Notes from the Laminate Underground

I'm committing the working faux pas of posting from my job, but I've been switched to media centre duty, and I'm high of toner fumes. Well, no, but things are quieting down, and there usual ten person deep line up for the laminating machines is gone. One thing you must know about teachers is that they laminate EVERYTHING. I know that one day they'll flip on the lights, and a manic teacher will be feeding the students in, foot by foot, Bronte by Tirth (actual names I saw being laminated yesterday).

Which lead me to come up with a worksheet problem that they could photocopy and laminate:

Laminate Math

Ms. Maple wants to laminate her class so that they'll be durable and hard-wearing. If she has twenty pupils in her class, the average pupil is 3'6" high, and laminate costs 0.24 dollars/foot:

a) How many feet of laminate would she require? (assume that they would expand only in width when flattened)





b) How much would Protagitron's employer have to charge back the school?





c) Would her plea of insanity hold up in a court of law?






Don't forget to show all your work!


I've been posting sparsely again, what with the whirlwind of appointments and packing I've scheduled lately. This will probably continue until at least Sunday, since I'm moving back to Montreal on Saturday. Wish us luck and no auto problems.

Baking, Cooking, and Butching It Up

Here are my hordes of cupcakes, ready for the greatest moment in any young girl's life: Cupcake Day at work! I did this last year with the other summer students. I bake the cupcakes, everyone else brings in a topping, and the decorating begins. The results can be used either as a Dadaist experiment, or to illustrate to disgusting (but delicious) consumption of Western culture. Now, my parents have a few old adages, and one of their most cherished is that People who use baking mixes are morally suspect. So don't tell them that I made these from a mix, and from the cheaper brand with the strangely irradiated, glowing tulips on the box. Usually I'm militant about making everything from scratch, but I can never muster that sense of righteousness for cupcakes. The baked part is just a holding pad for an inch of toppings anyway.


This is a photo from last Thursday, of a salad I made for a Last Hurrah for Guelph Party, a dinner/murder mystery before we all went back to school. It started out as an attempt to make Marian Burros's Farro Salad with Tomatoes and Corn, after I combed the archives of The Wednesday Chef for a salad that would be quick, simple and vegan. I figured the farro, an ancient, hearty grain, would be somewhere next to the kelp and the agave nectar at the Stone Store, the local purveyor of all rations hippie, so I sent my poor Dad down- the day of the party. A few hours later, we had no farro, and burnt quinoa that was supposed to be a farro-replacement. However, we did have one bag of orzo, a pasta with pieces the size of rice grains. So, it became Orzo Salad with Tomatoes and Corn. The only almonds in our house had to be slivered by hand, and the white wine vinegar replaced with a mixture of red wine and rice vinegars, but it turned out rather tasty. I do think it missed that certain nutty element of the farro, and next time I would replace it with spelt or bulgur but it was a qualified success.

Unlike my costume. I got to the party only to find out that I was supposed to be a woman. Which meant the twenty minutes I spent drawing on a mustache were wasted.

My Dog is a Supermodel

Pose, Smitty, pose!

SuperSocks To the Rescue

I came home from work to the most wonderful package. My sockpal socks had arrived! Here are a few reasons why my sockpaller, Rae, rocks:

1. These socks are absolutely gorgeous. Look at that lace! And beading too! These socks are a lot of "firsts" for me. They are my first pair of lace socks, since I always guilted myself into knitting socks that were supposedly more practical. I was wrong- beauty is completely practical for the soul. They're also my first beaded knit, and my first pair of purple socks. I can't get over how lovely they are, and I wore them for the rest of the day, August be damned.

2. They fit perfectly. I gave her wacky measurements, because I may or may not have been drunk. Or terribly stupid. But she realized my error, e-mailed me, and then knitted them to fit instead of writing me off as a terminal idiot.

3. She owns a yarn store in Lansing, MI. The awesome factor of being a LYS owner needs not be explained. However, she is even more awesome because she lives in Michigan, home state of one of my Dad's favourite college sports teams. Every year, the Wolverines and the Penn State Nittany Lions battle it out for my Dad's heart. I'll see to it that U of Mich wins it this year, although since she is in Lansing maybe I should push for Michigan State.

4. Two words: sheltie. puppy. The big dice in the sky works in mysterious ways, and so the owner of adorable Robin became the sockpal of Smitty's food dispensing unit and playtime fun machine. Sheltie owners are better people. It's science. And in another strange coincidence, the name of her Sheltie is the same as the first name of Smitty's breeder. Creepy!

5. In a display of generosity, she sent me sock yarn for more socks. And not just any sock yarn, but one ball of Mirage Fire and one ball of Landscape Fire, from Kaffe Fassett's new Regia sock yarn collection. She must have creepy voodoo powers, because I was drooling over an ad for the Fassett sock yarn in the newest Interweave. Not only that, but Fire was my favourite colourway.

