time with Vanessa and blogging about my many inadequacies. The end of Jam season also means that I have to cut down on my television intake. I managed to watch seasons 1 & 2 of MI5 AND quite a few movies(*cough*Thor*cough*) while making the jam, and now I have been watching seasons 1 & 2 of Homeland during the labeling and wrapping process. Thanks Anna for recommending that show to me, it's a good thing I don't care about eating, sleeping, or going to work, or I'd be really mad at you for getting me hooked on it.<br />
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So, if I call you at home, Spinster Aunt Jam may well be arriving at your doorstep soon. I make no guarantees, I mean, no one has gotten food poisoning so far. Just to be safe, maybe you shouldn't eat it if you're pregnant, nursing, or if you drive heavy machinery.<br />
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Maybe it wasn't my best choice to give this to the people I love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdlUOgpVCa9XA-yUwHo15AyaU-GQTxo4QCl17sWGH-vgi1h88yJtOFVStGA0a3BrwKxKtEryuxdwRjU3B4BpAUElVjhBgzPnjSUrcRyrAOfYXx8NtVgN9keGobpxjiFN7uq_nRbIBdZE/s1600/jamCollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRdlUOgpVCa9XA-yUwHo15AyaU-GQTxo4QCl17sWGH-vgi1h88yJtOFVStGA0a3BrwKxKtEryuxdwRjU3B4BpAUElVjhBgzPnjSUrcRyrAOfYXx8NtVgN9keGobpxjiFN7uq_nRbIBdZE/s400/jamCollage.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bitterness is sweet. </td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-35628403917784464742012-11-13T11:08:00.000-08:002012-12-22T21:58:38.513-08:00Entry #64 - Land of the Unicorn Slayers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmrp98BJnhXW9-SpFpdP7ihidYxATnPsP0K1dhaECEc3AGlNrf04JTDujspYiCdx19RZqybVbegQ32-MV3_Bigsp6OfybowvyHX-A9NJL_MzceJv1pNesE0GLad9icwpJZnWUmFxDYWw/s1600/hannahkimwedding1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmrp98BJnhXW9-SpFpdP7ihidYxATnPsP0K1dhaECEc3AGlNrf04JTDujspYiCdx19RZqybVbegQ32-MV3_Bigsp6OfybowvyHX-A9NJL_MzceJv1pNesE0GLad9icwpJZnWUmFxDYWw/s320/hannahkimwedding1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Dear Diary,<br />
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I've been listening to a lot of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3MXiTeH_Pg&feature=plcp">Whitesnake</a> recently. I just need to get that out there. I sing/dance to it in the morning as I make tea. I sing/car dance to it whilst driving. I sing/shower dance to it in the shower. You get the idea. "Why Whitesnake?" you ask? Perhaps it is because Spinsters, much like drifters, were born to walk alone. Perhaps it's because I am just another heart in need of rescue. It might also be because I know what it means...to walk along the lonely street of dreams. Did you just catch all those Whitesnake lyrics I snuck in there? You're welcome. In truth, my obsession with a song dedicated to the awesomeness of striking out on ones own <span style="font-size: x-small;">(in combination with a music video featuring an abundance of giant permed hair and a woman doing gymnastics/modern dance on the hood of not one, but two Jaguars...?)</span> is not surprising considering I now live alone. For the first time. For real.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSHsJjXAPAWS0tEDsFh2gtwPrcienC89jNcptcYqNdnpSNJXmOZAgXv1ml7KSVvLELFEdrwgR-uwU2-7X45bL12mQFY181o4W0wl4N5kJ4EHDB3keywMb-p29rUK1fI1QT8ZqhF-k1eY/s1600/whitesnake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSHsJjXAPAWS0tEDsFh2gtwPrcienC89jNcptcYqNdnpSNJXmOZAgXv1ml7KSVvLELFEdrwgR-uwU2-7X45bL12mQFY181o4W0wl4N5kJ4EHDB3keywMb-p29rUK1fI1QT8ZqhF-k1eY/s320/whitesnake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">It's probably because they are the 85th greatest rock band of all time (according to VH1). Also, this woman's name is Julie, but she chose to go by "Tawny"... oh the 80's.</span></td></tr>
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<h3>
Declaration of Spindependence + State of Emergency</h3>
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My beloved room mate, Heather, moved out in September to live with her cousin; she asked me to go with her (God bless her charitable soul), but this spinster is becoming crotchety and adverse to change in her old age, so I remained with Gus at the Subterranean Spinster Mansion. I wasn't sure how "living alone" would go for me, seeing as I had never done it for more than two or three weeks at a time, and always as a temporary arrangement. I was pretty worried that it would be awful, but it turns out I only had about 24 hours of self-reflection before my friend Vanessa's insides exploded and she wound up in the hospital and had to undergo emergency surgery. Nothing reminds you that living by yourself is no big deal like someone you dearly love nearly kicking the bucket. Message received, Vanessa, but that was a pretty extreme way to show me what matters. Next time use your words.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfGZ5-1pZ3WXTomxca_kDjXKf3mFJy0bHYZSQTqCAEmsDAYj-7BMgXQWv71P-L75Ab4Kwjwh-MNZh8OIaocdk9X-XQsVHuETHKVBQCFvNa27yvwWKkkZXGxIeL1msRWsiXv3onQnMtnI/s1600/2012-09-06+15.11.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCfGZ5-1pZ3WXTomxca_kDjXKf3mFJy0bHYZSQTqCAEmsDAYj-7BMgXQWv71P-L75Ab4Kwjwh-MNZh8OIaocdk9X-XQsVHuETHKVBQCFvNa27yvwWKkkZXGxIeL1msRWsiXv3onQnMtnI/s320/2012-09-06+15.11.43.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm going to take a picture to show you what the back of your head looks like! You've crushed "The Kraken"..." </td></tr>
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As an aside, if you are ever hospitalized, I am a super helpful, comforting, and extremely appropriately behaved visitor. My opening line after your near death experience will certainly not be "this is going to be the best diet ever". I will not commentate about how pleased I am that you are really getting your money's worth out of the universal medical system ("an ambulance ride, an operation, extra blood AND a bed with a view!? Way to order the full meal deal, bitch!"), nor will I let you know every 15 minutes how much urine is now in the plastic bag attached to your bed ("look at that, Sweetheart, 750 ml! Super job!"). You can also count on me NOT to peek when the nurse changes your dressing and to declare loudly "it looks like an alternative teenager down there", nor will I try to force feed you all the liquid items on your food tray using a French accent ("Zee Ensure is delicieux, non? What do you mean it tastes like a melted white chocolate Easter rabbit from Wal Mart? Certainement they 'ave used real bourbon vanilla"). If the psych ward wasn't at the other hospital, I'm pretty sure Nurse Jackie and Nurse Kelly would have thought I wandered away from there. Sometimes when I'm anxious I make jokes...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywuOF240ZBYuvHfgHovHTZdAdcfkmwuOTDPP2xIUbaHLxoNfMmTBnMwJZ6GYpu-YqbtrnB5h5THmBo8GD7g-d-aiwwTm5Ex7UDRqCen8FORgyDkzwzgtY7pSIjCF8NJa5r84wK5HP5DM/s1600/hannahmini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywuOF240ZBYuvHfgHovHTZdAdcfkmwuOTDPP2xIUbaHLxoNfMmTBnMwJZ6GYpu-YqbtrnB5h5THmBo8GD7g-d-aiwwTm5Ex7UDRqCen8FORgyDkzwzgtY7pSIjCF8NJa5r84wK5HP5DM/s320/hannahmini.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out on the town getting Vanessa her exercise at the Home Sense. Thanks for not expiring, dearest love. XO</td></tr>
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<h3>
If the <strike>wo</strike>men don't find you <strike>handsome</strike> datable, they should at least find you <strike>handy</strike> domestic</h3>
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The first weekend AE (after explosion) came along and I had made <b>zero</b> plans for myself as I had been somewhat preoccupied with more important things (see: pee jokes, execution of, appropriateness thereof). I didn't want to just sit at home and think about my little Vanessa and what could have happened, so instead I decided I would do something that required attention, something that would not be pointless or frivolous, something that would take a lot of time....I would....make...jam. YES! Genius! I can give it to people as Christmas gifts! (surprise ruined! You're welcome in advance!)<br />
I googled some recipes, bought a whole bunch of fruit and jars, got Netflix, and became a jam making machine. So it has become, that when I am not taking Vanessa out for her "excercise" at Home Sense, I am at home, watching back to back seasons of MI5 while cutting up copious amounts of fruit, boiling jars, and failing to understand the difference between liquid and powdered pectin. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWzeuGDZwRvqJexBQoxsyCWeglSoVuiQRtWnwcdgOLziFxKvs0iuJZpvraAeSFNn9NDvm07kCfqXlKrK5LX-gxzxqw2ZDYvKs1YJLkOubpu34_mfxHz-XPyLW-8_pk_liwgrCb5jRSXY/s1600/jams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWzeuGDZwRvqJexBQoxsyCWeglSoVuiQRtWnwcdgOLziFxKvs0iuJZpvraAeSFNn9NDvm07kCfqXlKrK5LX-gxzxqw2ZDYvKs1YJLkOubpu34_mfxHz-XPyLW-8_pk_liwgrCb5jRSXY/s320/jams.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spinster Aunt Jam: When Bitterness is Sweet</td></tr>
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<div>
Good things about living alone:<br />
-Dancing in your underwear to Whitesnake whenever you feel like it.<br />
-Two bathroom drawers.</div>
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-A second bedroom that you rename "closet room".</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWimgBXjDzqZah8aqOAyHvI0ukp9_uvhUaFB2i_fZ5H3HCiwIUeFPORMNqRhs6nqA-ppRtyaLsiernueH7_0h0wtuS6yFBjFF5iU7_b7vzR14nPme_dW5Thmzdu21rNKdYLGA5zxji0M/s1600/closetCollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhWimgBXjDzqZah8aqOAyHvI0ukp9_uvhUaFB2i_fZ5H3HCiwIUeFPORMNqRhs6nqA-ppRtyaLsiernueH7_0h0wtuS6yFBjFF5iU7_b7vzR14nPme_dW5Thmzdu21rNKdYLGA5zxji0M/s320/closetCollage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that is an entire closet dedicated to dresses. You know, for all the fancy, romantic dates I go on. </td></tr>
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<h3>
Lost in the Land of the Unicorn Slayers</h3>
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I attended a birthday party for my friend, Anna, recently. Anna is a genuine beauty (like Jennifer Connelly, but with better eyebrows and greener eyes), a fact which I try hard not to hold against her because she also happens to be a lovely human being all around. I usually only see her when I am with my friend Katie B, so I hadn't really met most of her other friends. </div>
<div>
As soon as I arrive at the party I can sense that something is amiss, but I can't quite put my finger on it; I mean...everyone is very friendly and welcoming...there is cheese. As more ladies arrive it is easier to piece together the mystery...as I look around, I realize that I am surrounded by the types of ladies that can wear fake leather pants and sheer blouses and look totally awesome. I can say that with total and complete confidence because one of them was actually wearing fake leather pants and a sheer blouse, not to mention these cool Goldie Hawn bangs, and she looked totally awesome. As I drink my wine and awkwardly pull at my sweater dress, I know that one thing is certain: I regret everything I have ever purchased from Reitmans. I also regret pulling my black socks up over my leggings. </div>
<div>
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The evening progresses, more attractive ladies arrive, and by a random twist of fate, it becomes known that one of these ladies works with my Unicorn (mystical man of unspeakable perfection whom you can never, ever,ever catch, hence Unicorn), and the discussion of his unfathomable perfection ensues. My description of his exquisiteness in all areas leads to a larger group discussion of the men these woman are dating/married to/engaged to be married to. One of them actually says, "but...I am with my Unicorn". "No, no," I reply "a unicorn, by it's very definition, is un-catchable; perhaps you are with your Prince Charming". She seems unconvinced, and it is at this point that smart phones are whipped out left right and center, Facebook is launched, and pictures of manfriends are brought up....</div>
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It was like flipping through a calendar, and that calendar was entitled "<i>Dreamboats</i>: 2013". </div>
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And then I knew: </div>
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I was awash in a sea of real life Unicorn slayers. </div>
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I should have figured it out sooner, I mean Anna's boyfriend is a ridiculously handsome Brit who is acquainted with Prince William. Come on, Hannah, one degree of separation from a literal prince. </div>
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At least they don't know about the blog, I thought to myself, just play it cool and no one need know you specialize in rejection...</div>
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"I've read your blog" one of them says. </div>
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Super.</div>
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Well, the Unicorn Slayers may wake up beside Ben Affleck look alikes, but sometimes I wake up with a cat on my head. So, there's that. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUr8dtG9yvHsfXvT1h1mw_SmWpV0ffODwlYAbQQyIC58b-H2qp7yqhKyiUkNVJEe6zT1gui1Z9X1lBJ5uB-YeovpZ5zayo36YMdLFid1BbufFdZIubEFU6kJLMXZABcyyOE5zzsAsMHig/s1600/gusheadhugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUr8dtG9yvHsfXvT1h1mw_SmWpV0ffODwlYAbQQyIC58b-H2qp7yqhKyiUkNVJEe6zT1gui1Z9X1lBJ5uB-YeovpZ5zayo36YMdLFid1BbufFdZIubEFU6kJLMXZABcyyOE5zzsAsMHig/s320/gusheadhugs.jpg" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will neither confirm nor deny that I nearly dislocated my shoulder in an effort to reach my phone without disturbing Gus. He has both paws on my face, and at one point had his face down between his paws, because he (like his mama) is completely ridiculous. </td></tr>
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<h3>
Unrelated and Yet Totally Necessary </h3>
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In other news, I received this picture from a kindergarten student.</div>
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"Is <i>everything</i> happy in this picture, Ethan?"</div>
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"Yes, even the grass"</div>
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"I'm getting a really content Buddhist vibe from this picture, Ethan, I'm really into it"</div>
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This will take up valuable real estate on the front of my fridge for YEARS. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aNZ6ZGcmBI295P68WdCuLaM02X6drx-hgBXjkCRQuzHuRtgJc5mFBwJUZ2fQYFXSXIvub2GyMr8WwcY9EmV5xC2CyBsXJU7eTSEh-4hQTtOJ9JN23R7mwF63bs3IGeCu6he_N6lpyuw/s1600/ethan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1aNZ6ZGcmBI295P68WdCuLaM02X6drx-hgBXjkCRQuzHuRtgJc5mFBwJUZ2fQYFXSXIvub2GyMr8WwcY9EmV5xC2CyBsXJU7eTSEh-4hQTtOJ9JN23R7mwF63bs3IGeCu6he_N6lpyuw/s320/ethan.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes. Just, Yes. </td></tr>
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Also, I have been snuggling a lot of tiny babies recently, which has been pretty stupendous. I truly love an opportunity to really put the <i>Aunt</i> in Spinster Aunt by forcing my love and affection on other people's babies. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2RdEGAbxsJwz_ihXoFCeeBarHtohyFlIhDBSZq3txYXej2WWlp3LA97-VmzSPFbQH7O13iNL9vEcH2VtFhweKl47iFvor1GAVoPHVj6IX3OLNfstZYLBekG73OUp0qMpZw8mRK2DZBw/s1600/babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio2RdEGAbxsJwz_ihXoFCeeBarHtohyFlIhDBSZq3txYXej2WWlp3LA97-VmzSPFbQH7O13iNL9vEcH2VtFhweKl47iFvor1GAVoPHVj6IX3OLNfstZYLBekG73OUp0qMpZw8mRK2DZBw/s320/babies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to mamas Caitlin (Russell) and Meg (Alexander) for giving this Spinster some snuggle time with the fellas. </td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-69943501081292940552012-10-01T23:45:00.000-07:002013-07-31T00:44:16.887-07:00Entry #63 - Spinster ABC<br />
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<i>The <b>ABC</b>s of Spinsterhood</i></h2>
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Whilst reading an ABC book aloud to some grade one students recently, I got to <i>""C" is for Cat"</i> and thought to myself, "in the ABCs of Spinsterhood, "C" would ALSO be for cat"...</div>
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one down - twenty five to go...<br />
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<u><span style="color: #93c47d;">A is for Aunt </span></u></h4>
There are spinsters, and there are spinster <i>aunts</i>.In the power pyramid of Spinsterdom, the Spinster Aunt is second only to the Spinster Great Aunt. To further break down the hierarchy, the more successful your siblings are at cohabiting and producing children, the higher you move up on the Totem Pole of Spinster Power. My sister is married with children and my brother (who is close to three years my junior) is in a successful, long term co-habitation with his lovely lady friend. Were I to come from a family of spinsters and bachelors, I would be far less conspicuous in my spinstering. Long story longer, my siblings’ success <i>really</i> magnifies my inability to pull it together.<br />
When one spinster meets another spinster and the subtle battle for supremacy ensues, some topics of one-upmanship may include (but are not limited to):<br />
How many cats you have<br />
How long it’s been since you’ve had sex<br />
How dark/dingy/decrepit your Spinster Mansion is<br />
How many married/common-law siblings you have<br />
How many nieces and nephews you have<br />
How many weddings you have attended this season<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB823HXzuiUmDmr3IhkMO40g3Q3PI4u3lSFC0GH7tbn9ZZ1dmpQvit046r9WPCWZFtmaHSAPzGXCdjAnq_LpT9TP2ry-6Tj0Q3QJJ5d3IVMfTfhbAiwrHJ1kWRvT11CWIpFikd4lWna38/s1600/577019_10151008813291290_1086103618_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB823HXzuiUmDmr3IhkMO40g3Q3PI4u3lSFC0GH7tbn9ZZ1dmpQvit046r9WPCWZFtmaHSAPzGXCdjAnq_LpT9TP2ry-6Tj0Q3QJJ5d3IVMfTfhbAiwrHJ1kWRvT11CWIpFikd4lWna38/s320/577019_10151008813291290_1086103618_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photographs like this one help me win spinster-offs all the time, because not only does my sister have children, she has BEAUTIFUL children. Little do these two little people know that they will be saddled with their Aunty Hannah when she is old and bitter...er...more bitter than I am already, that is. </td></tr>
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #76a5af;">B is for Burden</span></u></h4>
