In spite of my better judgment, the online dating profile persists. At the very least, it's been an interesting sociological experiment, from confusing mating rituals - God bless the man who worked KFC into a pick up line - to what an algorithm thinks is my type. Which is somebody who loves food. More than they could ever love me. Every time OKCupid barfs up another potential suitor, it's inevitably a white dude, with a beard, who mentions kimchi in his profile.
Now, I like to eat. And I really like to eat kimchi. But as excited as I am to try out good restaurants, I secretly love bad food almost as much as well-done ramen. A recent article on the AV Club reminded me of this - and now I'm sharing it with you all, in case you want to forward it to OKCupid's algorithm robot.
1. Wine gums. I once ate a pound of wine gums in what was probably, if I'm being generous with myself, an hour. I tried to undo the effects of this decision by then eating one slice of pizza, a case of food calculus that only made sense in my head, and never to my digestive system.
2. Popeye's Chicken Dinner. Everybody loves Popeye's biscuits, but I'm all about the coleslaw. Fuck the biscuit. Just give me two styrofoam bowls of coleslaw and some friend chicken bits, and I'm a happy, lipid-high lady.
3. Chicken McNuggets. I don't know why McDonald's felt compelled to proudly announce to the world that the McNuggets were "now" made with white meat. What the hell was I eating before? Oh well, even if it was ground-up donkey, it's still delicious when dipped in honey. Side note: you can't get honey for dipping in the UK. I now understand why my American friends fought to free themselves from British tyranny.
4. Kraft Dinner: Anyone who follows the box and divides it into four servings is a liar. Each box feeds 1.5 people, or 1 person who's depressed post-breakup.
5. Tim Horton's Bostom Cream Donuts: The crappiness of my workday can be gauged by which donut I've ordered. Sour cream plain? I'm on the ball! Honey crueller? Things are getting dangerous. Boston cream? I can probably be found crying in the bathroom.
Showing posts with label embarrassments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label embarrassments. Show all posts
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
In Which My Toe Gets Bitten Off in Shallow Water...
This past weekend I was in the throes of the "afternoon drunks," and decided to start an online dating profile.
It was a decision I regretted within an hour.
That was how long it took for some dude, high on male privilege and/or life, to message me an analysis of my personality based on my dating profile, ending with "How can you be more idealistic than you look if you don't even have a picture up lol" First, I didn't have time to put one up, second, I'm not very photogenic, third FUCK YOU and fourth lol, YOU ASSHOLE.
Anyway, I kept my profile up, lol, in spite of this small setback. Pinball Mike from 3030 met his current girlfriend through a dating site, and Pinball Mike is pretty great. Maybe I could meet the generic, Mr. Pibbs-version of Pinball Mike! So I felt somewhat optimistic when I got a message from another potential suitor. The hat was questionable, but at least it was clear that he had taken the time to read my profile. Before messaging him back I thought I would read it too. Bam. Married, and in an open relationship.
I will die alone.
No one will mourn my passing.
Except maybe the cats.
But all is not lost. When I texted my conclusions to my friend S, we agreed to die alone... together.
It was a decision I regretted within an hour.
That was how long it took for some dude, high on male privilege and/or life, to message me an analysis of my personality based on my dating profile, ending with "How can you be more idealistic than you look if you don't even have a picture up lol" First, I didn't have time to put one up, second, I'm not very photogenic, third FUCK YOU and fourth lol, YOU ASSHOLE.
Anyway, I kept my profile up, lol, in spite of this small setback. Pinball Mike from 3030 met his current girlfriend through a dating site, and Pinball Mike is pretty great. Maybe I could meet the generic, Mr. Pibbs-version of Pinball Mike! So I felt somewhat optimistic when I got a message from another potential suitor. The hat was questionable, but at least it was clear that he had taken the time to read my profile. Before messaging him back I thought I would read it too. Bam. Married, and in an open relationship.
I will die alone.
No one will mourn my passing.
Except maybe the cats.
But all is not lost. When I texted my conclusions to my friend S, we agreed to die alone... together.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I Was a Teenaged Douchenozzle
I remember, in my last year of university, someone saying I was one of the least pretentious people they had ever met.
And I let out a bitter, internal chuckle. First of all, I was pretentious then, I remain so today, and will be pretentious forever. It is my destiny, along with the persistent eczema.
Second, although by that point my pretentious had normalized a little, I was one of the most insufferable people ever to log time at John F. Ross, CVI, back in the mid-aughts.
Those years would have been comfortably forgotten, however, if I had not seen fit to record some of my precious, precious thoughts in a big plaid notebook. A notebook I found this holiday season while visiting the parents. I opened its cover, and opened a Pandora's box of ill-advised clothing picks (it doubled as a look book), optimistic reading lists (it tripled as a depository for lists of all kinds) and awkward doodles (it quadrupled as a sketchbook.)
