Swatch Rx

Look what's sprouted in the middle of the flowers my folks sent me- a swatch. Yes, I'm breaking one of my resolutions already. Neither the Pentagon Aran nor the Poppy Sweater is finished. To tell the truth, they haven't even seen a working knitting needle for weeks. I want to blame the hormone party, school, work, and the weeks of illness, but... I just haven't wanted to knit. I didn't even work on a pair of socks. I was needle impotent. I think I'll get back to all of my works in progress eventually, particularly that Aran, but I needed to find something with fresh knitting mojo. So, I've started a new garment, something I really need in my wardrobe, a simple top-down raglan cardigan.
Manos del Uruguay yarn. Thickish needles. Lots of mindless knitting. I think it's just the prescription for my ailment. And after that, well, I think I owe the Aran some real face time. But I finally want to knit again, and that's good enough for now.

This is Your Brain on Off-Brand Cold Meds

I thought my cold was gone on Saturday, until I woke up Sunday feeling worse. The virus then proceeded to percolate in my body for the rest of the week, which left me feeling crappy as I had to miss a lot of classes, but was too sick to use my newfound free time for anything relatively productive like, I don't know, reading. Or knitting. Knitting would be nice- then I would have pictures to show people! Instead, I just worked at propagating my colony of used Kleenexes. I finally hauled ass down to a clinic today, because my throat started to hurt when I'd swallow, and I was worried that strep had decided to crash the part in my throat. The good news? I don't have strep! The bad news? I don't have strep, which means I just have some crazy virus symptoms that might take another week to go away, and I can't just zap them with some handy antibiotics. Oh, and I also spent an hour and a half in the waiting room to find this out.

So, what's a girl to do? She goes to Jean Coutu and hits up the cold and flu aisle to prepare a Molotov cocktail for what ails her, that's what she does. Off-brand Extra-Strength cold pills, cough syrup and name brand extra-strength Neo-Citran , they all went into my shopping cart. And a chocolate bar, whose medical use is questionable at best, but whose deliciousness is not. I then proceeded to dose myself liberally with all three, borrow a trashy romance novel from my roommate, and finally pass out in my bed. After a few more rounds, and the medicinal haze finally wearing off, a few revelations occurred to me. The first: holy crap, I do not want to live my life from my bed. The second: sweet Jesus, I need to get out more. The third: I need to get my shit together. The fourth: I just willingly read a book where the hero tells a hamster "I need sex." Here's hoping this moment of stunning clarity lasts longer than a few hours.

Much I Do About Nothing

I'm late to the party on this one, but the New York Times Wedding section is AWESOME. Sure, I had read the blogs, the special Gawker scorecard section, and even watched the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie calls it the "straight woman's sports pages". It's more than that, people. It's like crack candy coated in hilarity, served with a side of deep class anxiety. I've been reading the archives obsessively for the past few days, and have decided- in spite of my deep antipathy about the institution of matrimony- that my new life goal is to make it into this section. I just need a Lee Von Acker IV, complete with diplomas from NYU and Harvard, to make my dreams of seeing the following paragraph a reality:

"The bride dropped out of McGill after receiving a vision telling her that tarot card reader was her true vocation. Her father is Michel Protagitron, a retired elementary school librarian who openly despises her spouse's wealth. Her mother, Deborah, was a cataloguer for the Terry James Resource Centre, but would like to remind the bride of the sacrifices she made as a stay at home mother. Her brother, Nathaniel, could not attend the wedding as he was in Singapore contacting Hepatitis from a questionable tattoo of a tiger while on tour with his band.

The bridegroom's father is Harper Von Acker, the noted Nobel Laureate economist and advisor to the current President. The bridegroom's mother is head of oncology at John Hopkins University. He is stepson to John Landis, head of consulting firm OmniCial, and Faye Thompkins, director of the New York Symphony Orchestra."

Or should I say that used to be my goal- before I realized that I could never top the wedding of one Couper Samuelson and (the very pretty) Julia Boorstin? My reaction to this article was a complex, multi-faceted thing. Let's take it chronologically:

"IT is a truth not universally acknowledged that a single man who meets his wife-to-be at the Sundance Film Festival is likely to make his proposal of marriage a cinematic one."
Okay, treacly- but the fault of the writer, not theirs.
“He’s 6-6 and cute,” she said. “How could you miss him?”
Aww, that's cute.
[picture of bride and her father]
Okay, totally cute.
“Couper was walking around, studying all the photographs of Julia and marking his territory,” she recalled. “I said to my husband, ‘He’s going to marry her.’”
Wait... do you really mean "marking his territory" author lady? Because not only is that grossly sexist, but there's a certain unfortunate mental image there.
"The couple also learned that Ms. Boorstin’s late grandfather, the Pulitzer-winning historian Daniel J. Boorstin, had been friends with Mr. Samuelson’s grandfather, the Nobel laureate economist Paul A. Samuelson."
I take it all back. Death to the bourgeoisie swine and their outrageous pedigree!
Rabbi Jonathan Klein said, “May your life together be as sweet as a chocolate sundae topped with sprinkles of exquisite romance.”
Rabbi Klein was surprised, months later, by an irate Canadian on his doorstep. As he later related to police, she screamed "Chocolate turd! Sprinkles of pain!", kicked him in the nuts, then departed.