Being a burden is a central theme to true, historical spinsterhood. If I was really committed to modern spinsterhood I would move in with my parents, and later (when they move to Florida to get away from me) I would inflict myself upon my sister or my brother... and <i>then</i>, in my old and <i>especially</i> crotchety old age, their respective children. I have been perfecting the art of being a burden for years. Emotional burden, financial burden, burden… burden. If there is a way to feel like an encumbrance to a person, I have probably found it; just ask Vanessa's husband Scott...after I lived with them for six weeks...the <i>second</i> time.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #8e7cc3;">C is for Cats</span></u></h4>
By the dozen, by the score, the more the merrier! Spinsters love cats because we have a lot in common with them, most notably a disdainful/disgusted/disinterested glare, an air of unearned superiority, and a bizarre mix I like to call "independent dependence".<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi910hT-tH5pBRc5r97m5e5KwKb9DhXPBqRsSH9_0JcNVXavbi5In52s_GcZsJcS-ytzm3WyFa2Q90X0lEcH47q53PqW1k1fZ-aNWIjquiL6f3ELEiBi6ZNkx-ntEMAVoUnOECcoWhYtkY/s1600/Camera+Uploads2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi910hT-tH5pBRc5r97m5e5KwKb9DhXPBqRsSH9_0JcNVXavbi5In52s_GcZsJcS-ytzm3WyFa2Q90X0lEcH47q53PqW1k1fZ-aNWIjquiL6f3ELEiBi6ZNkx-ntEMAVoUnOECcoWhYtkY/s320/Camera+Uploads2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The male who sleeps with me every night: my catpanion love, Gus. </td></tr>
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #c27ba0;">D is for Dying Alone</span></u></h4>
and being eaten by the letter C<br />
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<u><span style="color: #93c47d;">E is for Erotic</span></u></h4>
A word I've been meaning to look up in the dictionary for some time now.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #a2c4c9;">F is for Future</span></u></h4>
Mysterious and uncertain to be sure. Mysterious in regard to what breed of cat I shall buy next, and uncertain in terms of just how many cats I will end up with. I would say you could safely put money on what the rest of this picture will look like.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">G is for Gay Boyfriend</span></u></h4>
Hugs, compliments, and an abundance of attention from an attractive man never goes amiss, even if that man is repulsed by your equipment. My Gay Boyfriend Bryan is the best Spinster Manpanion a Straight Girlfriend could ask for. We read the same teen books, watch the same movies, and sing the same show tunes. He gasps in joy at the very sight of me, after which he picks me up and spins me around with his strong man arms. Man hugs are different than lady hugs, you see, and I therefore always try to get at least five man hugs in every time I see Bryan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9ZcXx4XO5vDulZqpqLJHZqQ3uEjbgHBqIpr_x1DXnh7WqF16czn3WRyRgSWydMXZerJlamIwzbp3l4uqidNbPZfs8YdDR-x5tc8RuecdpkkUDvX09ixkTmEkgKX-9ZjUk-hVYY66uxQ/s1600/192023_10150121571463759_7566386_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9ZcXx4XO5vDulZqpqLJHZqQ3uEjbgHBqIpr_x1DXnh7WqF16czn3WRyRgSWydMXZerJlamIwzbp3l4uqidNbPZfs8YdDR-x5tc8RuecdpkkUDvX09ixkTmEkgKX-9ZjUk-hVYY66uxQ/s320/192023_10150121571463759_7566386_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love YOU and your strong man arms, GB. It's <i>Perfect Chemistry, </i>well, almost. </td></tr>
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<u><span style="color: #d5a6bd;">H is for Heterosexual Life Partner</span></u><br />
In addition to a gay boyfriend, a spinster also requires a Heterosexual Life Partner. My HLP is Kim, who has been by my side during my most spinsterly adventures (See Entries #6-#40), from collecting cat plates at various Salvation Armies to living with me in the original Spinster Mansion. Kim now lives in Scotland, but we already have plans in place for our old age when we will go on cruises and ride around in/on a motorbike-sidecar contraption. It goes without saying that the side car will have a basket for Kim's small dogs, Rocky Balboa and Mr Bojangles. Kim also claims that she will probably only have one leg left at this time, so you should probably add that to the image you have in your mind right now. There are also jaunty neck scarves. You're welcome.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhKzWRm98BpP25inOj1ar7eAc7euQH89REhIGzC5EopOXy73B2f_H_xiUX1o6ESRA85NwfqxrYQW86L1DqCXdZSLpkzECt9evnqNzQGSzwaryHpeJjmieFH6RDHU9dKCXpFLxg7yeDHE/s1600/DSC00177.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUhKzWRm98BpP25inOj1ar7eAc7euQH89REhIGzC5EopOXy73B2f_H_xiUX1o6ESRA85NwfqxrYQW86L1DqCXdZSLpkzECt9evnqNzQGSzwaryHpeJjmieFH6RDHU9dKCXpFLxg7yeDHE/s200/DSC00177.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Match Set. </td></tr>
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #93c47d;">I is for “I Dreamed a Dream”</span></u></h4>
the ultimate Spinster anthem, made extra famous by spinster extraordinaire Susan Boyle (God bless her). <i>"There are dreams that cannot be"</i>, bitches; in my case it's regular sex, children, and ballroom dancing.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #741b47;">J is for Jane Austen</span></u></h4>
who taught us in Pride and Prejudice that the cold and disinterested men are sometimes our soul mates in disguise...and that they are secretly deeply in love with us...and not <i>actually</i> cold and disinterested at all. J is also for "Just Kidding", which Jane Austen clearly was. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_SzS4D4N42Sn4z_zb1AgVvjm2cX1AKzM5rltc6lD-s5eDsevf04xiVjnDiBWgOK0-St0BRr-mrLJd6wG4kFNQMta3NVNtG9YLpY17xT9XI2ej5V9x0H9sUtmK0M-qcV3b_lKoFmDgSM/s1600/pride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_SzS4D4N42Sn4z_zb1AgVvjm2cX1AKzM5rltc6lD-s5eDsevf04xiVjnDiBWgOK0-St0BRr-mrLJd6wG4kFNQMta3NVNtG9YLpY17xT9XI2ej5V9x0H9sUtmK0M-qcV3b_lKoFmDgSM/s320/pride.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just kidding. </td></tr>
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #38761d;">K is for the Keepsake Collection from Wal Mart</span></u></h4>
Nothing gives me the cold sweats like envisioning engagement jewelry bought at Wal Mart. I hope that you are thinking the same thing I thought when first discovering that Wal Mart sells wedding rings, that thought being: “SWEET MERCIFUL HEAVEN! PEOPLE BUY WEDDING RINGS AT WAL MART?!”. Let’s be clear, I am aware that the average person cannot afford Tiffany’s or Birks (never mind Cartier or Harry Winston), but WAL MART!? Come on, humanity! I have a not-so-secret fear that when it comes time for me to give up and buy <i>myself</i> a diamond ring that all I will be able to afford is the Keepsake Collection from Wal Mart.<br />
I just checked the website to see if Wal Mart offers a cushion cut diamond set in rose gold…no dice; but they do have this ring they have cleverly called "Heart's Desire"…. <a href="http://www.walmart.com/ip/Keepsake-Hearts-Desire-5-8-Carat-T.W.-Diamond-14kt-Yellow-Gold-Engagement-Ring/14099156" target="_blank">Click here...if you have a strong stomach.</a> Terrifying.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #cc0000;">L is for Love</span></u></h4>
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just kidding,<br />
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<u><span style="color: #e69138;">L of for Loneliness</span></u></h4>
moving on…<br />
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<u><span style="color: #93c47d;">M is for Muumuu </span></u></h4>
spinster leisure wear at its finest.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">N is for Nog Tub</span></u></h4>
a classic yuletide tradition of spending a good portion of Christmas day alone in a bathtub, drinking rum laced soy-nog and reading a smutty romance novel.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #b4a7d6;">O is for One</span></u></h4>
The loneliest number. It is also for “plus one”, an invitation that is bizarre and unfamiliar.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #3d85c6;">P is for Poor Man’s Hannahs</span></u></h4>
noun - <i>term applied collectively to the women my former gentleman-callers are dating/married to/having children with, post dating me. </i><br />
I can’t imagine what it must be like to walk through this life knowing you gave up <i>all</i> <i>this</i>*;<br />
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that kind of deep, unshakable regret must be paralyzing. Once you've had a taste of this sassy redheaded spinster, nothing else compares. Enjoy your Poor Man’s Hannahs, sirs. I am smarter, I am better looking, I am more charming, I have superior style, I am funnier, I have excellent breasts AND I have way better hair. This is science. This is airtight and irrefutable truth, like E=MC2 or gravity. This is in no way an idea that I came up with while notably intoxicated (and alone) in the bathtub on Christmas day 2010 (see N is for Nog Tub). It is also in no way an affirmation which I say to myself in the mirror every morning. Just to review: 100% truth…and in no way the drunk ramblings of a woman who has yet to track down a man who in any way regrets losing her.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* probably a feeling similar to that of "dodging a bullet", some might say "a huge relief", also rumored to be described as "liberating". </span><br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #674ea7;">Q is for Questionable at Best</span></u></h4>
-the validity/accuracy/value of anything I have written on this blog, pretty much ever.<br />
-whether or not more than 5 people read this blog<br />
-my understanding of what men want.<br />
-my grasp of conversational Spanish.<br />
-my belief that I could be "seductive" if I tried.<br />
-whether or not I can correctly use "quixotic" in a sentence.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #ea9999;">R is for Romance...Novels</span></u></h4>
What started as a joke on a cruise ship has become a real problem for me and my heterosexual life-mate, Kim. Four years ago, on a whim, Kim and I borrowed some romance novels from a cruise ship library. We thought it would be funny to read them aloud to one another on the lido deck. Four years later, Kim is still reading her historical highland romances (and she actually moved to Scotland) and I am still reading my historical Regency/Victorian/Edwardian/Georgian romances. We have come to know more euphemisms for private parts than two spinsters need ever know.<br />
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<u>S is for Star Wars</u></h4>
which doesn't really fit in the ABCs of Spinsterhood...but I really like it, and it's my blog, damn it.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #45818e;">T is for Therapy</span></u></h4>
which I cannot afford, so I blog instead.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #38761d;">U is for Unicorn</span></u></h4>
In her mind, every spinster believes that the perfect manpanion of her dreams, her unicorn, is out there; he thinks her weirdness is adorable, he loves cats, and he is totally into white wine spritzers and the use of words like "interwebs". Regular single ladies are on the hunt for their "soul mate" or their prince charming, but I say f that, I want my unicorn. Souls mates exist in multiples (most of my bitches are my soul mates, for instance), whereas unicorns are so rare, so magical, that they very likely.... do not actually exist. It is a spinster paradox. If you meet someone who appears to be a unicorn, you should probably check that he is a real person and not, in fact, part of an elaborate scheme funded by friends..<br />
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<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1635812/synopsis" target="_blank">"He certainly wasn't a Swiss prostitute Martha Stewart recommended..."</a><br />
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I'm on to you, bitches...<br />
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<span style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: inherit;"><u>V is for Vacationing Like a Senior Citizen </u></span></h4>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you claim to be a spinster and you are not part of at least two </span>frequent cruiser loyalty programs then you are not living up to your full potential. I may or may not be part of both the Crown and Anchor Club with Royal Caribbean AND The Princess Captain's circle. I like vacations that require leisure shoes. Also, I never get taken on fancy dates, and thus require a fourteen night cruise with three formal nights to justify my spectacular dress collection.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #741b47;">W is for Wheel</span></u></h4>
I have been a third wheel, a fifth wheel, and probably at some point a seventh wheel; long story short, if you take an uneven ordinal number and add "wheel" to it, I've got that shit covered.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">X is for Ex-Boyfriend</span></u></h4>
the only kind I know, other than the letter G.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #f1c232;">Y is for You're Welcome</span></u></h4>
You are welcome, world, for constant reminders that your life is probably better than mine.<br />
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<h4>
<u><span style="color: #4c1130;">Z is for Zipper</span></u></h4>
There is always one that you cannot zip alone. I have twisted, I have turned, I have bent my body in crazy cirque du soleil contortionist style moves that have left me winded and grasping the door frame for support. I have cut a skirt off my body. Cut it off. I’m not joking. You can sing Destiny's Child "Independent Woman" all you want, that does not enable you zip that dress up alone.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-37861387512022958022012-09-08T23:04:00.000-07:002013-08-04T20:38:04.225-07:00Entry #62 - Spinster Quarterly<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJZN4pd33BhLT9CGN7ugpnfWPFXAdyWumL-Ft8-H7q1dhQCYR2nFyHhVZa1nhOXm3SIu047GxOjWkbnhAklQPGop1Vs2kGSfI6SesFCH4oZGACkG-eHAik_dBD4isxsjopgQvxeqGeCQ/s1600/IMG-20120822-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJZN4pd33BhLT9CGN7ugpnfWPFXAdyWumL-Ft8-H7q1dhQCYR2nFyHhVZa1nhOXm3SIu047GxOjWkbnhAklQPGop1Vs2kGSfI6SesFCH4oZGACkG-eHAik_dBD4isxsjopgQvxeqGeCQ/s320/IMG-20120822-WA0000.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strike>Hello</strike> Goodbye Summer </td></tr>
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Dear Diary,</div>
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Oh geez. I have neglected you for the entire summer season. Poor form. Usually the only time you see this kind of drawn out, persistent lack o' commitment is when you're filling in the very center of a venn diagram depicting the men I have dated. Speaking of which, they may tell you that I am a sub-par ladyfriend, but to them I say this: I am an even worse blogger, sir, so there. If I can't pull it together and write more than one blog entry in the fall I may need to rename the blog "Spinster Quarterly".<br />
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<h3>
The Further Adventures of Miss G</h3>
This summer, July was monopolized by teaching an ESL high school summer camp, which was a six-day-a-week English learning/sight seeing/cultural immersion program. If I could post pictures of my students' antics without getting sued/fired I totally would, because words cannot quite capture the hilarity that ensues when teenagers from all over the world are thrown together for weeks on end. There was a rubber duck, communication charades on a minute to minute basis, and the universally acknowledged threat that I would punch the students if they were caught speaking anything other than English. I never <i>actually</i> punched any of them (other than a few well placed air punches), but it was pretty entertaining to overhear a student from Japan telling a student from China "Only English, or Miss G punch us". Let us review: sub-par ladyfriend, worse blogger, even worse teacher.<br />
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<h3>
Kimmy Returns</h3>
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After my time with the ESL teens ended, Kim arrived from Scotland for a visit. In case you do not recall, Kim is my hilarious and amazing hetero-life-partner-in-spinsterdom who was featured heavily in the first 39 entries of this blog (up until she <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.ca/2011/05/entry-40-spinster-forlorn.html" target="_blank">moved to Scotland</a> last year to pursue her dreams of kilt lifting and heather rolling). Being reunited with Kimmy was pretty outstanding, and in the style of Barbara Streisand we went straight back to "the way we were". This means that we ate half of Japan, cackled obnoxiously loud, sang soft favourites in the car (also obnoxiously loud), and lazed about the house reading smutty historical romance...a large percentage of the time. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who wants to buy me a teacup pig? </td></tr>
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<h3>
Road Tripping with Ashley Husband-Finder</h3>
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Sadly, Husband-Finder is not really her last name, but a name I bestowed upon her the first time I met her. I like to think of it as her spirit name. It became quite apparent shortly after meeting H-F last December that she is the <b>polar opposite</b> of a spinster. The men-folk flock to her, and a large percentage of them seem very interested in throwing a marriage sack on her. If this were Pride and Prejudice, her dance card would be full and I would be eating stale tortilla chips in bed alone while listening to a medley of Disney music and blogging about spinsterdom. Oh wait, scratch that last bit, that's what's happening <i>right now</i>. If this were Pride and Prejudice, Ashley H-F's dance card would be full, and I would be inquiring if Mr.Collins has a cousin. Thus far the Ashley H-F magic has not rubbed off on me, I remain as spinsterly as ever. But I am hopeful for the future, perhaps I will learn the ways of the H-F in time for the 2016 Rio Olympic Games. </div>
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For the last 10 days of August, H-F and I drove down the Pacific Coast of the USA to San Francisco. Our accommodations ranged from a KOA "Kabin" to the Marriott in Napa. We went to a cheese factory one day and to the spa the next. We drank bottles of Trader Joe's $2 wine at the beginning of the trip and sampled (a little too extensively) $189 bottles of wine in a candle lit cave in Napa at the end of the trip. Did you know that if you say you would like to "revisit" a wine that they will just fill up your glass again? Did you also know that this sometimes results in the need to put a picnic blanket down in a field of rocks and prickly weeds near the winery parking lot so you can have a nap after? Me neither.</div>
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The Oregon coast is as beautiful as everyone says it is, but you know what else was beautiful? Everything I ate!</div>