So, in order to cast out the demons of my high-school self, I have selected some of the worst quotes and most ridiculous photographic evidence for your enjoyment. Be nice, I was lousy with hormones.
1. "It appears that being out of the loop is my destiny in life. In other news, I've seen prezzies for a few people." (11/29/2003) 16 year-old Protagitron: Mistress of the smooth transition.
Hey, at least those shoes are still cute.
2. "The last few weeks of school have been torture. I have no close friends anymore. [Redacted] is gone to the land of makeup and confidence, [Redacted] has decided to keep her secrets and [Redacted] is being a grade-A bitch." (11/30/2003) She's also a person with a firm sense of perspective. Although the land of makeup and confidence sounds like a faaabulous place to visit.
Although nothing excuses that coat.
3. "I'll end up living my nightmare: a faux-intellectual with two whiny kids and a bald husband who's screwing his TA." (11/30/2003) It's good to have goals.
4. "I believe in love by osmosis." (12/05/2003) And tolerance by sublimation!
This page was for everything I thought you would need to be a superhero: a Vespa helmet, a bendy flashlight stand, a hamster belt and a hand-written reminder to pick up pepper spray.
5. "*shudder* beer commercials. playoffs. A proliferation of one leads to an excess of the other." (01/08/2004) No it doesn't.
6. "U2 makes the best songs for melancholy." (01/11/2004) And no they don't.
7. "All I want in life is to be disgustingly talented." (?/?/2004) This quote really gains a lot from being written in what appears to be rose lip liner. Sadly, however, not all of our wishes can come true.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Laura Branigan, Again and Again
Finally, my life is complete! Two of my favorite things in the world are Branigan! and covers. And I found out that not one, not two, but three covers of La Branigan's classic slice of 80s cheese, Self Control, exist. Witness:
1. From an album entirely composed of covers, Guilt By Association Vol. 2, The Bloodsugars do their take on Self Control. This one is my favorite.
2. And here's another, by some outfit called Project Jenny Project Jan.
And then I found out that, in fact, the Branigan song is a cover itself! No wonder I liked it so much. Although she - or, more likely, her producer - really, really made the right choice by ditching the tragic rap near the end.
1. From an album entirely composed of covers, Guilt By Association Vol. 2, The Bloodsugars do their take on Self Control. This one is my favorite.
2. And here's another, by some outfit called Project Jenny Project Jan.
And then I found out that, in fact, the Branigan song is a cover itself! No wonder I liked it so much. Although she - or, more likely, her producer - really, really made the right choice by ditching the tragic rap near the end.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I Love You, Canada
Okay, I have a maple-flavored confession: I'm kind of excited for the Battle of the Blades. Why? Let's see. I like cheesy dance competitions. I was forced to like figure skating by my Mom, although lingering bitterness towards Elvis Stojko remains. I often tolerate hockey. Combine these things and CBC's low production values and sense of earnestness, and you get something I'll definitely sit in front of when I'm eating dinner from a can.
Of course, with my luck in picking CBC shows, it will become a ratings bomb and die an unmourned death. Just like my beloved MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Why must Canada suffer through Little Mosque On The Prairie when that little slice of delicious cheesecake is gone from our lives forever? Sigh.
Anyway, I'm pulling for anyone but Domi and Christine Hough-Sweeney. By the way, this song is the one I've mentally choreographed an entire figure skating routine to. Oh, the dramatic hand gestures I do in my mind...
P.S. I know, for official competition it would have to be a wordless version. God.
Of course, with my luck in picking CBC shows, it will become a ratings bomb and die an unmourned death. Just like my beloved MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Why must Canada suffer through Little Mosque On The Prairie when that little slice of delicious cheesecake is gone from our lives forever? Sigh.
Anyway, I'm pulling for anyone but Domi and Christine Hough-Sweeney. By the way, this song is the one I've mentally choreographed an entire figure skating routine to. Oh, the dramatic hand gestures I do in my mind...
P.S. I know, for official competition it would have to be a wordless version. God.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
3 Day Novel Fail Pt. 2
As a continuation of my 3-Day Novel Fail, I've collected some of my most misanthropic lines so you can share in the gloom.
Something I forgot to say yesterday was that, after I realized my novel was going South, South 'til it had gone all the way around and was going North, North, I made one addition. Inspired by my recent Penguin Gothic Reds kick, where the story is often presented as some kind of found manuscript within the plot, I wrote in a prologue and an epilogue that had a team of adventurers discovering the work in a Chevy Cabriolet in the backwoods and then going mad. I think I might be the only one who'll read it and get the joke though.