Oh well. I suppose all the best to Couper and Julia. I don't know them, I'll probably never run in their circles, or even outside the gilded arena that houses their circles, but I kind of hope they manage to beat the stats on separation and divorce. And to all my friends, coupled or single, may your life somehow be as sweet as a chocolate sundae. Hold the romance sprinkles if you want.

Neo-Citranville

I've got a weird throat bug, that not only gives me that sexy, gravelly voice- I sound like Harvey Fierstein- but makes me sleep like a log. I took today off to recuperate before work tomorrow, as I'm sure no one wants me coughing into their sandwiches, and spent most of it sleeping. When I wasn't sleeping, I was cleaning. The good news is that I found the handle to my razor, so I can stop growing a pair of hair pants. The bad news is that my room still looks like the CIA ransacked it, but also tidied up my stationary collection while they were at it. Now I'm chain-drinking Neo-Citran in an effort to knock this cold on its ass.

In other news, and before the Neo-Citran kicks in, I'm throwing a Trivial Pursuit Tournament at my place on the weekend. I've even drafted my roommate into playing on my team. Unfortunately, she's American- and we're playing with the Canadian edition. So I have her on a strict preparation regimen of Canadian geography and notable CBC figures. Well, not really. I figure if she learns too much, all the terrible gaps in my education will be revealed, and she'll stop being impressed when I can answer a simple question about R.B. Bennett.

And finally, I want one of these TerraCross campers. I hate SUVs with a passion, and yet I'm utterly charmed by campers and some mobile homes, even though they're probably even worse as far as fuel efficiency goes. This one looks like it will survive the coming zombie apocalypse with ease. In fact, it looks like it could just drive over the living dead without a scratch. And look at that interior! Not only is it nicer than my apartment, which isn't really that hard to do, but it finally answers the question of what a mobile home would look like if it was designed by Ikea. I could eat Swedish meatballs and drink lingonberry juice in that nook! Put a gerber daisy in a Faren vase and get to work on my book about organic cookery! I could make freaking espresso every morning in the middle of India! Although the realization that there's more counter space in that camper's kitchen than in my own is starting to make me a little weepy. Maybe my parents won't mind if I use all of my tuition and rent money to buy one of these. And then I could finally achieve my most cherished dream: driving my home to class.

Dooo bee do be dooo... just destroying some ecosystem.

Protagitron's Gymnopedie

Bagels: Serious Business
I spotted this at the gym. Under 'Hamilton's Shame' it says "Sugar-coated baked item sold in Steeltown as a 'Montreal-style bagel.' Montreal's newspapers are all about the hard-hitting news.

This Monday the McGill Fight Band played the men's hockey game against Concordia. Well, I don't play so much as blow on my clarinet and hope for the best, but it's often fun. Unfortunately, this game coincided with the McGill Management Carnival. If you're not in the know, Carnival is the week-long bacchanal the Management Faculty throws every year, and the entire reason McGill was the only Canadian school on Playboy's list of top North American party schools. Take that, Brock. This meant we were swarmed for the entire game by Management students in all the stages of drunkenness, from sober on down to horizontal. You can spot them because they're all wearing jumpsuits with their team name on them. I assume the team names are chosen after the Carnival, and the boozing, have begun, because they're all thinly veiled sexual innuendos. Particular favourites? The Glad-he-ate-'ers.

After the game, I was walking home with my roommate and our friend and percussionist Abby, lecturing on that very same topic. I had just stated my thesis, something along the lines of "However, shame on the ShamCOCKS. That's not even trying," when a tallish bloke walking by yelled "I'd LOVE to double your entendre." Which prompted a few awkward seconds of mortifying silence before he yelled back "That was... just about what you were saying" and I squeaked out "I gathered" like a chipmunk drunk on helium.

On reflection, I really could have played that one better. I should have flipped my hair, raised one eyebrow all come-hither, and purred: "Why, I would adore to in your endo." We would share a good laugh, or two, and then it would seem as if my friends had suddenly disappeared into the night- there would only be the tallish bloke, me, and our sparkling innuendos perfuming the night air. A cup of coffee that night would turn into a lifetime of love and laughter, our children the ones forever giggling in middle school health class, the gravestones on our joint plots reading something like "Here lies a Master Debater", and "Cunning Linguist, Beloved Mother and Wife".