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I would have to say that the highlight of the trip for me was walking through the redwood forest in California. This may sound surprising to many, as I am usually heavily motivated by shopping and eating. This particular part of the redwood forest, however, is where George Lucas filmed scenes for Return of the Jedi. That's right, bitches, I was frolicking about on the FOREST MOON OF ENDOR. I totally had a snack in my purse, just in case I found an ewok. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hugging a tree that is older than Jesus at the Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park AKA Endor. Jealous?</td></tr>
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So that was Return of the Jedi, to carry on the Star Wars theme:<br />
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<h3>
<strike>The Empire</strike> Beige Curtains Strikes Back</h3>
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In one sense I totally deserved this, for I fully admit that it is both unkind and childish of me to refer to my ex-boyfriends' current girlfriends <i>collectively</i> as "Poor Man's Hannahs" and "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWMPRiC2wBg" target="_blank">Beige Curtains</a>". Funny, but not fair or kind. In my defense, I didn't actually think any of them would read this. I don't even know how or why they would know it exists. And in truth, no one is mocked on this blog more than I mock myself. I'm pretty sure I have referred to myself as "man repellent". There may have also been an instance where I said that I am pretty the same way a magic eye is visible; from certain angles and in certain lights (it also helps if you cross your eyes a little). I could sue <i>myself</i> for defamation of character.<br />
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So, summer is over and school is back in session. As of yesterday I am halfway to my 30th birthday. I wasn't joking about listening to Disney medleys. You're welcome.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-26191164363731303452012-06-24T17:21:00.001-07:002012-12-22T22:03:04.752-08:00Entry #61 - Spinster on Sabbatical<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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OH <i>there</i> you are, Diary!...right where I left you...fancy that.<br />
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My most profuse apologies for neglecting you, Diary, I totally fell off the wagon. <span style="background-color: white;">Remember last autumn when I took a month off from writing in the old blog and we called it a Spintermission? This most recent break was a little bit longer than an intermission, and </span><i style="background-color: white;">technically</i><span style="background-color: white;"> speaking I took a break from spinsterdom in general and not just blogging, so we will call this most recent discontinuance a Spinster Sabbatical. Yes, that has a nice scholarly ring to it, let's run with that.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">A special apology to anyone who wondered briefly if I may have finally died alone and been eaten by my cat; I have envisioned what that would look like often enough to know that it is not a particularly pleasant thought. I can report that both Gus and I are alive and well, with Gus in particular being in fine form thanks to an especially amazing haircut.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">How could anyone write with such a jaunty fellow prancing around? I <i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">dare</i> you, nay, I <i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">challenge </i>you to be produtive with a furry-booted spectacle frolicking about the house.</span>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<u>Spinster Sabbatical</u></h4>
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<span style="background-color: white;">As a general rule, whenever friends have said that they want to set me up on a date, I shut them down faster than you can you can say "wienerschnitzel". I don't know what it is, but the very idea of a blind date makes me want to shout out "NO THANKS, I'M FULL!" at a volume that is slightly louder and more monotone than is socially acceptable; kind of like a robot with Tourettes. </span><i style="background-color: white;">Logically, </i><span style="background-color: white;">(and taking into consideration the fact that I only hang out with clever bitches)</span><i style="background-color: white;"> </i><span style="background-color: white;">I should be more trusting of my friends' judgement in regard to suitable suitors. Logic, however (along with sportiness and domesticity), is not really a trait that is </span><strike style="background-color: white;">ever</strike><span style="background-color: white;"> frequently associated with yours truly.</span></div>
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A few months ago my lovely friend Katie B and I were out for lunch together at Pagliacci's. One of the wondrous things about this restaurant, aside from delicious pastas with witty names, is the bread they serve before your pasta even arrives. I would say it's similar to a focaccia, but with a hint of greasy-fried-delicious-rock-salt-crusted goodness. The bread has an opiate-like effect on me, and if given a choice between a bottle of wine and a loaf of this bread I would probably take the bread. So, as I sat with my mouth stuffed to chipmunk proportions with delicious warm white bread, my friend Katie saw her opportunity:</div>
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K: "There is someone you maybe might possibly be interested in meeting...no pressure."<br />
H: <span style="font-size: x-small;">lacking the cognitive capability to shout "NO THANKS, I'M FULL" thanks to the opiate bread lull in my brain I instead simply replied</span> "Bwat? Bwo?"<br />
K: "A friend of Anna's, he has the same sense of humour as you <b>and</b> he already knows about the blog."<br />
H: *still shoveling bread into my mouth* "Holy crap, he's read the blog and he still wants to meet me? Unfathomable."<br />
K: "So you'll meet him?"<br />
H: "Let us break convention and say yes!"<br />
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And so it came to be that some days later I received a text asking if said gentleman could have my email address. Without the calming effects of the drug-infused bread, I started to panic ever so slightly...oh sweet merciful heavens, I had agreed to a blind date. "Calm down you crazy wench," I told myself, "it's just an email, perhaps it will be riddled with glaring grammatical errors which you can use as a get-out-of-blind-date free card. If you're really lucky he will open with "Deer Hannah""...<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">No such luck. Not only was it grammatically flawless, it was also funny <i>and</i> the the word soliloquy was used without feeling clunky or pretentious. T<i style="font-style: normal; line-height: 17px;">ouché</i><span style="background-color: white;">, sir... </span><i style="font-style: normal; line-height: 17px;">touché</i><span style="background-color: white;">. Thus, a few more emails went back and forth and eventually a date was set for a...date. Let the cold sweats begin. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I imagine that (for my friends) watc</span>hing me date must elicit a similar mix of emotions as those felt by spectators watching figure skating at the Olympics; anxious excitement mingled with trepidation, sensations which are further heightened by the knowledge that this shit only happens once every four years. I can picture all my ladies lined up in the stands: some shouting encouragement loudly (Kimmy + Book Club Bitches), some with glittery signs (GB), some peeking through their fingers anxiously whilst chugging Pepto-Bismol (Kitty G), and some (*cough *Ashley H-F) warming up their batons just in case some knees need to be broken in order to ensure my success. It goes without saying that Vanessa is my stern but loving Russian coach who regularly <strike>talks me off ledges</strike> dispenses an award winning pep talk.<br />
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The day for the first date arrives and I am calm, cool and collected. By calm, cool, and collected I mean frazzled, sweaty and ever so slightly nauseated. I yell possible outfit ideas down the hallway to my room mate Heather, who is sitting in her bed perusing Pinterest on her laptop at this time. She may be four years my junior, but Heather has been on far more first dates than I have, and thus we default to her judgement in this arena. Eventually we find an outfit that meets the many criteria (I had no idea existed), and I am ready to go!<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><u>Most memorable Heather commentary</u>: (delivered without even looking up from Pinterest) as I checked an outfit in the mirror outside our bedroom doors - "You aren't wearing animal themed earrings...right, sweetheart?". This was an entirely valid concern.</span><br />
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My Gentleman Caller, henceforth referred to as GC, arrived right on time to collect me. Points for punctuality. On our way downtown for drinks he makes mention of how highly our mutual friend spoke of me. Her love for me is true, and I know she wholeheartedly believed all the nice stuff she said about me, yet I couldn't help but worry that I was the human equivalent of a cleverly worded real estate description - The "cozy and quaint handy man's dream". Uh...Oh. Someone's in for a surprise.<br />
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There are both pros and cons to going on a date with a man who already knows about your crazy spinster blog:<br />
Pros: He already knows about your crazy spinster blog and thus you don't have to worry about trying desperately to hide its existence.<br />
Cons: He already know about your crazy spinster blog and may have actually <i>read</i> <i>it. </i><br />
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Before I am finished my first G&T it becomes apparent this man is a grown up, and that he actually has his shit together. He is also calm, cool and collected. This time I actually mean it. I am both intimidated and intrigued, especially when he throws out the term "non-disclosure agreement" in regard to this blog (little does he know, only like 8 people read this blog! HA! joke's on him!). He said it sort of facetiously, but I'm not sure if that matters in a court of law. I did not attend law school, thus, I am not certain as to exactly <i>how binding </i>a verbal non-disclosure agreement is. I mean, are we cool as long as I never mention your name or quote you directly? Oh God, please don't sue me.<br />
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By the time I get halfway through my second G&T I have already committed what I believe to be first-date suicide. In response to a question about what I like to do in my free time, I answered thusly:<br />
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H: "well, I spend a lot of time out with my ladies, but when I am at home I really like to read...and obviously you have seen my blog so you know I like to toodle about on the internets." <span style="font-size: x-small;">At this point I think I actually made the physical gesture of pushing up my invisible glasses and typing on my invisible keyboard, because seduction is my specialty. </span><br />
GC: *inquisitive head tilt* "Did you just say...toodle?"<br />
H: <i>Oh fudgsicle</i> "...sure did..."<br />
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I quickly excused myself to the ladies room where I gave myself a stern talking to in the mirror about inappropriate word selection and "turning down the suck" in general. At this juncture I had lost almost all hope of ever seeing him again and probably went on to say even more ridiculous things that I have since blocked out.<span style="background-color: white;">GC drove me home, and as we said goodbye he said that he had enjoyed himself and expressed an interest in seeing me again. I was 92% sure he was a filthy, filthy liar.</span><br />
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Turns out he was not a filthy, filthy liar at all, and that he genuinely did want to see me again. And then again after that. And then a few more times. And so it went for the last couple months, with me feeling sure that whatever I just said or did would finally be enough to scare him away, and with him remaining calm and unflappable in the face of a sassy, ridiculous redhead. It was really nice; so much so that I can hardly bring myself to write about it. It's like a firefly, something bright I'd like to keep in a jar for later.<br />
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Okay, so I'm going to be straight with you, things are about to get a little sad. So, I have included a Family Portrait Recreation for you in order to cushion the fall a little. I feel like this is a kindness, but it may in fact be like distracting babies with a toy before jabbing them in the leg with a booster shot. You are welcome?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX5nYv_fMzRDvKY6TH5XzhMn3jqXtA1349BdUnY_xKNClugV2R3Z4kJbwyBDq58HfZqiu-fMWoBfwBUNjI2EJFeDNCkIDJFZAqt1vJXpYVPxYhmquFyfAsyKsyRujVLhtvWihTeNSM5I/s1600/Downloads5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLX5nYv_fMzRDvKY6TH5XzhMn3jqXtA1349BdUnY_xKNClugV2R3Z4kJbwyBDq58HfZqiu-fMWoBfwBUNjI2EJFeDNCkIDJFZAqt1vJXpYVPxYhmquFyfAsyKsyRujVLhtvWihTeNSM5I/s320/Downloads5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More recreation family photos, note that my dad is trying to hand my brother some bacon in the bottom one. Somehow I feel that this explains everything you've ever wondered about me. </td></tr>
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As I said, this went on for the last two months. The trouble with a couple of months, as it turns out, is that it is enough time to find numerous things that are endearing about a person, enough time to become accustomed to seeing them and hearing from them, enough time to become reacquainted with the long-buried feeling of what it means to not be alone...enough time to lay your reluctance to rest. It is not, however, enough time to build a foundation of sorts; so when GC was given a promotion in a city that is not this one, it became apparent that our expiry date was imminent. So, in a conversation that seemed very grown up, he said po-tay-to, I said po-tah-to, then we called the whole thing off.<br />
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And so, Spinster Sabbatical 2012 is over. <span style="background-color: white;">In the interest of self preservation, I preformed a spinsterectomy and removed myself from his life; not because he did anything wrong, if anything it is because he did almost everything right. I am told a full spinsterectomy will be beneficial in the long run, a sentiment which would provide more comfort were I practiced in the art of delayed gratification. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Right now it's like I am looking at the world through film negatives; it's hard to focus on all the good things he brought into my life when all I can see is everywhere he isn't.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">There are some good things about being a spinster once again, I have made a list to prove it. So far all I have is "no longer need to shave legs all the time". Okay, so technically speaking it's not a list yet. Give me some time, there must be at lest a couple more things...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"In your absence, I'm finding value, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">because what starves you carves you,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">and I'm chipping away rough edges"</span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-62963974880503994472012-04-12T23:16:00.001-07:002012-12-22T22:03:21.738-08:00Entry #60 - Perhaps Mr.Collins has a Cousin...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqBxspUaPHtVFDnKMo2NNLBu8-yvq44pMqptw-d3EPYwjwqmbR73M3k2K9UEoPu-6PG5RHo7-ue4JYvmLOjDxMa0vcSZQE6rjiDIAsb4RfI5NUOLMjt2GQBhYSbss0PRYBZna8g9EFDQ/s1600/2012-04-04+18.03.45.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyqBxspUaPHtVFDnKMo2NNLBu8-yvq44pMqptw-d3EPYwjwqmbR73M3k2K9UEoPu-6PG5RHo7-ue4JYvmLOjDxMa0vcSZQE6rjiDIAsb4RfI5NUOLMjt2GQBhYSbss0PRYBZna8g9EFDQ/s200/2012-04-04+18.03.45.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entry #60 - Diamond Jubilee Edition</td></tr>
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Dear Diary,<br />
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As I sit here, staring at a blank blogger template whilst eating Nutella straight from the jar, I can't help but wonder; where in the hell did March (and my self control) go?? Come to think of it, the first half of April is kind of a hazy blur as well. What have I been doing? ....<br />
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...well, for the last 20 minutes I have been watching Youtube videos of Eric Northman instead of writing this blog, talk about attention deficit.<br />
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Focus, Spinster, focus!<br />
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Let's see, I have built an Ikea coffee table, watched "Kindergarten Cop" with Scott, posted 184 tweets on the Twitter, made pancakes for teenagers from Japan, found myself to be slightly aroused by the Game of Thrones theme music....what else...<br />
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<u>
Micro-Vacation</u></h3>
Back in February I went to Pender Island for a weekend with Vanessa and the <strike>book</strike> food club ladies. We went for a number of reasons;<br />
One - we enjoy being ladies of leisure.<br />
Two - the prospect of drinking copious amounts of wine in a hot tub was appealing to all of us.<br />
Three - a show of solidarity with Ashley H-F during her annual "drink til I can't feel anything" anniversary.<br />
Four - The package included a one-hour massage and breakfast. Yes and Yes. Please.<br />
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There were a few hiccups getting to the resort in that half of us were in a car that got a flat tire and the other half of the group drove around North Pender in the dark for about an hour before finally finding the place. Eventually, however, we all made it there and proceeded to ingest unhealthy amounts of cured meats and cheeses. After that we all got in the hot tub where we drank wine and talked it out like only six drunk ladies in a hot tub can. We exorcised some feelings for SURE, then passed out in our respective beds.<br />
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The next morning, Laura and I headed down to the spa for our massages. On the walk there (and having apparently been born without the capacity to feel ashamed of paying a man to touch me) I prayed fervently that I would have a hot male masseuse. I prayed for a sexy masseuse the way death row inmates pray for clemency; desperately and with a modicum of hope.<br />