Seriously, Rae, you rock but I'm putting my tinfoil hat back on now. The coincidences are too uncanny. I've also decided that my fabulous sockpal recipient deserves new yarn of her own if I do. So, watch that mail, Jill B.!

Weekly Digest

I grew a Jalapeño pepper. Gaze upon its spicy beauty!*

I. Sockapalooza Update
My sockpal, Two Sticks and Yarn, got her socks! My sockpal got her socks! SOCKS! PAL! VICTORY! Forgive me if I'm a little bit excited, but I spent the week since I sent them going over various horror scenarios in my head. The socks would get lost in the mail. The socks would take weeks to get there. The socks would be destroyed at the border as a national security threat to the U.S. Before you laugh at the last one, my roomie's grandmother sent her a crocheted blanket during first year. It was incinerated by some, shall we say, unhealthily dedicated Canadian border security. Or, they would get there but they wouldn't fit, or they would unravel. After seeing some of the other lovely packages, I was convinced she would bemoan my lack of classy packaging and tasteful bonus geegaws, and that Yarnstorm (incisively described as "the knitting Martha Stewart" by mote) would preside over my trial. But Jill B seems to really like them, so I'm both pleased and proud.
Read her touching write-up on my socks- I made everyone at work and in my family do so. Yay!

II. Roomie Update
My hetero wife and her family are all okay, but when I checked in last a boy from her little sister's class was still missing in the bridge collapse. It's been a while, and I know a lot of names have been taken off the list since I heard from her. I hope his was one of them.

III. Neglected Hillside Anecdote
I forgot to mention the best part of Hillside. My brother and I were down by the shore, trying to dodge hippie wang and bush in its natural habitat, when from behind the bend came the Pervatron in his pontoon. He wore tight cut-off chinos, no shirt, a life jacket, and huge early 90s sunglasses, striking the "Tino" as he sailed up. At first I was confused about what he was doing. He was slowly moving closer and closer to the shore, to the point where it was becoming alarmingly shallow for his boat. But then I realized he was on the hunt. The hunt for a group of nubile, skinnydipping Hillsiders.
First he purred:
"Helloooooooooo"
and then
"How's the waterrrrrrrrr"
As he passed the buffet of boob. He went a few meters further, not even to the next bend, when he swung around and did the perv loop again. And again. I'm sure he's still out there, forlornly calling "Helloooooo" to the void, wondering if he would ever know how the "waterrrrrrrr" was.




*Actually, I grew many Jalapeño peppers. If anyone in Guelph could give a few garden-fresh peppers a good home in some salsa, I can hook you up.

Protagitron's Folly

The Big Green Fuzzy thing has been reincarnated as a Boatneck Bluebell Sweater from Stefanie Japel's Fitted Knits. Look at the following progress picture to see if you can spot my peewee-level error. And, again, I apologize for the fact that my knitwear looks like re-fried ass in my photo. It's 9:30pm in the basement. I'm not brooklyn tweed. Things will return to normal soon.

No, it's not the part where my stitches go all wacky. That's from not steaming kinked yarn before knitting with it again (learn this lesson well, children!). How about we do a comparison shot with the book?

That's right! There are only two purl ridges instead of three. Two does not equal three, silly Protagitron! Here, I've made a handy clip n' save reminder so no one else makes the same error.Laminate it, tape it to the fridge, tattoo it to your body. Just remember it, folks. I had been knitting from a photocopy, but just reading the text, and not looking at the full body picture on the other page. There isn't anything wrong with the pattern- my brain just somehow skipped over the third purl 3 rows, knit 2 rows, and I didn't notice until 24 rows into the ribbing.

But all may not be lost. I have a short little body, and I'm wondering if maybe three horizontal bars will visually shorten and widen me even more. I think I'll try on the sweater, decide if it's more flattering this way, or whether I want the dramatic pop of three purl ridges. And if I like it this way, it was always meant to be so. Okay?

Sockapa-done-za

Hooray! These are currently on their way to my sockpal. Estimated delivery in 5 days or less. They're late because I totally misread the deadline, and thought that it was for the second week of August, when it was really the second. With one sock finished, I realized this at about 11:00pm... August 1.
Shockingly, I did pass my grade 10 literacy test.
Also, these socks are much more attractive in person than the cruddy pictures allow. I was working under restrictions, more precisely at work with a 400 page list that needed sorting on my desk. Also, the lighting was crappy. So, keep your eyes on the cute sock band, okay?

Pattern: Brigit by
Yarn: Colinette Jitterbug in Velvet Damson
Needles: Addi Turbo DPNs, 2.00 mm
Mods: Because of the aforementioned row gauge issues, I shortened the rows on the heel flap, and thus reduced the number of stitches I picked up and decreased for. I decreased an extra four stitches over the stockinette portion of the foot, so that it wouldn't be too wide. The row gauge also screwed up the cabling on the foot. There's supposed to be one and a half repeats of the cable pattern on the foot, in other words three of those cables, but with the different row gauge I was getting it probably would have fit my sockpal's Irish husband better than her. So, I cut it down to two and just did ribbing for a few more rows until working on the toe. Changed the decreases on the two very slightly too.