But some things are not meant to be. So, tallish bloke, I will think of you always, and the wind won't howl, but only whisper "ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK, ShamCOCK..."

Oh, the hormonity.

I am feeling horribly, horrifically, harmfully, hormonal.
All that alliteration is just a side effect.
But still. I always thought PMS was more or less a crock, a useful card to play from time to time when my innate bitchiness got out of hand. I am woman enough to admit it- I was wrong. Because I've been on mood swing after mood swing for the past few days, from maniacally happy, to melancholy, to stabby with rage, and then back to maniacally happy again. So, if you had to deal with a crabby, weepy, whiney, hyper, bouncy or otherwise annoying Protagitron for the past few days- I beg your pardon.
Normal blogging will resume when banal events do not cause an outbreak of hysterics.

The Once and Future Sandwich Queen

Pistache and I are on the same page, mood-wise.

First, some big news: I am now gainfully employed! Soon I will be making sandwiches at a wee student café on campus. You may now address me as the Sandwich Queen. I'm actually pretty gleeful at this event- I have a real job! Which will give me money! And where I can meet people! It's a win-win-win situation, and it goes a fair bit towards my New Year's resolution of not being a hermit. Now I just need to ditch my tinfoil hat.

Other things have been working out in my life, but perhaps working out a little too well. I'm highly suspicious whenever I hit a streak of good luck. Suddenly my days are full of Commando quote fests over cheap beer and pizza, and the promise of Cronenberg and Romero screenings in class. It's all too good to last! Something black must be on the horizon. So far, the worst has been some dipshit's alarm/horn/whatever has been going off all morning. If it wasn't so bloody cold out, I would track the source down and beat it with a crowbar. Of course, I would have to a buy a crowbar first... so maybe later.

I would also like to report on the results of a research project my esteemed colleague and roommate embarked on: The Effects of Being Abandoned in The Fridge For Over a Month on Name Brand Jell-O. Her conclusion: "This must be how they make Fruit Roll-Ups."

Yummy.

Here's to 2008!

(May we never speak of 2007 again)
(Although thanks to the creepy guy on the metro who wished me a happy new year)

Anyhow, I guess I should make like everyone else and make some New Year's resolutions. Although, traditionally, they have just been lists of things I have failed at over the years. Losing weight. Eating well. Learning karate. Attracting a mate. I don't know, I've increasingly begun to use anthropological terms when describing my dating habits. "The female Dorkus attempts to engage in the mating dance with the cute boy on the metro. The cute boy gives no sign of returning her advances, however, and in fact seems mildly concerned that she is having some sort of petit mal seizure."

So I'm aiming small this year. I want to learn how to play the harmonica. I want to join a few more clubs at school so I can get out and say I did something. I want to write more. And I want to do something about the bin of Misfit Knits. Do other knitters have this? The pack of projects that have just never worked out, or never got around to being finished? For a while this seemed to be the only thing I knit when I aimed higher than a hat. So, my final New Year's resolution is to move every last one of those knits off that island and into actual wear. Here's the master list:
-Poppy from Yarnplay: Finished in Feb. of '07, but was always just too large. So I have given it a sweaterectomy:
See, the sleeve is off. And will be re-knitting to top and sleeves after a few inches have been unravelled from the body.
-Pentagon Aran: Abandoned because I got bored and had to do some Christmas knitting. I watched The Toxic Avenger and knit a few rows on this today, but I'll definitely have to order more yarn.
-Sand Dollar Tank: The weather changed. I couldn't resist the allure of red wool. I ditched it ever so cruelly and never called again.
-The Manos Cardigan: The cautionary story I use to earn my keep at Stitch and Bitches. I seamed one shoulder up wrong, tried to undo the damage while drunk, and ended up cutting into the back and not the seam. Most of this yarn will become a vest, I think. The rest of it Gibby can have as nest material.
-Pin-Up Queen: When I really want to punish myself, I try unravelling another few inches from this angora nightmare. I honestly have no clue what to do with the resulting fluffy bastards though. Maybe a green skull scarf and a little capelet? Just the scarf? The trash?
-Flora: Oh, sweet Jesus. This has been going on for years. Years. I don't think I would even wear the finished work, a fiddly Rowan pattern worked with thin cotton yarn and tiny needles. Maybe I should just call it a day and make assorted baby items as gifts out of the yarn.
And there are two other knitting resolutions. First, I resolve not to start another pair of socks before I finish the mate of the last pair I started. There are too many orphan socks crying out for succor in my room. And finally, I resolve to track down a skein of the new Kureyon Sock Yarn and make myself a pair of socks from it. The fat cat has volunteered that he wants to find "balance" in the new year, which I think translates into more turkey.