When we walked in the spa receptionist saw us and then immediately got what I call "inquisitive eyebrows", that fleeting facial expression that tells you that something is not quite right. After informing her of our names and what we were there for, we quickly found the root cause of the receptionist's quizzical brow - the spa had accidentally booked us in as a couples massage and thus we were to be rubbed down side by side. They offered to prepare the single rooms for us, but after a quick non-verbal exchange both Laura and I accepted the more hilarious option of side by side massages.<br />
After a muffled-laughter filled change into our spa robes, Laura and I headed to the lounge to meet our masseuses. In accordance with the prophecy there is a lady masseuse and a male masseuse, where the fantasy falls short is that the male masseuse is a silver-haired, ever so slightly rotund, mustachioed gentleman named Terry who is probably in his fifties. They give Laura and I the choice of who will rub whom, a sentence that sounds much dirtier than it actually was. As soon as we are alone in the room I inform Laura that Terry is all mine, a declaration which sets of further bouts of poorly muffled spa-inappropriate laughter. <br />
I must admit that Terry gave a wicked massage, and the fact that he accidentally slapped me in the face with a hot/wet towel at one point only served to further enhance both mine and Laura's enjoyment of our services. Post massage Laura and I hit the steam cave together where we further re-lived the glory of her over-hearing Terry apologize for hitting me in the face with a hot towel. After that we just sweated off copious amounts of massage oil in silence til it was time for breakfast. Success.<br />
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Aging Gracelessly</u></h3>
On March 7th I turned 29. I don't feel good about it. Everyday I find more and more likenesses between myself and the spinsters in my regency romance novels, with the exception that no duke/lord/viscount/baron/baronet is readily available to fall unexpectedly but madly in love with me. My proverbial corset and chastity both remain woefully intact.<br />
The older I get the less I feel less like a proper adult, a feeling further perpetuated by my choice of "Cruise Ship Formal Night" as my party theme. I presented the summons to my celebration thus:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDzK21172kYpxlHwCcubgzW-LxwZwkP3Hb8YlNzzcwQhpciN5RjGRI1lGQhuIXgjep4VOHd1DSLGj-kizCKHAmZ_rZMveiP3kVmRs-a8FHaKnnHmbUPx6Mc_4UV8ktUK3xnXBuGvFC4M/s1600/Invite.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDzK21172kYpxlHwCcubgzW-LxwZwkP3Hb8YlNzzcwQhpciN5RjGRI1lGQhuIXgjep4VOHd1DSLGj-kizCKHAmZ_rZMveiP3kVmRs-a8FHaKnnHmbUPx6Mc_4UV8ktUK3xnXBuGvFC4M/s400/Invite.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was not joking when I said that there would be a non-optional "in the style of the royals" family photo session, as the photo below proves:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibgJrEQxpxUXtLMLl-xf_4UY7622pFL4zetykQqdn-YFQROGr_2Vs-5assFx_CpzaNR1Zy1cHvbxQUdeSrlA1raPFvDntqwSVGv8mj-mY3-Qd2TX34bwoXKuwD3fwQGhSYHkbyWad34Uo/s1600/IMG_1964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibgJrEQxpxUXtLMLl-xf_4UY7622pFL4zetykQqdn-YFQROGr_2Vs-5assFx_CpzaNR1Zy1cHvbxQUdeSrlA1raPFvDntqwSVGv8mj-mY3-Qd2TX34bwoXKuwD3fwQGhSYHkbyWad34Uo/s400/IMG_1964.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I only hang out with the sexy people. </td></tr>
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There were party dresses, big hair, 3 pairs of Badgley Mischkas, white wine sangria, living room dancing, and goody bags that I drunkenly neglected to hand out. The best part of my birthday, though, was the birthday surprise from my Gay Boyfriend, Bryan. Bryan surprised my with a special cruise themed outfit for my party, and it's safe to say it was a <b><i>big</i></b> hit. See what I did there?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWurGDiUwj2GchDTrVVyGWmRov3M_u_ojkwvkYhMw3syRFZMWo2Sodu-kRMssY0cV8Ibf_rpi4AyLhARwOFNyQ0xK3uFYa6TAvZZq6h5UaWo7HMSU6eU4xSXiRcTXvpQdrYZhDrbKd3ro/s1600/2012-03-06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWurGDiUwj2GchDTrVVyGWmRov3M_u_ojkwvkYhMw3syRFZMWo2Sodu-kRMssY0cV8Ibf_rpi4AyLhARwOFNyQ0xK3uFYa6TAvZZq6h5UaWo7HMSU6eU4xSXiRcTXvpQdrYZhDrbKd3ro/s320/2012-03-06.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He had a Little Mermaid towel. Mind blown. </td></tr>
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Nerding Out</u></h3>
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I finally got to wield one of those $150 replica Lightsabers. It was every bit as sexy-nerdy-chic as I imagined it would be. I ran into Vanessa's office at work, thrust my smartphone at her and demanded she take pictures of me while I swung it around it excitedly. I applaud her self-control as she limited herself to only a bemused head-shake in response to me climbing upon the stock room table and singing the Star Wars theme music while hitting cardboard boxes with the Lightsaber. That's a true friend; I love you, Mini. Also thanks to Jena, who pointed out that the picture would be way cooler if we turned some of the lights off. Always thinking, Jena, always thinking. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h8oMd1LymnqABIba43iMojpfoTF3XnOziAbqCgsJPlCdyu-Hq8C5T8PnsLMuwxy-ybaa2jwq_ZfO6uU5slZSRBJiOuKUWYK79SG2FribaXUFod3C2OSTNZh76WJuwH4x1Mku_SflZHk/s1600/2012-03-31+15.48.51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h8oMd1LymnqABIba43iMojpfoTF3XnOziAbqCgsJPlCdyu-Hq8C5T8PnsLMuwxy-ybaa2jwq_ZfO6uU5slZSRBJiOuKUWYK79SG2FribaXUFod3C2OSTNZh76WJuwH4x1Mku_SflZHk/s320/2012-03-31+15.48.51.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The sexy power of the Lightsaber was proven when my friend Sara's son asked if he could marry me when he saw this picture. He's only 7, I'm making a mental note anyway.</span></span>
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Fresh off my Lightsaber high, I received a belated birthday present from one of my spinster's apprentices, Alex (you might remember her from Spinster Sports, a picture which I cannot post here again lest I alienate her completely). This gift was so spectacular and thoughtful that upon receiving it a wee tear sprung to my eye. Alex went to the trouble of making me a case for my smartphone that has R2D2 on it! GENIUS! My <i>phone</i> is a droid and <i>R2D2</i> is a droid! Get it!? Not to mention the fact that my phone already whistles like R2 for certain notifications! (and plays the Imperial March when certain people call, but that's another story...). </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanD9dstyCMkZeX4PNp499_iAURs1XJSMeEn7j8rsHUDSAcanK-OTXdnWvNB23ggsa7xzEaW_JelRblJOWvrRdyGGxpdvmnk7yfiIsWWPuaqRe4ZO-dinQ20rWTPsX6eobR3kUSV87sRc/s1600/Photo_00011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanD9dstyCMkZeX4PNp499_iAURs1XJSMeEn7j8rsHUDSAcanK-OTXdnWvNB23ggsa7xzEaW_JelRblJOWvrRdyGGxpdvmnk7yfiIsWWPuaqRe4ZO-dinQ20rWTPsX6eobR3kUSV87sRc/s200/Photo_00011.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Made for you by your spinster padawan" - so amazing I will weep inconsolably the day I must get a new phone.</td></tr>
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Pride, Prejudice, and Despondency</u></h3>
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I've probably watched Pride and Prejudice five or six times since my last blog entry, I even hit a new <strike>low</strike> high of watching it with the commentary on. I also recently bought myself the 2-disc collector's edition even though it is almost identical to the disc I already own. I am losing my GD mind.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_b7ucOKtX-Y10jPJFAS6wh5ASR-BsZgJnLPUy34YJ8zdFOsD1Zb7zcdKbpQ3FKYSKz_O4CMuaXzai0JUUorQMQZDPJn3mSTm1c9AVgJHRf44OGZ-tycMKgxEW8SiSedgLf0DtlYqiTI/s1600/2012-04-12+20.49.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_b7ucOKtX-Y10jPJFAS6wh5ASR-BsZgJnLPUy34YJ8zdFOsD1Zb7zcdKbpQ3FKYSKz_O4CMuaXzai0JUUorQMQZDPJn3mSTm1c9AVgJHRf44OGZ-tycMKgxEW8SiSedgLf0DtlYqiTI/s320/2012-04-12+20.49.29.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Pride and Prejudice has always been my beacon of hope. I felt like my Mr.Darcy was out there somewhere, tall, strapping, loyal, filthy rich and secretly in love with me. As time goes on, though, I watch with fewer longing sighs and more shoveling-Nutella-in-my-mouth despondent sighs. I have become the Elizabeth that wryly says <a href="http://www.metacafe.com/watch/an-XqKmt4utuh2nt/pride_prejudice_2005_family_time_part_2/" target="_blank">"perhaps Mr Collins has a cousin..."</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXA4VCeqoknUgWtAXD_6wD_a4fpt69QgQ_DltE3N6n5PNVrmyJQEI9bslfHLp0wiKqQXFCER8wQYvD1T6ZNoj4ioSKC1sxN3d2hECfxpNWpAGBA8tQaJQxZmLu4ne9xatJhJ2quEjhX-s/s1600/2012-04-12+16.25.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXA4VCeqoknUgWtAXD_6wD_a4fpt69QgQ_DltE3N6n5PNVrmyJQEI9bslfHLp0wiKqQXFCER8wQYvD1T6ZNoj4ioSKC1sxN3d2hECfxpNWpAGBA8tQaJQxZmLu4ne9xatJhJ2quEjhX-s/s200/2012-04-12+16.25.55.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/SpinsterMansion" target="_blank">Spinster on the Facebooks</a></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-64115824770036467832012-02-17T09:02:00.000-08:002012-12-22T22:03:48.591-08:00Entry #59 - "Are you the Spinster Aunt?"Dear Diary,<br />
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A few weeks ago I was...recognized. Not in the usual way, no no. Usually when I am recognized it is by a baffled young student who is surprised to see me outside of a school setting. Some children are happy to see me, some are excited to see me, and some, much like a miniature ex boyfriend, are a little embarrassed to see me and wonder if they can avoid acknowledging my presence altogether.<br />
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This was different, this time I was recognized not as Miss G, but rather as the Spinster Aunt, as in *slight head tilt* "Are you the Spinster Aunt"? To which I replied after a moment of stunned silence "...Yes. Yes I am". I was both extremely proud and mildly abashed at the same time; proud that this impartial stranger really enjoyed the blog and found it to be funny, and mildly embarrassed as every blog I have ever published flashed through my mind...all of the many, many pictures and stories. I realized all at once that this person right in front of me, whom I had never met before, may have read all about the fact that I:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span><strike>often</strike> sometimes cry on the bathroom floor.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>collect cat plates.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>wear Muumuus<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>read romance novels and teen fiction. Exclusively.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>get unreasonably upset when my plants die.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>often eat alone...and standing up.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>have solved multiple Nancy Drew mysteries on the computer (only with Kimmy's help...and only on the "junior detective" setting).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsVq4a-OdpI-9jRuPGb82sEgk46mEp5O3zpVqwzUQZcgAxZwgZzCHR9lAV2nlW-1IfxTkD6blCir7-GmbW4aBvTJnSknR3BQG3jXrRCzJT0EFhB_o_AMDGyf-R3zh9WAKX6F0K-LRjoY/s1600/Collages2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTsVq4a-OdpI-9jRuPGb82sEgk46mEp5O3zpVqwzUQZcgAxZwgZzCHR9lAV2nlW-1IfxTkD6blCir7-GmbW4aBvTJnSknR3BQG3jXrRCzJT0EFhB_o_AMDGyf-R3zh9WAKX6F0K-LRjoY/s200/Collages2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lack of propriety...</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>love my cat the way most people love human children.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>vacation like a senior.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>can quote Pride and Prejudice...and Star Wars.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>have been busted dancing in my under-pants by the Hydro guy.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>tear up over lame, pun filled greeting cards.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>have a sister who is in far better shape than I am in spite of the fact that she has two children and I have zero.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>once ate a pancake the size of my face. (see previous item re:fitness, lack there of)<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>sometimes spend Christmas alone drinking rum laced soy nog in the bathtub.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>sing Celine Dion loudly in the car wash.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>partake in preposterous family portraits.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">•</span>eat pancakes for dinner. Frequently.<br />
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As soon as Diary of a Spinster Aunt migrated from Facebook to Blogger I knew that my ridiculous antics were now out there (on the world wide interwebs) for all to read. As a person who enjoys control and takes rejection/criticism quite poorly, this is quite nerve-racking. Blogging publicly is like allowing yourself to fall in love (stay with me, I know this simile has you concerned); there is so much happiness and good that comes along with it, but the possibility of something hurtful/heartbreaking/psychosis-inducing is intertwined as well. I guess there's always a calculated risk when putting yourself out there - so far blogging has been significantly less painful than dating, so I'll stick with this for a while. I have been lucky so far, the only person who has told me to my face that he hates this blog is my ex boyfriend, which is both fair and completely understandable.<br />
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Anyway, I thanked the lovely lady for her kind feedback and then fully admitted to her that no one had ever recognized me from my blog before. My friend Alex (from spinster sports) was nearby and so I bellowed "HEY ALEX! THIS LADY RECOGNIZED ME FROM THE BLOG! FIRST PERSON EVER" and then to the lady who recognized me "that's Alex from Spinster Sports". Alex waved sheepishly, probably also embarrassed as she recalled her outfit in those pictures. If you don't remember, it was definitely a "hot flashes" t-shirt with a cat on it and some patchwork shorts. Nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're welcome, world.</td></tr>
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February has been kind of a blur, but I can tell you that there has been a lot of TV...and a lot of eating...<br />
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<u>Downton Abbey</u><br />
I am enamoured with this delicious, Edwardian smut. I can't get enough. I watched all of season 1 in one day, and all of season 2 three days later. Keep in mind that all together this is around 16 hours of television. I am now feeling a terrible sense of loss that it is over until season 3 starts in September. Today I spent time reading the Downton Abbey wikipedia page...you know, to console myself.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Don't be a defeatist, dear, it's so middle class" - <em style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Maggie Smith</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 16px;"> as </span><em style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; line-height: 16px;">Violet</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 16px;">, Dowager Countess of Grantham</span></span><br />
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<u>P&P</u><br />
Somehow the cords for Heather's DVD player got lost in the move, so since August we have been watching Criminal Minds/She's All That/anything Disney on my laptop whilst cuddling on our love-seat. Last week I finally remembered to dig my pink DVD player out of a box in Vanessa's basement. One of the first DVDs I put in was, of course, Pride and Prejudice. I am nothing, if not consistent. Much to my shock, my P&P would not play. Dear lord...had I worn it out? Is that possible? I ran to Heather's room to get her copy (that's right, we own TWO copies at our house). I put Heather's copy in and, much to my dismay, same thing. Neither copy, widescreen nor full-screen, was working. Not good. Jena was over for movie night, so I asked her if she wouldn't mind cuddling on the love-seat with me and my laptop. She did not mind, so the P&P quote off began. When Heather got home from work that night I was telling her about our P&P DVDs not working, and how strange that was considering a burned DVD of MI3 had worked just fine a few nights earlier. Heather, being a good Spinster's Apprentice, replied "do you think we should burn a copy of P&P? Is three copies too much?". That's my girl.<br />
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The obsession with P&P also continues with a new addition to the Spinster Art Collection. The first items in the collection to be neither a cat themed item nor a Kimmy original painting.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A note to Cassie: You will be receiving your own set of these, obviously. Surprise! </td></tr>
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I've also been eating everything. My resolution of "eating like less of an asshole" is not going very well thus far...I actually bought a loaf of white bread. It wasn't a baguette. It pains me slightly to admit it. Here in Victoria people judge you for buying 12 grain whole wheat instead of the full 19 grain squirrily alpine nut flax omega free range loaf. You can imagine the shock and disgust when I went through the checkout with *gasp* Honey & Oat bread! It was worth being ostracized though. Marmite toast made with white bread may be sinful, but it is delicious, delicious sin. </div>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/#!/SpinsterMansion" target="_blank">Twitter - @SpinsterMansion</a> </div>
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I have 59 followers (one of which is my ex)! That's around 53 more followers than I projected, success!</div>
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/SpinsterMansion" target="_blank">Facebook - Diary of a Spinster Aunt</a> 126 "Likes". That's way better than 125, by the by.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-48771280094631088922012-02-05T01:50:00.000-08:002013-04-18T21:58:19.205-07:00Entry #58 - My Funny(Looking) Valentine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Dear Diary,</div>
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<b> </b>I really like February, I always have. If I had been given a choice in utero (as an advanced fetus of unparalleled cognitive capabilities), I would have chosen to arrive a week early on Monday, February 28th, 1983. February has an allure that March lacks, a certain mystique of sorts. February is the shortest month (supply and demand?), the month of leap days (birthday jackpot), and most importantly, it is the month that contains Groundhog Day. When they add the Family Day stat holiday in 2013 I shall declare February the King of Months! Hurrah!<br />
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Oh,<br />
and Valentine's Day.<br />
That's in there too.
