Yarmouth Bound

So tomorrow I return to la Nouvelle Ecosse. Nova Scotia.

I'll be gone for two weeks.

Normally, a two-week vacation would mean no updates, but since I will be in a tiny little town on the southern-most tip of the province, I feel confident that -- until me seven-year-old nephew shows up, anyway -- that I shall have a nice surplus of time.

Expect a bit of whinging over the temperature change. While we here in Toronto have been enjoying 35 to 36-degree weather (plus humidity), Yarmouth tends to hover in the 20-degree state.

A cruel curse, seeing as Nova Scotia offers some of the cleanest, emptiest, prettiest beaches I've been to. Minus the whole fog bank issue.

Acadien? Oui, ca c'est moi -- pour deux semaines.

Small things that bite...

One of the very first posts on this blog (well over a year ago -- je suis a late bandwagon jumper, bien sur) was of a particular incident with a yellow-green spider.

Specifically, that it ran across my face and bit my chin, after I was courteous enough not to kill it two hours earlier.

The other night as I was preparing for bed, I noticed something on the ceiling of the bathroom.

Some things.

Like, 15 of them.

Small, baby spiders. The green fellas - ones that like to bite me. I'm not a big fan of dealing death to anything that isn't an earwig, a mosquito or a fly... But I smited those poor little guys, knowing they would spread, breed and bite.

I apologized to as many as possible in my attempt to deliver quick and painless death, before moving on to the ones in the shower, and those that quaked on the kitchen ceiling.

In retrospect, I suppose I could have attempted to catch as many as possible before releasing them outside.

But I did feel bad. Poor little guys.

An open letters to agents and publishers...

Dear agents/publishers,

It's me again. I truly am a desperately annoying human being who should be hung and quarted immediately. Let me refer you my enclosed address. Sundays are best for me. (I may feel a need to roar, "Freeedooooooom!" near the end. Simply ignore it.)

As you no doubt know, I am trying to publish my work.

Please do me a favour -- a teeny, tiny one at that -- just freaking read it before you throw it to the side.

The books are not that fucking bad. Some people even like my writing. (They could be lying, but let's just assume otherwise for now, 'kay?)

I know I'm no trend-oriented writer, or that my work is lacking some kind of mushy, important value, other than those a kid might identify with or find funny.

I also apologize for not being a celebrity, politician, or severly disabled/diseased human being writing on my experiences. I understand that these have far more artistic merit than just another writing hack looking to write some kids books and have fun.

I certainly don't need to pay bills or any such thing... so do take all the time you need.

Cheers and my very special thanks for ignoring me,

/HG



OK. Maybe that was a tiiiiiny bit bitter. But I'm feeling a little bitter right now. It happens to the best of us. But more often, it happens to me.

Storm come, storm goes...

So things have all been patched. After a flurry of angry email-writing (most of it from me, since I tend to get... mouthy, once someone has put on the flight gloves).

Here is what's I've learned:

1) People don't always hear what you're saying. Misinterpretations are nine-tenths of most misunderstandings, I suspect. The rest of stem from the other person being a dink.

2) Not everyone likes to fight the way I do -- going over each and every point and clearing pointing out logical fallacies, generalizations and misconstrued incidents -- all brightly spiked with furious and hateful jabs.

3) Email arguments are useless and infuriating.

4) I may be angry... but I'm always ready to listen when someone is bearing gifts. The bigger the gift, the more welcome you are. I'm not really joking, either.

5) I'm not gracious enough with compliments sometimes. Or verbal affection. However, in my defence, I just can't go up to everyone and confess my adoration, respect and love. Especially with people I've known longer. You bastards.

6) Email arguments are useless and infuriating.

7) Even more infuriating is arguing with someone who doesn't like to argue. After a while, you figure they're being smug and self-righteous by taking "the high road." So the attacks get worse. "Respond, dammit. RESPOND!"

8) I will not engage in such activity for than once per friendship, unless otheriwse specified.


In happier news, I ate some very tasty guacamole last night, served with a stone mortar and pestle. Mmmm... (the guac, not the stone).

That's that.

And with a small "whump", a friendship with a close friend has officially ended.

It seems my long email -- expressing my hurt and upset over her insensitive fucking email -- was written for naught. The reply today?