I think I'm even more proud of the sock label I made than my socks, and I like my socks. The rather folk art, over-caffeinated, mouse was a doodle I made at work, and I just taped it onto the sock info and photocopied it onto some bright pink cardstock. Access to these supplies for free, along with access to the lovely and talented K who actually knows how to work the machines, are some of the benefits of my job.

A Letter to my Roommate, or: Too Lazy to Write a New Post

Dearest Roommate!
I can't believe you're home already! Are your parents spoiling you yet?

I've assumed that you are okay, and not hurt in the awful bridge collapse (note: she lives in MN). My scientific reasoning for this was the infallible, "She's MY ROOMMATE and I LOVE HER" argument. How are Minnesotans handling it?

Not much news to report on from here. I ordered myself a new iPod, and have decided to finally lay old, cracked, Greenie to rest. However, instead of throwing it out, I've decided to decorate it with nail polish and resurrect it as that most useful of items... the paperweight. Especially in this digital age. Ahem. It should be here any day now.

I also went to a local music festival in Guelph last weekend, called Hillside. If you're not from Guelph, you may be unaware of what A VERY BIG DEAL Hillside is to Guelphites. In the newspaper, an article has quotes from residents describing it as "like Christmas". As you walk in to the festival, giant letters spell out ANTICIPATION in all-caps, like a particularly earnest LiveJournaller. A write-up i one of our local newspapers thought that was an accurate description of the mood of festival-goers, which is a lie, since mine would have read GASSY. It's an annual weekend where the crunchiest portion of Guelph can create their own little Utopia, and glad-hand each other on how socially conscious they are. The programmes are not only printed on post-consumer recycled paper with vegetable-based inks, but in a printshop powered by biodiesel fuels. Gear is transported from stage to stage not in a truck, but in a large tricycle. Food vendors use plastic plates that are washed and re-used as the festival goes on.

This year, the big craze were these stainless steel water bottles. After Wal-Mart had finally built their store, the anti-Wal Mart squad needed to funnel their energies into other projects, and so they set their sights on Nestlé. Nestlé bottles water that comes from a spring near Guelph (i.e. the very same water that runs through our taps), and with our annual water rationing in summer, their application to get their water-taking permit renewed was not well-received. I look forward to the cause celebre CD local Guelpherati put out, to follow the Wal-Mart volume. Since plastic water bottles were a waste problem at Hillside anyway, they came up with the idea of offering bottles for sale, and hiring a big tank truck to bus in city water. But with the recent health concerns of off-gassing plastic, they went one further and got Klean Kanteens, (whose name is one K away from awful hilarity). What ensued? Water bottle mania. 30 minute long lines to get these bottles. To obtain one would give you immeasurable Guelph cred. To be without one would make you a lesser man. I decided I couldn't care less, and that if I really wanted an off-gassing free water bottle, I would just head down to the local hippie health store, pay the extra $ and get myself one of those pretty Sigg bottles. However, my Mother wanted one. And her lovely daughter spent twenty minutes in line and got her one before they sold out. I'm only a little more curmudgeonly to show for all that!

Now, these are all very noble endeavours, but after the first twelve hours I always feel a distinct urge to drive over to the festival in my Hummer, eating McDonald's take out and running over some endangered waterfowl on the way, while blasting Toby Keith. Fortunately, I hate Toby Keith. Almost as much as I hate the goddamned water fowl.

In spite of my deeply cynical and lazy nature, I continue to go to Hillside because the music is usually quite good. If you want me to, I can YouSendIt or whatever a sampler of my favourite Hillside artists. I highly recommend the Klezmer hip hop of socalled, and the insane stage show of Shout Out Out Out Out. I also had a weird moment when I found myself attracted to a rather aged member of one of my brother's favourite groups, although it's probably just all my repressed sexuality beginning to boil over. In my defense, however, it was at a really fabulous workshop where a bunch of Hillside artists got together and played the music of The Band. The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down was amazing- everyone stood up and sang, and even I pretended to know the lyrics.

How are you? How's the family? How is le boyfriend? Write back! Also, would it be okay if I ordered something from a US-only company for delivery to your fair abode? It's very small, 9"x6", and I would be forever in your debt.

Off to see Ratatouille,

Protagitron

Ratatouille was adorable, by the way. I'm curious about the particular alchemy of Pixar- how they can transmit humanity so easily through animation, and how different it can be from something like the Uncanny Valley fest of the Polar Express. All the Polar Express does is CGI over human actors, but there's something unnatural about the final product- like a horror film set at Madame Tussaud's. Pixar shows that movies don't have to sacrifice emotional reality for a bit of visual fun. Be warned- it will make you hungry. I'm trying to teach my degu how to cook me a cassoulet as we speak, but his lack of opposable thumbs and long-term memory is proving to be an obstacle.