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It would make sense for a spinster to despise Valentine's Day, or as I like to call it <b><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">S.A.D.</span></b> (Spinster Awareness Day). However, at age 28, I have spent far more Valentine's Days alone than I have spent with a partner, and thus the magnified loneliness brought on by an entire day dedicated to romantic love is now less like a sharp sting and more like a dull ache. Everything is easier when you've been practicing for a while, right? And I started practicing early...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strike>Future doormat</strike> Man Killer - age 5</td></tr>
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I recall being the recipient of many "bring one for everyone in the class" Valentines as a child, and conversely I was the recipient of zero secret-admirer-fundraiser-carnations during my five years of high school<span style="font-size: x-small;"> (grades 8-12s are grouped together where I grew up; like a savage survivor island style game)</span>. Even at age 13, I was cognizant of the fact that carnations are the cheapest and shittiest flowers available, made shittier still when combined with babies breath and bargain basement ribbon...but even that knowledge didn't stop me from wanting one. </div>
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Now that I am grown up (questionable), Valentine's Day itself doesn't get me down the way it used to. In my early twenties I used to feel it quite acutely, mostly due to my childhood belief that I would be married at 25 with a house and two kids by 28. Now that I am old...er, I have let go of some of my romantic notions of love, which makes the whole V-day thing a much easier, albeit still bitter, pill to swallow. I will confess, though, that my weakness exists in the two weeks running up to Valentine's Day, more specifically, the greeting cards....</div>
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<a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2012/01/entry-55-spinster-new-year-resolutions.html" target="_blank">As mentioned previously</a>, I really like greeting cards...I like them A LOT. I like looking at them, buying them, and mailing them. A really good greeting card (for there are indeed some horrendous ones) can expresses a sentiment or feeling that you have on the tip of your brain but cannot quite coalesce into words. It is a really satisfying feeling when you find the perfect card for someone, especially when you know that if it came down to a blank card you would be screwed by your own lack of poetic ability. There is a reason Hallmark can claim that 5 billion greeting cards were sold in 2010, and that is because a large majority of North Americans are not effective at expressing feelings on their own, that or they are just too lazy to take the time to do so. Probably a little of column A and a little of column B...I suspect it's heavy on the B though. </div>
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So, as a greeting card lover, I admit that I <strike>often</strike> sometimes look at V-day cards; I shall openly admit here and now that it is totally brutal. Sad-goosebumps bad. There is nothing quite like reading a huge collection of beautifully expressed and exquisitely presented quotes...quotes that are all about the kind of love that <i>nobody </i>feels for you. It's like listening to an entire evening of "Love Songs with Delilah" on the radio, which I have for sure never done, ever, because that is totally for lonely soccer moms.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Replace "love" with "indifference". Spinster Valentine. </td></tr>
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No matter how much greeting card companies try to peddle Valentine's cards for your Grandma, your Aunt, your dog, and your second cousin twice removed, we all know that February 14th is dedicated to the notion of romantic love. Not platonic love, not unconditional familial love...romantic love, damn it. I admit to having a completely ridiculous amount of non-romantic love in my life, an inexplicable abundance that I hoard like cats. I love my family and friends more than any greeting card has ever expressed, however, romantic love is different. But in truth, it's not the classically romantic, over the top, velveteen and gold embossed cards that make me melancholy. Nope. What really gets me verklempt are the somewhat juvenile, simplistic, animal themed cards that have really lame puns; cards that give you the opportunity to explain a joke that is blatantly obvious. There is a poignant sweetness to this kind of card that makes me feel lonelier than any Shakespearean love sonnet ever has. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ea9999;">Get it!? Owl instead of "I'll" !? </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ea9999;">See what they did there...? "Whale" and "will" sound similar...clever...</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #e06666; font-size: small; text-align: left;"><b>My Funny Valentine...</b></span><span style="color: #e06666; font-size: small; text-align: left;"><b>you should probably cut it out. Seriously. </b></span></h2>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before we get into this I'd just like to say that when I say I am funny, I recognize that it is not in a professional comedian kind of way. I'm funny in the same way I'm pretty - sometimes, in a small town kind of way, and mostly to my mom. </span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">I can remember the first time someone told me I was funny. October 1st, 1993. I was in grade four, the same year <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2011/05/entry-42-spinster-couture.html" target="_blank">the boy I liked told me I had a "Klingon" forehead</a>. We had all filed down to the gym to have our class photos taken; me, my newly cut forehead-covering bangs, and the rest of the kids from my class who were all sporting some variation of neon colours and/or undercuts. Oh, 1993. When the photographer got to me it was time to change the film in the camera (that's this thing they used to use to take pictures, you know, back in the dark ages). He asked me to hold up the chalkboard so he could take a picture of it, and I decided this was a good opportunity to make the most of the high powered professional lighting. I unleashed my inner <strike>muppet</strike> supermodel. I did a sneaky peek over the top of the chalkboard in one shot, popped out the side in a pose reminiscent of Miss Piggy in the next, and in general made love to the camera. The photographer enjoyed some stifled laughter whilst this was occurring; I guess most kids just sat there slack-jawed when handed the rare and golden opportunity of being the "chalkboard model". Fools. </span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Being a film camera, the pictures couldn't just be reviewed and deleted, no no, they were printed along with the rest of the pictures. When the photos came back, I received my regular school pictures <i>and</i> a few extras of my chalkboard hi jinks. Along with these photos was a note stating that the staff had found me pretty amusing and had decided to send along a keepsake of my ridiculousness. </span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">It started to occur to me that while I possessed the physique of a seven year old boy (a trait carried through til grade 9 - no joke), a large forehead, pale skin and undesirable gingery hair, it turned out that what I did have was an ability to make people laugh; and in a class filled with fully-developed, volley ball playing woman-child hybrids, I had to take whatever the hell I could get. I broke my pinky finger during a volleyball game while trying to keep up with those amazons, funny was all I had damn it!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Spinster with a Chalkboard - 2011 & 1993 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">18 years - no maturation</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So, at age 10, I embraced my new found sense of humour (with a "u" because I am Canadian), and to be honest, I was pretty proud of it. It seemed to me that making people laugh was a good thing; laughter = happiness, right? Being witty meant that you were at least moderately intelligent, and at least 83% of the time it seemed that people were laughing <i>with</i> me and not <i>at</i> me. That's a solid "B", which is not that good, but by golly, it's good enough. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And thus the years have passed, almost 19 of them. And in those nineteen years I have developed a pretty strong conviction that I want a manfriend who can make me laugh. To be honest, a lack of humour in a person makes me feel kind of uncomfortable in general and seems to go hand in hand with languid conversations about uninteresting topics. And so, I presumed that most men would also want a ladyfriend wh</span><span style="font-size: small;">o could make them laugh as well. Makes sense, right?...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />And so we begin the long slippery descent into the mud-pit of erroneous presumption. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I have never before questioned my belief that gentlemen appreciate a witty lady, because it seems so nonsensical for anyone (male or female) to<i> not</i> want to laugh. The other week, however, I was watching a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/mskatieellen?feature=watch" target="_blank">stand-up comedy video</a> in which the comedian referenced a Christopher Hitchens article I had never heard of, an article entitled <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701" target="_blank">"Why Women Aren't Funny"</a>. After the video clip ended, while still chuckling from the hilarity, I googled the aforementioned article in order to educate myself further on what exactly Hitchens had said. Soon after I was not laughing any more...not. at. all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I've thought about that article every day since I read it on January 20th. I've thought long and hard about it - stare at the ceiling in the dark while in bed kind of thinking. I'm not saying I agree with everything he said, and I heartily encourage you to read the <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701" target="_blank">whole article</a> for yourself, but a few phrases are now vividly emblazoned in my mind. Here is just one:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 21px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not </span><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #f8f8f8; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 21px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">want</em><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 21px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> women to be funny. </span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 21px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">They want them as an audience, not as rivals.</span><span style="background-color: #f8f8f8; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 21px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">WHAT!?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Seriously?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />I just....I want to....I can't....I feel so...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I am well aware, sometimes painfully so, of my many and varied shortcomings. I even thought I was aware of the things that men might perceive as flaws that I happen to like about myself, like being a ginger, for instance. But to find out that what I had considered to be my biggest strength, my selling point as it were, might actually be the number one ingredient in my personal man-repellent cocktail has left me rather dumbfounded.