"Hey there, I just got back from v-ball and post v-ball
pub life, but wanted to send you a quick note tothank-you for you e-mail as I didn't get a chance to
earlier today.
It is unfortunate that you feel that way about John. He
is quite shy by nature, and funny as hell once you get
to know him.

I don't believe that people are either in my group, or
of my ilk. If they're good hearted, fun and kind,
that's all I ask. I think I would be missing out on a
lot of good people by writing them off so quickly.
Anyhow, must run. I haven't eaten much today, and must
get grub into my system.

Hope you had a good day & night and hopefully we will
chat soon. "

So as I thought, it was about the fact that she couldn't deal with me not liking her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend could deal with it. I could deal with it.

She couldn't. So she made the choice for us.

I lost. Friendship over. The end.

Loyalty is one of the most important things to me. I consider friends my close, adoptive family. This one was more concerned with her boyfriend.

Infuriating, really, coming from a 32-year-old.

But that's life. Always filled with bullshit.

A new day.Kind of.

So I finally got to sleep around 7:15, for almost five hours. I'm tired. I haven't eaten.

But a number of chums have sent me very kind emails of support. Fortunately, no else has issues with me -- or at least that they're willing to bring up. Which makes me wonder if the quiet ones are holding back...

Today kind of sucks. I've decided that the only cure is to join up with friends who like my rather acid tongue and get blotto.

Yes. That will do nicely.

Bah.

Can't sleep. I tottered off at about 5:30 am, only to find Chris waking to his alarm.

I bawled in his arms for half an hour, before the half-giggling, half-crying stage, then finally dried up. For a little while, at least.

But still can't sleep. It's my first offical all-nighter in years. My standard rule is bed before sunrise. In this case, I was too busy being miserable.

What's that expression? "You look like you just lost your best friend."

I just saw it in the mirror about 12 minutes ago.
It wasn't pretty.

So long, good mood...

Do your friends like you?

Was greeted by an unexpected and unpleasant email today by a person I considered one of my closest friends in the world.

It seems that I have apparently not been a good friend at all. It seems I am actually a big fucking asshole.

So a quick email sent off to some of the more important chums in my life has been sent off, demanding to know if this is an across-the-board consensus, or whether it is simply localized.

Amongst the choice comments I received in the original email:

"I feel guarded. I am always waiting to be the target of sarcasm or judgement, and I leave thinking, 'does Hannah even really like me? Does she actually care about me?'"

"I question our friendship, sometimes wondering why you even want to hang out. Being the target of sarcasm is funny sometimes, but it can also be very hurtful to me and unrewarding."

"When I put myself out there, it's like I am hit with judgement and maybe even rivalry, I am not exactly certain where the root lies. I am holding back on sharing my successes and failures, my relationship and how I feel about some of the things
that are said to me. It's like I am not a factor, or my feelings aren't, when it comes to getting a jab in at my expense."


Of course, posting this here just goes to prove what an asshole I am.

Truth is, I bawled my ass off when writing the reply. I burst into tears no less than five times. I didn't -- and still don't -- know how to respond to this, but I did anyway.

I was actually pretty pissed that the person in question sent off this laden missive with issues that had been saved up for months and months, rather than actually saying any of this to my face. That's what upset me the most. Along with the insinuations that I am (and I quote from my response): "mean, hurtful, sarcastic, call you mean things, I exclude you, I don't care about your feelings and I hate your significant other."

Because yes, I believe the catalyst to all of this is the fact that I don't adore this person's partner. I'm always very polite and friendly... but I just can't like them. This, apparently, makes me a bad person. Close-minded and horrid.

Anyway, this whole issue has thrown me for a loop. I didn't get the email until 1:30 am. The response took me ages (it's long as hell, too), and then I had to actually start my work -- which I was going to do after returning from my walk.

So sleep will be minimal, I think.

*sigh*

What a shitty end (start?) to the day.

Waiter, there's a fly in my potatoes.

We were reheating leftovers this evening (terrible quality ones that are very bad for your health and weight) -- potato wedges and leftover roast chicken from Loblaws.

(Don't judge -- we haven't had time to do a proper shop.)

Anyway, after a quick reheat in the oven, we were dishing out the wedges when suddenly we saw something black nestled amongst some wedges on the tinfoil.

It was a cooked fly.
"Crispy" might be a better word.