Here they are, the 3-Day Novel Greatest Misses
On health:
"After all, there were only so many yoga classes Allison could take before veganism and spandex blends began to seem like a reasonable lifestyle." p. 6
"Allison wondered if it counted as justified vacation if she had to go home because her feet had fallen off, and she was dragging bloody stumps along the floor to deliver Snapping Taco Dippers." p. 33
Pillow talk:
“What you’re going to need to do is cut off all the bad parts, throw ‘em in the trash, and throw all of the good parts in this sterilized bucket.” p. 14
“Oh, fuck you. You fucking cunt. You are so hung over.” p. 23
“A buddy of mine bought a condo with his harpy wife. They offered me the basement pretty cheap so they could have some help with the mortgage. But it’s still a pretty broke-ass place. I’ve got my own entrance though." p. 38
Sexy time:
"Since then, Caroline had said “cunt,” “cottage cheese cum” and “anal tearing,” but Allison had stopped caring." p. 20
"Was Caroline speaking in full sentences? Were they discussing puppet erotomania? And worse, was that going to be the note on which they were going to fuck? " p. 21
"He was, on most levels, repulsive. Allison had seen him at work once take a hand mirror and gouge out an ingrown hair on his chin. In the middle of the kitchen." p. 27
"They would fuck right against the dishwasher. No, better yet in the walk-in refrigerator. Or perhaps that would be too cold. Allison sighed. The actual logistics could be ironed out later." p. 32
On work:
"But until then, she had to get this family its food and get them out to the CN tower, the Eaton’s Center, or wherever else they were planning to buy a t-shirt." p. 17
“Unemployed freelancers. It was sort of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing a small cheque in the middle.” p. 58
Deep moments:
"But his eyes seemed kind under the flashing neon sign, and he gripped her shoulder with something like tenderness. He looked her in the eye. Allison knew he was about to speak. He opened his mouth. She looked at him. And then he hurled into the gutter." p. 22
"They were genetically predisposed to failure, she supposed." p. 64
Oh, The Punnery:
"Was this how her quest would end, not with a bang but a night manager?" p. 30
Clearly, my sense of how humorous the pathetic is remains intact no matter what my intentions. Although the appreciation for terrible puns is new, and possibly porn-related.
Something I forgot to say yesterday was that, after I realized my novel was going South, South 'til it had gone all the way around and was going North, North, I made one addition. Inspired by my recent Penguin Gothic Reds kick, where the story is often presented as some kind of found manuscript within the plot, I wrote in a prologue and an epilogue that had a team of adventurers discovering the work in a Chevy Cabriolet in the backwoods and then going mad. I think I might be the only one who'll read it and get the joke though.
Here they are, the 3-Day Novel Greatest Misses
On health:
"After all, there were only so many yoga classes Allison could take before veganism and spandex blends began to seem like a reasonable lifestyle." p. 6
"Allison wondered if it counted as justified vacation if she had to go home because her feet had fallen off, and she was dragging bloody stumps along the floor to deliver Snapping Taco Dippers." p. 33
Pillow talk:
“What you’re going to need to do is cut off all the bad parts, throw ‘em in the trash, and throw all of the good parts in this sterilized bucket.” p. 14
“Oh, fuck you. You fucking cunt. You are so hung over.” p. 23
“A buddy of mine bought a condo with his harpy wife. They offered me the basement pretty cheap so they could have some help with the mortgage. But it’s still a pretty broke-ass place. I’ve got my own entrance though." p. 38
Sexy time:
"Since then, Caroline had said “cunt,” “cottage cheese cum” and “anal tearing,” but Allison had stopped caring." p. 20
"Was Caroline speaking in full sentences? Were they discussing puppet erotomania? And worse, was that going to be the note on which they were going to fuck? " p. 21
"He was, on most levels, repulsive. Allison had seen him at work once take a hand mirror and gouge out an ingrown hair on his chin. In the middle of the kitchen." p. 27
"They would fuck right against the dishwasher. No, better yet in the walk-in refrigerator. Or perhaps that would be too cold. Allison sighed. The actual logistics could be ironed out later." p. 32
On work:
"But until then, she had to get this family its food and get them out to the CN tower, the Eaton’s Center, or wherever else they were planning to buy a t-shirt." p. 17
“Unemployed freelancers. It was sort of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing a small cheque in the middle.” p. 58
Deep moments:
"But his eyes seemed kind under the flashing neon sign, and he gripped her shoulder with something like tenderness. He looked her in the eye. Allison knew he was about to speak. He opened his mouth. She looked at him. And then he hurled into the gutter." p. 22
"They were genetically predisposed to failure, she supposed." p. 64
Oh, The Punnery:
"Was this how her quest would end, not with a bang but a night manager?" p. 30
Clearly, my sense of how humorous the pathetic is remains intact no matter what my intentions. Although the appreciation for terrible puns is new, and possibly porn-related.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Schoolday the Thirteenth XII
Sorry about my absence. You know how in horror movies, there's always a moment when the hero/ine thinks the danger is past, and the monster is killed? And they turn around to breathe a sigh of relief, but over their shoulder we see the ghoul sit right back up and make a grab at them, and we know this will be the worst battle. School was kind of like that two weeks ago. I was getting all cocky, thinking I was just about graduated, when I got mired deep into finals. Last week, for example, I had two exams, one take-home exam, and two papers. Friday alone I had one of those exams and one of those papers, and then I foolishly decided to work from one to seven. I went to bed at ten that night.