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<span style="font-size: small;">Being funny makes you a...rival? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Making a man laugh is a <i>bad</i> thing?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">If "Too funny" exists, <i>how</i> funny is too funny? Isn't that like too beautiful, too thoughtful, or too much cheese?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Does this mean that many men actually seek out women who are, as Riki Lindhome claims, "<i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U5n_Q6JnRE" target="_blank">beige curtains</a>"</i>? (mayhap the lyrics "</span><span style="font-size: small;">I'm sorry for that time I told a joke/I didn't mean to step all over your ego" should have been a clue)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Perhaps the clustercuss of question marks above are giving away the fact that I am having a minor existential crisis over this article. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In a quest for better understanding I found another article, written by a female writer and published in the LA Times after Hitchens' death in December (4 years after his original article was published in Vanity Fair in 2007). I found her response to be level headed (for undoubtedly in 2007 there were some angry letters written to Hitchens and Vanity Fair). Much like a really good greeting card, the writer (one Meghan Daum) has managed to coalesce what I was thinking, feeling, and wondering into a cohesive statement. To spare you from any more of my scattered and incoherent prose, I shall simply let you read what she wrote, she is after all a professional:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;">"Women avoid funny because they're afraid of what they'll have to give up in exchange, for instance the coy mysteriousness that men supposedly prize above all else. A funny woman, no matter how conventionally lovely, generally has to accept that she'll also be perceived as a little bit funny looking. When she gets a laugh, she risks subliminally conveying the message that she's making up for some hidden deficiency, that she's sad or irreparably broken. Why else, as Hitchens would ask, would she need the humor?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: small;">Well, maybe because humor is power. Maybe it's pretty much the most useful tool we humans have for getting through the day. Maybe because to be deprived of this power, even by dint of one's own vanity, is a form of oppression. And maybe women should have been thanking Hitchens even as we castigated him. As infuriating as he was, he forced us to recognize our own complicity in that oppression. It's common, after all, for women to value personality over looks when it comes to men. But being a funny woman means valuing personality over looks when it comes to oneself. And that takes balls."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2011/dec/22/opinion/la-oe-daum-funnywomen-20111222">http://articles.latimes.com/2011/dec/22/opinion/la-oe-daum-funnywomen-20111222</a>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Also, to avoid ending on a note<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> that I may be funny looking, sad, and/or irreparably broken, I present to you "Weiner Dogs in Love"</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0izPJhcO_tYwBDUXAHt_eS538rjaHgYKVVlseIG3lFP3MulloQneH1YJ0aiv9qxW-mAWui58v4KnTbBmo8X7AZNpb48dlVWcUPK3NON1sWeE2S1-A0NCH0c3piZiHIvhGUzAfeZwCJM/s1600/dachshund.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG0izPJhcO_tYwBDUXAHt_eS538rjaHgYKVVlseIG3lFP3MulloQneH1YJ0aiv9qxW-mAWui58v4KnTbBmo8X7AZNpb48dlVWcUPK3NON1sWeE2S1-A0NCH0c3piZiHIvhGUzAfeZwCJM/s320/dachshund.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Get it? The weiner dogs are too long to fit on the card because Dachshunds have really long bodies!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Not a lot of men like me, but you can like this Blog on the old FB if you feel like it. No pressure. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/SpinsterMansion">http://www.facebook.com/SpinsterMansion</a>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-15358754316168163342012-01-25T17:11:00.000-08:002013-08-04T20:46:08.095-07:00Entry #57 - Twitster? Spitter?…ugh, nevermind - Spinsterhood in Tweets<br />
Dear Diary,<br />
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I am doing that thing that I swore I would never do. No, not that thing! Gross! The other thing...<br />
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I was recently signed up for the Twitters. The verb use is correct, signed up - as in someone else created an account without my knowledge and then sent me the login information. Twitter conscription, if you will.<br />
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One of the reasons I have avoided Twitter is for the same reason I avoided standing alone at the side of the gym during slow songs at high school dances - it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable to draw attention to my own lack of popularity in such a public forum… “Nothing pathetic or pitiful going on over here…carry on grinding to K-Ci and JoJo while I pretend to look for a chapstick in my purse for the next five minutes”. <br />
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I know what you’re thinking...you’re thinking “don’t you do <i>JUST THAT</i> right here on this very blog?”, and you know what? You have a very good point; no one would deny that my insignificance and lack of popularity are discussed quite openly here and that this blog is indeed accessible to anyone who has an interwebs connection and an inclination to search “spinster porn” in the googles. But there is something different about Twitter. There is an egotistical presumption that is inherent in the Twitter concept, the presumption that my random musings (up to 140 characters) are worthy of being broadcast and that people actually care to hear them. Deep down in my heart (beyond the duct tape, glue, and staples) I am aware that the number of people who will care to hear my random thoughts throughout the day is a number that could probably best be described as "paltry" or "mom plus 2". I accept that I am not consistently that interesting or funny. If I am eating a piece of pizza I don't feel that the world wants or needs to hear about that. Justin Bieber has 16 million followers on Twitter, all of whom care in a Savage Garden kind of way if he is eating a piece of pizza - truly, madly, deeply.<br />
I shall be pleasantly surprised if I can get 16 followers. Total.<br />
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I would be lying by omission if I did not admit that the other reason I have avoided the Twitters for so long is for the same reason<a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2011/06/entry-45-spinster-at-homestead.html" target="_blank"> I disliked Scrabble</a> for a number of years…<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vYRm1XC6Iy6ekYIeUtk60vb8676lCcBDIa3T_sDUnzJ_v4qJZ1RLC01RYp6RcdfX-aoTgwko2ezRzYrbxf2fklWQqGsRewGsEXq8lPiRQXf9PLqXeTTQISNNv1rUqnFFvqBa4l4W2TE/s1600/coercion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vYRm1XC6Iy6ekYIeUtk60vb8676lCcBDIa3T_sDUnzJ_v4qJZ1RLC01RYp6RcdfX-aoTgwko2ezRzYrbxf2fklWQqGsRewGsEXq8lPiRQXf9PLqXeTTQISNNv1rUqnFFvqBa4l4W2TE/s320/coercion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I slammed my laptop shut and decided then and there that Twitter was a platform for egotistical braggarts!<br />
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I texted Heather immediately, for she always says the right thing about bullcuss like this and because she has a propensity to be awake at ridiculous hours. So I text her a brief description of what I had just read and she replied to my text with one of her own that read something like this…<br />
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“I found out tonight that my ex got back together with the girl he dated before me. Long story short - I came home, filled a water glass with wine, and then proceeded to eat a brick of cheese and cuddle with my mom. New Years sucks”.<br />
I called Heather back right away, and we provided each other with some free therapy in the form of cutting sarcastic remarks about the offending parties and their respective lady conquests. By the end of the phone call we were both laughing and the sun was coming up. Thank you, Heather, for saving me from myself.<br />
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As much as it induced nausea to read those tweets at the time, and for the record I in no way recommend the mindcuss that is looking at an ex’s Facebook, Twitter, or Myspace<span style="font-size: xx-small;">(for those times you time-travel back to 2005)</span>, I now wish that I had twitter that New Years, because then I could have retweeted him and added my own <strike>pound key</strike> hash tags:<br />
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#poormanshannah #<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U5n_Q6JnRE" target="_blank">beigecurtains</a><br />
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Phew, good thing I crossed “Be less of a bitch” off my resolutions list, hey? Always setting myself up for success.<br />
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And so, a year after deeming it “a platform for egotistical braggarts”, I have become a tweeter…twittered…tweetee…whatever, I have a Twitter account. I am going to try my darndest to never tweet things like “at the store”, “listening to music”, or “eating burritos at Taco Bell”. I know that doesn't really leave much to tweet about, but cuss darn it, I’m going to try!<br />
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So far I have “tweeted” 6 times. I’m not sure how well I’m doing since Twitter to me is like call waiting to my grandma, I get the basic concept but I’m not certain that I know how to use it properly, which makes me anxious. I still don’t really get why is the pound key is called a “hash tag” all of a sudden. Hasn’t it always been a pound key on the phone? “Press pound for more options”, right? I have looked into it since being signed up, and even after some research I still don’t have a strong grasp of the <strike>pound key</strike> hash tag, so I’ve decided to just go ahead and use it randomly and with reckless abandon (an attitude I would happily extend to sex, were it not for my inherent prudishness and lack of self-confidence).<br />
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Here are my tweets thus far, along with my random <strike>pound key</strike> hash tags:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjPV64cyM4KlbWHF5ettMR_ZjArLGcUGdkb9fYGJVzi4Jm6ppPhcERcyeHZN1mv3xJwo7jwxMN_nT9tlRhCS1t1fEYEq0KzvLDpXHBpQwsriCgBMD0OsMPgP_fPJ6_3AtpAr_vviaV1k/s1600/twitter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjPV64cyM4KlbWHF5ettMR_ZjArLGcUGdkb9fYGJVzi4Jm6ppPhcERcyeHZN1mv3xJwo7jwxMN_nT9tlRhCS1t1fEYEq0KzvLDpXHBpQwsriCgBMD0OsMPgP_fPJ6_3AtpAr_vviaV1k/s320/twitter.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Are any of these appropriate/correctly used? I have absolutely no idea. I can only hope that <strike>pound keys</strike> hash tags, much like modern dance, are just accepted no matter how nonsensical and bizarre.<br />
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So, if you have the Twitters and you wish to be intermittently alerted to my trivial musings, you may find me <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/SpinsterMansion" target="_blank">@SpinsterMansion</a>.<br />
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For all my bitching about Twitter, I’d like to truly thank my good friend Enisa for setting it up, because above all it told me that she truly believes that I have something interesting to say once in a while, which is a compliment no matter which way you slice it.<br />
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Also thanks to Katie, who tweets via <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/MsKatieEllen" target="_blank">@MsKatieEllen</a> - it was looking forward to her hilarious tweets on Facebook that allowed me to get past lesser uses of the Twitter. In all honesty, you should probably follow her instead of me, her brand of funny is so smart it gives me an inferiority complex.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#knowinglaughter</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">#backhandedcompliment</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-57287392177307280902012-01-18T22:45:00.000-08:002012-12-22T22:05:08.400-08:00Entry #56 - It'll be a Snow Day in Hell...<br />
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Dear
Diary, <o:p></o:p></div>
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I
shall at length complain about my champagne problems. If you want something
uplifting, it isn’t this. There is <s>no</s> only a smidgeon of crying though, which is a refreshing
change from the last 3 entries.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Januarys</span></u></div>
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Knowing there is a
100% chance that I will sound like Cathy from the horrendous comic strip of the
same name, I will come out and admit that I have a serious case of the
Januarys. God, I hate this month. If you were born in January I will apologize
right now for slandering it, for I am aware that we all have a special love in
our hearts for our own birth month. You can defend your garnet birth stone and
your “I got my driver’s license first” rationalizations, because none of that
will help me get past how cold, dark, and tired this month is. “But Hannah,”
you say “January is all about new beginnings and starting fresh!” - to which I
reply, “enjoy using that new gym pass for three weeks”. January feels like an
extended holiday hangover; one that starts on New Year’s Day (when you wake up
reminded that every New Year’s Eve is a giant let down) and just barrels
through the next four weeks. Christmas lights (like an aged prostitute) have
lost their allure, Boxing Day sales are over, your credit card bill from
Christmas arrives along with your Netfile tax info, and worst of all - the stat
holiday in this Godforsaken wasteland of a month falls on the first day of the
month, leaving an eternity until Spring Break (for me and my teacher friends)
and Easter for the rest of you poor bastards. Thank Government that we are
getting a “Family Day” stat in February of 2013; I already look forward to
spending it with Gus and the entire series of Star Trek the Next Generation on
DVD. </div>
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I have had a lot of time to ponder how much I despise January, for this month,
much like September, is not a busy one in my line of work. Most teachers are
rested after Christmas break and therefore don’t fall sick and require
substitute teachers. Also, they recognize that it is January after all, and
even if they have a cold they might as well tough it out and go to school -
there is nothing like adorable children to take your mind of the cold, dark,
tiredness of this month. Children also take my mind of such questions as: “Why
won’t the Browns across the road take down their friggen Christmas lights,
already!?”; because Christmas lights in January are (thank you Daniel Handler
for my new favourite metaphor) “the glitter in the gutter when the parade has
passed”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><u>Russian Roulette Dog Sitting</u></span></div>
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To
compound the bleakness of the
Januarys, I am dog/house sitting for Vanessa and Scott. This means two things:<o:p></o:p></div>
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1. No
Vanessa or Scott - All alone in a house of fun, summertime memories. Heck, even
wintertime memories. Before S&V left for Palm Springs we had a “family
mystery puzzle night” where we did two five hundred piece puzzles, the pictures of which made up
the "before" and "after" of a crime scene. In case you were wondering, this magical puzzle also comes with a story you must read so you can "solve the mystery" from the clues in the completed puzzles.*cough*dying alone*cough* This of course meant the two rooms
pictured were almost identical... including more floral pattern that you can
throw a doily at. Did I mention there was no picture of either puzzle? And that all the pieces were mixed
together in one bag? The family that puzzles together, stays together. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXo_3Hk0RwfwccW85y2JHqR7dUFVNYyANwKzk-9iBP3nMbHEyxHoIhiS56oZqtE4TGy8FQSRslqQpppS5ncO9ZvURSS4kOwmAN0hGFu96Du-fNmX57bmkqlHd6kVsQL_NMZ1iDg9faMc/s1600/402821_10150470406701446_529486445_9022631_691334731_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCXo_3Hk0RwfwccW85y2JHqR7dUFVNYyANwKzk-9iBP3nMbHEyxHoIhiS56oZqtE4TGy8FQSRslqQpppS5ncO9ZvURSS4kOwmAN0hGFu96Du-fNmX57bmkqlHd6kVsQL_NMZ1iDg9faMc/s200/402821_10150470406701446_529486445_9022631_691334731_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Yay, family puzzle time!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijArjIlpTICZq06CVz38mGIkDy6IORBtTfbXtVolNUoFobAvaFz2yKLE_614NXNWWSpS2OWqDYMhPvGQAywWkfxuCNdhSLo1EFR_No_lQNOD60huISn7NhENBcM0u_V3hwz0rlwieSc0/s1600/400199_10150470410101446_529486445_9022635_2076963936_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijArjIlpTICZq06CVz38mGIkDy6IORBtTfbXtVolNUoFobAvaFz2yKLE_614NXNWWSpS2OWqDYMhPvGQAywWkfxuCNdhSLo1EFR_No_lQNOD60huISn7NhENBcM0u_V3hwz0rlwieSc0/s200/400199_10150470410101446_529486445_9022635_2076963936_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">3 hours (9 collective hours) later...</span></td></tr>
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And
more frighteningly..<o:p></o:p></div>
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2. I
am solely responsible for the well being (keeping alive) of Scott and Vanessa’s
fur child, Apple the Shih Tzu, for ten long days. God help me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In
case you haven’t noticed, I am a cat person. I love cats. I love their
independent nature, the sound they make when they purr, and even their
tendency to act like cold, judgemental Russian spies most of the time. I feel
about dogs the way some people feel about human infants:<o:p></o:p></div>
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-I
don’t know what they want and I find it off putting. “What are you barking at?”
*looking around desperately*<o:p></o:p></div>
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-I am
not your butler, tiny tyrant! - This dog rings a bell when she wants to go
outside, sometimes (albeit very rarely) at 3:30am. Ironically, I now have a pavlovian response to this sound.