I laughed when I saw it.
"Maybe it's the one I saw flying around the kitchen when I packed up the leftovers," I chuckled, without really thinking. "It's been in the fridge all weekend... and now it's been cooked! What a nasty end!"

Chris' face went pale.
"Oh my god," he said, revulsion creeping in. "That's so disgusting. I can't eat that."

At this point, I couldn't stop giggling. There was something so absurd about this fly that had been refrigerated in a container, on to find itself dished out on a tray and broiled to death.

Needless to say, we ordered delivery for dinner.

Good Heavens!

Back in May, I joined a number of folks in creating a list of top 10 fictional men I would do (Mmmm... Fictional Men).

I felt like someone was missing. Someone important.

Then I realized I had forgotten Mal! Oh Mal, who ties at number one. How could I forget Nathan Fillion's gun-slinging scoundrel (yet another one) in Firefly (and subsequently, Serenity)?

OK, so I think Nathan Fillion is lovely anyway (especially enjoyable in both Slither and as Caleb in Buffy)... but Mal is practically irrestistable.

If I was 13, I'd be giggling and putting pictures of him up on my walls. But I'm old now, so a photo on the blog will have to do.

Oh, the corn... THE CORN

It may be a shock to some, but I did not grow up in Toronto (shocked cries of "No!" come from everywhere, but I assue you that it is indeed true). I grew up in a large city, true, but one that is surrounded by farmland (fantastic Farmer's Markets, though).

As such, I find myself measuring the summer's progression by the height of the corn. No corns or wee little shoots means the summer has hardly begun.

When the corn is taller than most adult males, the summer is usually on its last legs. When the corn is harvested, and the field is barren with only a few remnant dried husks, the fields are ready for winter. Fall will be upon us by then.

This year, the weather has been nothing short of odd -- blisteringly hot, punctuated by unusually cool and grey periods lasting up to a week.

It was much to my horror, as Chris and I drove up north this past weekend (north of Toronto and Barrie, but nothing as far as North Bay -- the so-called gateway to Northern Ontario) that I noticed that the corn was already two feet (or more -- argh!) tall.

Someone please tell me that corn was planted early in some parts. I can't bear to think the summer is actually half over.

It mustn't be. I refuse to acknowledge it.

I simply have not saved enough to escaped to warmer climes for the winter.

Next Wednesday, I leave for Nova Scotia for two weeks. When I return, it will be August.

I pray I can save enough for Thailand... November will be far more bearable spent in warm parts of Asia.

Winter sucks. Sucks, I say.

Waiting is ass...

One of the most interesting parts of my job is interviewing all manner of folks.

It's also one of the worst. Aside from the hell of transcribing (which I've gone off about at length in earlier posts), I always get terrible anxiety right before the interview. What if they're not feeling chatty? What if they hate me? What if they're just one of those people Who Doesn't Like Talking? (Meg White is a perfect example -- brutal to interview. "Oh, I don't know. It's hard to say..." *nervous giggle*)

Even worse is when they don't call or, if you call them, they don't pick up.

Now the anxiety has peaked. They could call any minute. Worse still, you might not be as ready, as you're more than likely working on other things. Did they just miss your call? Were they temporarily busy? Perhaps they forgot.

Regardless, there is no sigh of relief. No exemption from the nervousness. You just wait in a state of perpetual, near-readiness. In about 30 minutes, you'll begin twitching.

Damn it, the guy was supposed to call by now. I expected to sign this off with a merry, "Oh -- my phone's ringing. Off I go!"

I hope they gave me the correct number. Maybe he's off tramping about with the Lindsay Lohan crew.

Ick.

[LATER EDIT]

He called back about a half an hour after I tried ringing. He was busy -- buying a new Triumph motorcycle. I wish I was moneyed.

An excellent question indeed

In checking StatCounter (for the first time in months, I might add), I came across one particularly memorable entry under the "keyword analysis" entry (what people enter on search engines to find this blog):

Why is Hannah a twat?

Hmm, I thought. An worthy question indeed.

But the problem was whether this was an introspection-based question -- as in the root of my twatness -- or was it possibly rhetorical?

Certainly I'm not silly enough to assume that the person entering this into Yahoo or Google or whatever was specically targeting myself. I'm not so egotistical to ever expect that everyone is talking about me -- unless, of course, it's all bad shit.