“I’m coming! Oh God, please don’t crap on the floor!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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-I am
far too lazy to entertain them constantly. “Oh look, you brought me your
drooled soaked toy, again, for the 4056<sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">th</span></sup> time...lucky me”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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-They look at me with contempt and disappointment because I am more "no nonsense" than their unconditional love giving parents. “take a number”</div>
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-Dealing
with fresh poo is completely disgusting and degrading. “I am walking down the
road carrying a bag of dog feces, what part of this is dignified?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Speaking of feces, because <i>that</i> transition is always welcome, </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Spinster Reccommends</span></div>
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I would like to <s>confess</s> proudly announce that I own a Litter Locker. NAY, a Litter Locker <i>II</i>. You might be saying to yourself... isn't that like a Diaper Genie for cats?And you would be 100% correct. Since I will never have children, thus denying myself the opportunity to ever own a Diaper Genie, I thought I'd give the cat version a try. Adding to the already overt spinsterlyness of the situation, I should add that I picked it out and Mimama bought it for me when she was here in August - like all mothers dream of buying for their daughters in their late twenties. </div>
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I am whole heartedly embracing the Litter Locker II. If you own a cat (or three cats *cough*Sara*cough*) you need to go and get yourself a Litter Locker immediately. Also, you should probably combine the Litter Locker II with Arm & Hammer's Essential Naturals litter, for two reasons; One, it works really well, and two, it's made of corn and so weighs <i>way</i> less than the regular cat litter. This might seem a silly reason to choose a litter product, but when you are a spinster who doesn't go to the gym, you might find that not being able to lift the heavy-ass litter product <i>out</i> of the shopping cart and <i>into</i> the trunk may result in <s>weeping tears of lonely</s> frustration. And don't even begin to think I am getting paid to promote anything, we all know this blog makes 26 cents per entry. Who knows, I might actually get sued for that 26 cents. </div>
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These two things > picking up dog poop with your hand and a plastic bag</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLfvuwtnfyqTwh6nokL6b89cLEWEky1OwqsD_4ubqo_d9IBGoBBAl4DNe4hEFxde8ViwbBmujIr_fAwipwZTfEfq2oQAJjakHFfOAEzoI7LTnnwg_kjneFg0cXgDtOwkHnzAWqBNnDy4/s1600/7741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidLfvuwtnfyqTwh6nokL6b89cLEWEky1OwqsD_4ubqo_d9IBGoBBAl4DNe4hEFxde8ViwbBmujIr_fAwipwZTfEfq2oQAJjakHFfOAEzoI7LTnnwg_kjneFg0cXgDtOwkHnzAWqBNnDy4/s200/7741.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVb5qrjrvkM5bUaLjQzuIkEoIDikoMe9X3DuMB8S1IlHmY4Jb01rzxr5ChNDVKZmFpA3Z6YrpRM8DQQ_Fx3cmzkKmj1YJjGeKhbtJ4uhk4JEswsr-Jy-19kX5uMz1eX7CZJB7e4ElePBs/s1600/51JA79mXRYL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVb5qrjrvkM5bUaLjQzuIkEoIDikoMe9X3DuMB8S1IlHmY4Jb01rzxr5ChNDVKZmFpA3Z6YrpRM8DQQ_Fx3cmzkKmj1YJjGeKhbtJ4uhk4JEswsr-Jy-19kX5uMz1eX7CZJB7e4ElePBs/s200/51JA79mXRYL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Back to the dog..</div>
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Apple is genuinely sweet natured, and what minuscule amount of love I have set aside for dogs in my grinch-sized heart is shared equally between her, my friend Meg's dog Libby, and <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2040461/Boo-Pomeranian-Worlds-cutest-dog-millions-Facebook-fans-book.html">Boo, the world's cutest dog</a>. I really enjoy Apple when I am not in charge of keeping her alive. Her name is Apple, but she is a bit of a lemon, a dud. </div>
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She is allergic to wheat</div>
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She cannot go out in the backyard alone</div>
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She has pharyngeal gag reflexes </div>
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She stepped on spear grass one summer and ended up needing surgery</div>
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and once, just once, and perhaps this is urban legend...</div>
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her goggly eye popped out of its socket.</div>
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Just typing the list out strikes fear in my heart. </div>
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My Wordfeud friend, Elizabeth, is also the assistant general manager who takes over for Vanessa when she is away. We often compare notes of how things are going. She is running a multi-million dollar business and managing over 50 employees; I am keeping alive one 10lb dog. We both agree that my job is harder. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apple</td></tr>
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So, because work has been so slow, Apple and I have spent much of the last week alone together; she wishing I was Scott and I wishing she was Gus. And now, thanks to the snow day, I think we both have a little cabin fever. I have now read three books, cooked a meal that was not pancakes, dismantled Vanessa's Christmas tree (her most hated), researched vacations I can't afford on the internet, watched four episode of <i>Urban Suburban</i> back to back, and last, but not sane, cleaned the wireless keyboard for S&V's Mac with 28 Q-Tips. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-53292031265031824342012-01-04T18:15:00.000-08:002012-12-22T22:05:39.340-08:00Entry #55 - Spinster New Year - Resolutions for UnderachieversDear Diary,<br />
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If the sudden arrival of Christmas was a sneak-up-and-slap-me-across-the-face kind of surprise, then the arrival of Two Thousand Twelve is the back-handed slap that immediately followed the first slap. The indignation at the first slap is still fresh, so the backhand leaves me a spluttering a stream of nonsensical swear words; "dock trugger saint whacker!". Now that I have had a few days to transition I am feeling somewhat optimistic about 2012, in the dangerous "it can't be much worse than 2011" tempting fate kind of way.<br />
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So, in the interest of setting myself up for triumph, I share with you my goals for 2012, AKA:<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Resolutions for the Unmotivated:</span><br />
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<u>"Dictated But Not Read"</u><br />
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Last year (during one of my bouts of emotional instability), I visited my 93 year old grandmother, Martha, in her cruise-ship style retirement home. I was telling her about teaching and possible depression, and she was telling me about teaching <i>during</i> the depression...you know, that old chestnut. In the middle of her story about the seven marriage proposals she received while teaching out in the prairies (she is my grandma in every way but biologically, I clearly did not inherit such magnetism) Grandma interrupted herself to ask me if I needed any cards. It went something like this...<br />
"...and he proposed as well, but I grew up on a farm and there was no way I wanted to be a farmer's wife! No way in - do you need any cards, Hannah?"<br />
Not one to miss an opportunity to rummage through a vintage card collection and suffering perpetually from the "yes, pleases", I immediately said "Yes, please, Grandma!".<br />
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Grandma proceeded to bring out a box filled with some of the most awesomely amazing retro stationary ever seen by these eyes. The best find by far was the hot pink "Mirth from Martha" cards, which may have caused me to shout "solid gold!" when I pulled them out of the box. There was no date stamped on the back to tell me when these cards were printed, but I'm fairly certain the the word "mirth" has not been used in everyday speech since around 1947. I also snagged "Hello from BC" with butterflies, some gingham print floral motif, and some classic "Swiss Alpine View". Thanks, Grandma!<br />
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One of my resolutions is to send more Spinster Correspondence, to communicate with people in a way that shows them they are worth 59<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 14px;">¢ </span>and a trip to the mailbox. In the age of digital communication, I think it is a pleasant surprise to find a colourful card among a pile of bills. That, and I like to force myself upon people unsolicited. </div>
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Keep and eye out, "Mirth from Martha" may be gracing your mailbox in the near future. </div>
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<u>Not Eating Like an Ass*ole</u></div>
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I know that many, many, many people make New Years resolutions about health and fitness. Most of these people have wight loss plans, gym passes, and a strong sense of motivation. I have none of these things. I simply wish to not die of scurvy. When I was living with Kim, she was pretty amazing about making meals. For the nine months that we lived together (and for the two years we lived together the <i>first </i> time) I consistently ate meals that included vegetables, protein, and some delicious starches. Don't get me wrong, we also ate "half of Japan" when we went for sushi, and may or may not have eaten an entire orange meringue pie in one sitting during our university years. Overall though, Kim planned meals and steamed vegetables, and in general took amazing care of me. Thanks, sweetheart!</div>
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I am not completely useless in the kitchen. I can follow a recipe and am a pretty good baker. I am also, however, inexcusably lazy and a terrible planner in the world of culinary preparedness. I routinely show up and the grocery store, grab my spinster-sized pull along basket, get milk for my tea, and then (lacking list or meal ideas) proceed to wander the aisles aimlessly hoping for culinary inspiration. </div>
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The only food I am consistent about is oatmeal and berries. It is pretty much guaranteed that I have oatmeal and frozen berries at all times which sicks Vanessa out to no end as the very thought of oatmeal gives her the gags. Speaking of Scott and Vanessa, I could write a Shakespearean style love sonnet about all the things I ate while living at their house. Vanessa is an extremely good cook and Scott is a trained chef, so you can probably imagine what eating at their house is like. In case you have a terrible imagination, here is an example: One day when Vanessa and I came home from work Scott had made pasta tossed with fresh tomatoes, basil, and pan seared scallops, home made potato salad (including different coloured potatoes and shredded purple carrot), and a fancy green salad. It. Was. Delicious. That meal will be vividly emblazoned in my mind for many many years. I may remember more about that meal than I do about the last time I had sex, but I accept that as a logical consequence for shot-gunning Strongbow. </div>
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Vanessa likes to ask me what I've eaten on any given day, I think it's kind of a morbid-curiosity thing for her. Some of the answers she has received are as follows:</div>
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-"Pancakes....just pancakes"</div>
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- "A variety of cheeses and a special K bar"</div>
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-"Macaroni and cheese" (I once answered this every day for five days)</div>
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-"tomato soup"</div>
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-"A can of peaches and some pickles"</div>
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-"tea and popcorn"</div>
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-"Pancakes again...but pumpkin pancakes this time. Vegetables!"</div>
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-"Three oranges and some toast"</div>
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-"A whole tray of fig and goat cheese puffs"</div>
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-"a banana and peanut butter straight from the jar"</div>
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-"roasted beets and carrots"</div>
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So, I shall make a serious effort to plan meals, eat more vegetables and fruit, and in general not eat like a complete ass*&le. I am not off to a good start thus far. Today I have had tea, a VEGA shake, and three small cubes of gingerbread cake (hijacked from Vanessa's holiday party). Fail. I did, however, just take a break to get an apple. Take that, scurvy!<br />
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<u>Wear More Party Dresses</u><br />
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As straight forward as it sounds. I want to dress up more, damn it! Someone throw a fancy party!<br />
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<u><strike>Be Less of a Bitch</strike></u><br />
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In the interest of being successful I have stricken this goal from the list. Baby Steps.<br />
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<u>Walking it Off / Shaking it Out</u><br />
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It is a truth widely acknowledged that I am in possession of a minor emotional limp. It is imperceptible to many, but glaringly obvious to the people who know me best; for it has been discussed/analyzed/scrutinized/wept over ad nauseum. "Water off a duck's back" is not a well understood or commonly practiced saying in my world, I am more of a "water dumped over a denim tuxedo" kind of girl - whatever someone says or does that hurts me stays with me for a ridiculously long time, leaving me cold, clammy, disgruntled, and very likely, chafed. In the words of Florence and the Machine <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RCWnVznnWcs">"I'm always dragging that horse around"</a>.<br />
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2012 shall be the year that I strip off the soggy denim tuxedo and walk it off! (you're welcome - for the sexy visual). I am going to work really hard on acceptance and forgiveness, for both myself and others. I shall accept wholeheartedly that rather than the sexy,smooth, seductress I have always secretly imagined myself to be I am a<i>ctually </i>a rather nerdy and awkward ginger who sometimes accidentally mentions Star Wars on first dates, plays hide and seek with her cat, quotes Pride and Prejudice in everyday conversation, snorts when she laughs, sings loudly in the car, loves young adult fiction, gets hiccups at inappropriate times, writes a blog about spinsterhood, loves with her whole heart (even though it sometimes comes back to punch her in the face), hates shitty hugs, vacations like a senior citizen, and eats more cheese than is right or acceptable for any human being. I know it's crazy, but so far no man<i> </i>has found this worth fighting for; and maybe it's because I will turn "old" on my birthday this year, but I have come to the realization that fighting to prove I am worth fighting for is a rather pointless and disappointing endeavour - like hoping to see a polar bear in Hawaii.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNreMOXV5K37Te4V4tRt8pMk1PGKhoKbWl5zrKNBaaW_tkVjTuQSUKJcISVPYwBY_mciDOkUXjJ3_qonAVgz2swI02yhnSE6EWsHvpknMcabE6j5_epGQ8HphikhBwBQH9EFUa38e3fag/s1600/Kelly%2527s+Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNreMOXV5K37Te4V4tRt8pMk1PGKhoKbWl5zrKNBaaW_tkVjTuQSUKJcISVPYwBY_mciDOkUXjJ3_qonAVgz2swI02yhnSE6EWsHvpknMcabE6j5_epGQ8HphikhBwBQH9EFUa38e3fag/s400/Kelly%2527s+Wedding.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Forgiveness will be the tougher nut to crack, for while forgiveness is within my capabilities, forgetting is not...but perhaps it is possible to still remember, but with more benevolence than previously applied to some painful situations. Less snark, more compassion. I mean, maybe some people just don't think Star Wars is awesome...yeah, no, I still don't want to hang out with those people. *<br />
<u><br /><br />Horoscope for 2012</u><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*unless you are Kim - pre-existing friendship clause</span><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-43614479422275533722011-12-22T19:31:00.000-08:002012-12-22T22:05:57.164-08:00Entry #54 - The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past, Present, and GayDear Diary,<br />
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<u>Christmas - A time for reflection....and overeating</u><br />
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Oh Christmastime, you sly wench! You snuck up on me yet again!<br />
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It is difficult to believe that almost a year has gone by since "<a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2010/12/entry-19-yuletide-edition.html">Diary of a Spinster Aunt - Yuletide Edition</a>". I have a bit of a soft spot for that particular entry as it was the first to be written as a blog, as opposed to the earlier entries which were originally written and posted as Facebook notes. The first entry of all time was the one-line-plus-photo "<a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2010/10/diary-of-spinster-aunt-entry-1-ate.html">Crumble and Nelly</a>", which was written and posted to Facebook on August 12th 2010, less than three weeks after my relationship fell apart and I moved in with Vanessa and Scott. I can't even say exactly what made me post it, but my best guess is that it was probably a combination of the following:<br />
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- post breakup psychosis.<br />
- an attempt to find humour in a pretty bleak time.<br />
- my inability to NOT share with someone else when I catch myself doing something as ridiculous as eating crumble straight from the dish while listening/singing along to "Hot in Herre". If you ever catch yourself singing lyrics like "Good gracious ass is bodacious" through a mouthful of crumble and you DON'T tell me about it, I will be really, deeply, disappointed.<br />
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That first entry was around 20 words long and was posted somewhat flippantly. If you had told me that it would go on for more than a year and that I would become verbose enough to write almost 2,000 words in one go, I probably would have punched you straight in the nose and called you a filthy liar! After I punched you in the nose I would have leaned over you and counted off the following pieces of airtight logic to prove my point:<br />
1. The idea of writing 2,000 words about my feelings on the internet is completely preposterous!<br />
2. Who in the hell would even read such a thing!?<br />
3. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTT! As if I'm going to be a spinster for THAT long!<br />
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Those first few entries caused quite a few people to object strongly to the word "spinster", most famously my own sister who threatened to fly up from Texas to "whoop my ass" if I continued to use it.<br />
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What people didn't perhaps understand right away is that I have used "Spinster" with love and fondness from the first time I wrote it down. Its use, for me, was born from all the people who immediately insisted to me that I would "find someone else", a phrase that is meant well but rubs me the wrong way by the inherent implication that being single is not okay, which is total bologna. I am a firm believer that being single is a thousand times better than being with someone just for the sake of being with someone.<br />
My sister did eventually get on board and embrace my spinsterhood, she even posts my links to her wall(timeline??) on Facebook and will even admit that she finds it pretty funny (from time to time). For those who claim that Diary of a Spinster Aunt is a "pity party", to you I say "why the hell are you reading this?", but I also say this: when I look back through the entries I don't feel even remotely sad or depressed. I look back and see a huge collection of happy memories including Cabo-waiian vacations, birthday parties, the most ridiculous apartment on the planet, a priceless art collection, cruising, romance novels, singing in the car wash, Nancy Drew computer games, weddings, preposterous family photos, crepes, and a cat with a hilarious haircut. The last year and a half has been really hard at times, I won't deny it; But I consider myself lucky to have cried on Vanessa's heated marble floor, because it reminds me that she loved me enough to invite me, without hesitation, to live with her and her husband...for six weeks...twice. Yes, Kimmy moved away to Scotland, and I cried when she left, but when I look at <a href="http://diaryofaspinsteraunt.blogspot.com/2011/05/entry-40-spinster-forlorn.html">Spinster Forlorn</a> I see one sad memory surrounded by hundreds of happy ones, and I am so grateful to have had those nine months with her.<br />
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So, in the spirit of reflection (and because it vaguely fits a Christmas theme), I present to you the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past, Present, and Future (Gay!)<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ghosts of Boyfriends Past</span></u><br />
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In September I lost a pearl earring. No big deal, right? You can buy those at Winners for like thirty bucks! WRONG. Not about Winners, that part is entirely true, and if you don't have a pair you should go and buy yourself some immediately. Wardrobe staple, seriously. Anyway, back to the story. I lose a pearl earring. I can vividly remember the moment when I realized I could only find one; a feeling of cold dread washed over me, I felt slightly panicked, and then I started muttering "no, no, no, no, no, NO!" as I ransacked my bedroom looking for it. When I realized that I was not going to find it, I sat down on the floor and asked myself why I was freaking out. "Calm down, you crazy bitch!" I said to myself, "you can go on Ebay and replace those immediately and then experience the delayed gratification of receiving them in the mail!!". And I did. I went on ebay and ordered a new pair of pearl earrings...and the anxiety in my chest persisted. What was my problem!? Buying stuff on Ebay always makes me feel better! As I held the one lonely pearl earring in my hand, I had to be honest with myself and accept that the true root of my anxiety was that I had not lost just any pearl earring... I had lost THE pearl earring... that was part of my set of pearls... that was a gift... from my ex...given to me on a particularly blissful Christmas. Shit.<br />
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I am not (by any means) the first to assign emotional value to an inanimate object, there is nothing groundbreaking there. What was odd was that I hadn't really spoken to him in months. I had pent up anger toward him that rivaled the anger it took for Justin Timberlake to write the Justified album. I had created and then crushed numerous clay likenesses of him at counselor Pat's office and I was <i>still angry. </i> I even smashed one likeness with a two-handed hammer-fist, a la Captain Kirk, and if that doesn't iron out your feelings I don't know what will. But I digress, where was I? If I so strongly disliked him (hate is such a brutal word), why was I so upset about losing something he gave me? You'd think I would want to throw the whole set out the window, lest it remind me of the disrespect with which I had been treated. But no, rather I was close to tears, clutching one pearl to my chest, trying to convince myself that I was being ridiculous (this is a routine conversation, I assure you). Being angry is easier in many ways than being sad, and I had convinced myself that the "only good thing I got" out of that relationship was that set of pearls, because it was easier than acknowledging the happy memories that went with them. That one lonely pearl opened the proverbial memory flood gates; like most happy memory montages it started with opening the box that contained them, then jumped to him placing them around my neck and doing up the clasp, to wearing them on our anniversary, to the way he would always touch them and say "pretty" every time I wore them.<br />
Finally accepting the existence of some happy memories turned out to be a good thing. Many weeks later I ran into this particular Ghost of Boyfriends Past and he noticed mid-conversation that I was wearing the pearl bracelet he gave me. Out of habit he reached out to touch them. Equally as well conditioned, I placed my wrist in his palm. He didn't say "pretty" like he used to, but when I looked up at his face I could tell that he remembered too, and that it was getting easier for him as well.<br />
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In the month of December I have met up with both The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past (how many did you <i>think </i>there was?), and I was pleasantly surprised by how nice it was. There was a time when I thought I would never be able to see either one without feeling a black hole of rejection and sadness, and here I was, catching up and enjoying myself! Such progress on the emotional well-being front!*<br />
<br />
Mixed in with all this fun of boyfriends past was a date, that's right A DATE. December was a complete cluster cuss on this front.<br />
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Ghost of Boyfriend (read:guy I had coffee with once) Present</span></u><br />
<u><br /></u>
So I finally met Mystery M*** , or, to jog your memory, that guy that had to cancel at the last minute back in November, which resulted in me crying alone in my car. That guy. So we finally met, and he was really nice. I tried really hard not to talk about my cat too much, which was challenging because he had adorable puppy stories. I enjoyed meeting him very much, and I think he enjoyed talking to me...until I committed unintentional first date suicide with the following exchange:<br />
<br />
Mystery: "...my neighbour's dog, whose name is (*I heard*) <i>Naboo</i>"<br />
Me: excited "Naboo!? Like the planet from Star Wars?!"<br />
Mystery: brow furrows "uhh no, <i>Abu. </i>But why do you know that?<i>"</i><br />
Me: awkward pause while I flog myself internally "OH! haha, Abu...the monkey... from Aladdin...not Naboo...the planet from Star Wars. Ha ha...ha...oh God".<br />
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Needless to say, I haven't heard from him again. Shocking.<br />
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Moving on. </div>
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<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Ghost of Boyfriend Future (Gay Boyfriend!)</span></u><br />
<u><br /></u>
TA DA!!<br />
<u><br /></u>
My Gay Boyfriend (GB) Bryan is amazing. Every woman, especially the spinsters, should have themselves a GB like my Bryan. He loves me unconditionally, he compliments my looks and my intellect, he writes me poetry, he bakes for me, he crafts me jewelry, he gives me amazing hugs which often feature pick-ups-and-twirls or ballroom dips. He's handsome, he's smart, he's funny, he's kind. Sigh. He would be the perfect man for me, were it not for the fact that he is disgusted by my bits. Once, when reaching across me to get something his hand accidentally grazed my boob and he actually shuddered and said "ewwwwww". Some straight men feel that way too, so I wasn't all that put out.<br />
Bryan once lived with me in Spinster Mansion for a few weeks while he was in between places. Kim was away at the time, so he occupied her room for the duration of his stay. I would come home to find him wearing my cupcake apron and baking me lemon squares, a sight which would make even the most hardened spinster excited.<br />
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I love you, Bryan. <br />
<br />
Amazing realizations: GB (Gay Boyfriend) + SG (Straight Girlfriend) = BSG (Battle Star Galactica)<br />
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<u>Best Gift of the Season</u><br />
The spinster seal of approval goes to Darren (yes, like the avocado), who sent me a message telling me about the musical stylings of one Riki Lindhome. Long story short, my new dream is to write sarcastic/bitter/hilarious songs with her. Sharing her is my Christmas gift to you. You're welcome!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*This does not in any way mean that I will not get drunk on Christmas day, go on Facebook, find pictures of them with their new girlfriends/wives/partners/ladyfriends and immediately come to the drunken conclusion that I am smarter, better looking, funnier, and more charming than all of them, slam my fist down on my desk as I deem them "Poor Man's Hannahs", sing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U5n_Q6JnRE">"Beige Curtains"</a> and then pass out naked on my bed after a Drunken Nog Tub. This is just my Christmas routine and it's nothing personal.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5159194002145146183.post-19045400455095270192011-11-30T17:00:00.000-08:002012-12-22T22:06:29.765-08:00Entry #53 - "Still Bitter, More Baggage"Dear Diary,<br />
<br />
It may seem, at first read, like there is a lot of crying in this entry. I feel that I should point out that while I am a somewhat lachrymose individual, this entry does span August-November...so you can spread out the crying a little in your mind. Average it out. Find the mean, maybe the median, a little mode perhaps? It probably won't make me seem any less pathetic or self-pitying, but it will make my grade nine math teacher, Mr.Carmody, really proud. That, or you could take a shot for each time I cry and get really good and drunk. Your choice!<br />
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In the beginning of August I lost my senses and signed up for an online dating website. I know most of you just said "What the fu*#?" out loud as you read that, and to be honest, I shocked even myself. Please allow me to explain...<br />
<br />
After living with Scott and Vanessa for my annual six-week-sleepover I moved into my new place and was officially living alone. At the exact same time I finished my five-week stint of teaching ESL six days a week. Here is how this looked in mathematical terms, by mathematical I mean I added a + sign and an = sign. <br />
<br />
Living with Scott and Vanessa + ESL summer high school camp = Non-stop human interaction and fun<br />
Living alone + working part time (at a job where I am often alone) = Uncomfortable abundance of alone time. "Abbondanze!" (that's for you, Kimmy)<br />
<br />
This abrupt change from being extremely busy and surrounded by people to having nothing but time and a half empty basement suite was uncomfortable to say the least. For a while I didn't even have Gus. I wanted to wait until I was settled before retrieving him from my friend Cassie's house, and even when I did pick him up he was not impressed to be moved again and spent the better part of a week hiding under my bed and ignoring me. Some cats are like that.<br />
<br />
So there I was, alone in my new Subterranean Spinster Mansion. No Kim, no Scott and Vanessa, No Gus, and no Heather for at least another three weeks. I spent a lot of time buying random stuff off Ebay. I also ate most meals standing up. I quickly came to exact same conclusion that I came to a year ago; I (along with most men) am not a fan of my own company. It was also my one year spisterversary/un-niversary and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, and to be honest, pretty lonely. It didn't help that I was in the midst of losing my medical and dental benefits which had been previously covered through my ex. This process included a text from him asking for two pieces of information:<br />
-my new address <br />
and, prepare yourself....<br />
-my birth date. <br />
That's right, he asked me when my birthday is. Reading this particular text resulted in me shouting at my phone in the middle of a crowded store "COME ON! Seriously!? My BIRTHDAY!?". I have discovered that I really dislike the taste of my own insignificance, it might be worse than Buckley's. The painful part is that not only do I know his birthday, I also still know the birthday of the boyfriend before him! I went home and had a cry about that text for sure. Long story longer, if Elvis had come back from the dead around this time and said to me "are you lonesome tonight?", I would have begrudgingly answered "...affirmative...".<br />
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So, in a moment of weakness I signed up for the old dating via the intertrons...and then proceeded to ignore it for the next two months. Oh, I would open it up from time to time, browse through the potential suitors, read the "ice breakers" sent to me by various gentlemen. This usually resulted with me closing my laptop and putting my head down on my desk for a while. I hated it. Really hated it. I know the "dragnet fishing" approach to dating works for some people, and for many has resulted in finding life partner whom they really love, but for me the very thought of it was exhausting. I don't want to go on 80 awkward dates to find one person I get along with. Blargh. <br />
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Vanessa accused me of being far too picky, but I think the following are perfectly sound reasons to strike someone off the potential date list:<br />
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<u>Spinster's Online Dating Deal Breakers:</u><br />
-a picture of you with no shirt, most likely taken in the bathroom mirror using your smart phone. (douchey and unnecessary)<br />
-a picture of you with your motorcycle (*cough*death wish*cough*)<br />
-serious spelling errors, which thanks to built-in spell check were usually limited to erroneously selected homonyms: "I am a grate communicator". (No sir, you are not).<br />
-In the section where you are supposed to talk about a book you recently read and enjoyed you wrote "I don't read, unless you count Maxim". (I do not).<br />
-You didn't bother to capitalize your first name. (Seriously? My grade one students would correct you).<br />
-You are this guy(see picture below), who all on his own stopped me from logging in for at least two weeks. I added the Mardi Gras mask and beard/moustache combo, both for my own entertainment and because knowing my luck one of the dozen people who read this blog will know him. <br />
Back to the picture. So, usually I am all for a funny picture, some might say I LOVE a funny picture. However, something told me that this guy was<strong> not</strong> joking. Not about the lying sideways pose with the clasped hands....not about the open collared shirt with the white v-neck t-shirt...not about the aviators pushed atop the long Pirates of Penzance hair... not about the beach location of the photo shoot (and I say photo shoot because God knows that this was not a candid picture). He is not joking about any of it. There is lady love out there for you "Pirates of Penzance" guy, but this spinster is not her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfOhvLKJizHrH2b5nf6vjoDVOfU9QkS3Ul3mF-AT_eq0nk3vjqS30UwS4aCkc1PEANqby6RAaZzprbkYvRlV5GTwYlMrfnN4MGBrM58OW3EzMsgpo93qXKzTngsSJpsBQVisHQSJcVu4/s1600/2011-10-25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfOhvLKJizHrH2b5nf6vjoDVOfU9QkS3Ul3mF-AT_eq0nk3vjqS30UwS4aCkc1PEANqby6RAaZzprbkYvRlV5GTwYlMrfnN4MGBrM58OW3EzMsgpo93qXKzTngsSJpsBQVisHQSJcVu4/s200/2011-10-25.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dying alone > This</td></tr>
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You know what is a funny picture? THIS! It has nothing to do with this blog, but it is hilarious and I'm pretty sure you will be glad that I provided you with this mid-post comic relief as you read further!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXr-ZauEFSjYkTiubMSQ4qFsOjhl5HDhhBaq7hOSUqej9NoE1iarVW-3utOD2G-S1tTzFmJlQmkBivIw84XPHE_aMhXRoCkkeoshYpWESilosfEskXwttToLjaS9rYCWyzzXLienhIJ08/s1600/2011-11-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXr-ZauEFSjYkTiubMSQ4qFsOjhl5HDhhBaq7hOSUqej9NoE1iarVW-3utOD2G-S1tTzFmJlQmkBivIw84XPHE_aMhXRoCkkeoshYpWESilosfEskXwttToLjaS9rYCWyzzXLienhIJ08/s400/2011-11-23.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most recent in a long line of "preposterous family portraits", the recreation of Easter '93.</td></tr>
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Suddenly it was October. Two months had rolled by and I had communicated with zero men. I had, however, closed and archived a whole bunch of potential "matches". I was beginning to really regret wasting my money on this fruitless and depressing endeavour. Then one day, lo and behold, a suitor pops up who seems to be, well, really cool. He seems nice and funny, and by golly he knows how to use a semi colon. He also boasts zero spelling errors and zero shirtless pictures! It's a fu*#ing miracle! He and I message back and forth for a while, and after three or four weeks I suggest that maybe we could meet and see if we actually like one another in person. He eventually agrees, I say eventually because a timely response was never his strong suit. So inconsistent and untimely was his communication that we actually referred to him as "Mystery ****". <br />
<br />
Heather: "When do you think he'll get back to you?"<br />
Me: "That's a mystery"<br />
<br />
Vanessa: "How is Mystery ****?"<br />
Me: "Mysterious, as per usual"<br />
<br />
When the day of the date finally comes along a strange coincidence occurs. While I am at work Counselor Pat leaves me a voice mail saying that it had been about 7 months since she had seen me and she just wanted to check in and see how I was doing. That's odd, I thought, that she should call on the very day that I am finally supposed to go on a date after she talked me off a ledge about my last relationship. I actually texted Vanessa and said something along the lines of "Counselor Pat called out of the blue today...this bodes ill indeed". Sigh. You know where this is going.<br />
<br />
So I am on my way downtown for what is meant to be my first date in three years. I am <strike>sweaty and nervous</strike> calm and confident. I am listening/car dancing to LMFAO's "Sexy and I know it" louder than is necessary or recommended by an audiologist. Thanks to the fact that my cell phone doubles as my MP3 player, I am unceremoniously interrupted in the middle of belting out the "wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle!" portion of the aforementioned song by my text message notification sound. The sound of "Pixie Dust", for this is what the notification sound is called, has never sounded more ominous. Like a miniature, perky, death knell. My eyes dart nervously in the direction of my phone, my hands grip the steering wheel in a vice grip. One text can't be that bad, right? He's probably just checking the time and place. My ingrained pessimism knows better. I am no longer singing "Sexy and I know it" and am already questioning my knowledge of said sexiness in the first place. Sexy?! What the hell was I thinking!? The intersection straight ahead offers two choices, straight leads me downtown toward my date, and left leads me to Scott and Vanessa's house (place of emotional safety/emotional overeating/five-star bathroom floor crying). Pixie Dust rings out thrice more, sealing my decision to turn left. I pull over at the first available place and pick up my phone before Pixie Dust can assault my ears further. I will spare you the brutal details, but it went something like this:<br />
<br />
Apology and Cancellation of date (18 minuets before date was set to commence)<br />
Excuse/Explanation (subjective)<br />
Apology<br />
Apology<br />
Profuse Apology<br />
<br />
Le sigh. What followed is not shocking or surprising to anyone who knows me: I placed my head against the steering wheel and cried silent tears of disappointment and frustration. This went on for long enough that I got through Hall and Oates' "You make my dreams come true" in its entirety (but not so long that I listened to all of "Eye of the tiger") before being startled from my self-pity by yet another text message:<br />
<br />
Request/plea for acknowledgement that messages were received.<br />
<br />
Message received. Loud and clear, Mystery ****. From both you and the universe. Loud and clear...<br />
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<tr><td><img alt="Spelling" height="316" src="http://thumbs.imagekind.com/member/0f4bc918-31b5-48e4-a1d5-f4505759914c/uploadedartwork/650X650/a6ea5ed4-f1d8-44f3-bf85-b98809b32ba0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">This image belongs to Sloane Tanen, who writes a books with titles like "Bitter with baggage seeks same" and "Going for the bronze; still bitter more baggage". It goes without saying that I have identified with more than one bitter chicken. </td></tr>
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I consider going to Vanessa's, but then I remember that she and Scott have a house guest which renders the five-star bathroom floor unavailable for me to lie on. I drive back to subterranean Spinster Mansion, feeling dejected and foolish.<br />
When I get home I park out on the street as Heather's aunt and uncle were parking in the driveway for a special event they had come to the island for. I wander up the road, head down in a sad Charlie Brown style of walking, and so it isn't til the last second that I realize that Heather's aunt and uncle are in our driveway at this very minute, picking up the car. <br />
I pray that it is dark enough that they can see neither my clumpy, tear-sodden mascara eyes, nor the imprint of the steering wheel in my slightly larger than average forehead (fivehead). They are both very nice and friendly and we chat about Heather's cousin's graduation for a few minutes. As I am saying goodbye Heather's aunt mentions that she likes my blog, to which I replied, "there is certainly more where that came from".Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2Victoria, BC, Canada48.4286111 -123.365555648.407538599999995 -123.4050376 48.4496836 -123.32607359999999