In which case, I simply expect people are slagging me anyways. Too fat, too stupid, too lazy, too dreary, etc, etc...

So why am I a twat? Well, a twat is a a vulgar colloquialism for a woman's genitalia. Vaginal area = twat. I am a woman, ergo I am a twat. A + B = C.

And according to Dictionary.com, a twat is also someone who is a "stupid, icompetent fool." (A brief tangent -- have you ever noticed that all the nastiest insults are, for the most part, attributed to women or women's parts? Twat, pussy, cunt, bitch, tits-up, etc? Whereas if someone is gutsy, they have balls. And when was the last time you heard someone mutter, "What a cock," when they were jostled while in a queue?)

So. Right on all charges. I am, in fact, a twat.
Hence the title of the blog.

But I'm in good company, because the world is full of a good many twats.

The truth about my friends...

...is that they are all better people than I am.

Seriously. I mean it.

Without exception, they are all smarter, better-looking, fitter, more successful (both financially and career-wise) and cooler people than I.

Which is nice that they bother with me, but sometimes it gets a bit daunting.

Other than the ability to make a cutting or off-colour joke at someone's expense, I'm not exactly sure why any of them keep me around.

Perhaps to laugh at.
That must be it.

Let my guard down...? What?

My horoscope today says, "Today try to let your guard down and share more of your inner self with people who are relatively new in your life."

Ok. Share more of my inner self to new people.
That could be you.

Inner self... right. Dirty secrets? Not so dirty secrets?

How about the fact that I was a somewhat accomplished shoplifter in my youth? Just petty things, and I wasn't silly enough to do it very often, but it was a rather entertaining -- and somewhat lucrative -- impulse.

The inclination occasionally descends every once in a while, where I think, "I could totally get away with this." Followed by, "Dear christ, I'm 32. Don't be such a twat."

At which point, my brain simply responds with, "Exactly. You're hardly an obvious target. Get to it."

As I said, one day, my mental faculties will disappear and whatever retraints currently in place will disintegrate. And then, by golly, I shall be a terribly interesting and somewhat naughty personage.

Well, I always did think being arrested would be an intriguing experience. Though I'd rather save it for the Great Bank Robbery. And when they ask me why I did it, I shall simply respond with the truth.

"I wanted to pay my student loans. What else?"

Screw you, cancer.

My oldest friend in the world found out her mother has cancer today -- for the second time.

I fear for my family. I fear for her family. I fear for everyone I know.

And I am so fucking pissed off that with all the illnesses du jour, no one has found a cure for goddamn cancer.

Officially, that is. I'm of the firm belief that someone has found a cure, but the cancer biz is just so bloody lucrative that they fear making it known. Human life is far less precious than billions of dollars.

But we've perfected plastic surgery, so I guess it all evens out, huh?

Sometimes, I really think people are fucked.
I mean, really, really fucked.

Oh, bad me.

Well, I seem to be in a long line of folks who haven't been posting regularly. If I may, however, in my defence simply say that I've been home for only a day over the past couple of weeks. And I was adamant about not posting anything, or emailing anyone.

I just wanted solitude and silence.

I wanted a change from my recent pace -- less running around and hopping from here to there, and more enjoying the apartment which I have to myself this weekend.

Well, not entirely to myself. I currently am hosting a chum who seems to have passed out on the pull-out couch. Too much wine can be a terrible thing.

So I am still tempting a several days a week, purely on a part-time basis. Have done almost no creative writing, which has been terrible frustrating. However, I did get pirate lessons for an hour or two this week, which was tremendously entertaining.

We got to dress up, go to pirate elocution lessons, then be schooled with some engineered sword work, which was pretty entertaining. ("Are you sure you're not secretly a pirate?" my coach asked, when my sword-stick nearly gouged him in the shoulder. Amusing, but I bet he says something to that effect to everyone.)

I don't know. I'm sure there's more to write. There are things to say. Stories to be told.

And perhaps someone is telling them right now. But I fear it will not be me. Am tired, just about ready for bed. I have a book I want to be reading.

And dreams I wish to enjoy.

Unlike the stupid helicopter dream I had this morning, where I was steering a chopper through some tricky power-lines (there seemed to have been a grid covering everything), and despite my maneouvers, my mother kept telling me to be careful and not fly so high, while my father criticized my technique.

Even in your subconscious, parents are always there.

It was kind of funny, actually.