But all this is in the past. And is boring. Although I had a funny moment Thrusday at school. I was working on my paper on Altman (Short Cuts, bless) in the screening room. I had made a mental note that the headphones weren't plugged in, and that I should do that before playing the movie. Which is why it was super embarassing when, fifteen minutes later, a girl taps me on the shoulder to ask me if I realize they aren't plugged in. This is while I have the TV on at max volume, with the headphones on my ears. And then, to make matters worse, I leave, and then the same girl came out to ask if the cell phone she found was mine. It was. I was tired.
But I have some fun stuff coming up, hopefully. Time for more knitting, reading, assorted cultural activities that keep me from being a hermit. Oh, and I have Twitter now- username Protagitron. I heard that John McCain had it, and I wasn't going to be less plugged-in than someone who's older than Israel. And now I'm not sure what it offers that Facebook doesn't. But I beat Oprah to it, so at least I feel cooler than someone. Suck it, O. (Please don't kill me with all of your money.)
But all this is in the past. And is boring. Although I had a funny moment Thrusday at school. I was working on my paper on Altman (Short Cuts, bless) in the screening room. I had made a mental note that the headphones weren't plugged in, and that I should do that before playing the movie. Which is why it was super embarassing when, fifteen minutes later, a girl taps me on the shoulder to ask me if I realize they aren't plugged in. This is while I have the TV on at max volume, with the headphones on my ears. And then, to make matters worse, I leave, and then the same girl came out to ask if the cell phone she found was mine. It was. I was tired.
But I have some fun stuff coming up, hopefully. Time for more knitting, reading, assorted cultural activities that keep me from being a hermit. Oh, and I have Twitter now- username Protagitron. I heard that John McCain had it, and I wasn't going to be less plugged-in than someone who's older than Israel. And now I'm not sure what it offers that Facebook doesn't. But I beat Oprah to it, so at least I feel cooler than someone. Suck it, O. (Please don't kill me with all of your money.)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The World's Mildest Gossip
You know what? The only thing that sucks more than mild gossip, is mild salsa. Get some chili peppers all up in that, or you just have diced tomatoes with delusions of grandeur. Anyway the mild gossip of the day, or week as it were, would be an ex-TA of mine may be, or probably not, flirting with me at my fine place of employment on Monday. I am too intrigued by the possibility to let it go. I saw him wondering around, and called out his name. We ended up talking about his real area of study and funny Cultural Studies papers I have handed in. I'm sure the divide between his actual thoughts during his conversation and my picture of them ran something like this:
ex-T.A.: Oh, thank God. A student of mine who doesn't view me as a potential obstacle or stepping stone to law school. I will talk to her in order to feel valued again.
My version: Dear, sweet, Protagitron. You look so damn attractive holding that Yale University Press catalogue as you create records, pushing your glorious curls behind one ear. Run away with me, and we will fight the twin enemies of the Code of Conduct and poorly edited essays... together.
Okay, so I'm not quite so pathetic in real life. And yet, I find myself uncharacteristically tempted- although I'm sure the interest is entirely one-sided, even failure would provide an interesting coda to my university career...
ex-T.A.: Oh, thank God. A student of mine who doesn't view me as a potential obstacle or stepping stone to law school. I will talk to her in order to feel valued again.
My version: Dear, sweet, Protagitron. You look so damn attractive holding that Yale University Press catalogue as you create records, pushing your glorious curls behind one ear. Run away with me, and we will fight the twin enemies of the Code of Conduct and poorly edited essays... together.
Okay, so I'm not quite so pathetic in real life. And yet, I find myself uncharacteristically tempted- although I'm sure the interest is entirely one-sided, even failure would provide an interesting coda to my university career...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Stupid Confession of the Day
So, T.A. PAUL- my second favourite T.A. of all time, and thus deserving of the constant capitalization- invited me to his New Year's shindig. I decided not to go. In other words, I am forfeiting the right to see one of my favourite authority figures get drunk and weepily sing along to the Carpenters for Guelph.
I also made the brilliant decision to tell everyone I still knew in Guelph that I always get morose on this date, and am quarantining myself away from the general population to contain the suck. Which of course, makes it perfectly understandable that I am mildly miffed that no one in Guelph has invited me to their New Year's thing.
Which I, of course, would just refuse anyway.
Sometimes I don't make sense, even to myself. And yet, still:
I also made the brilliant decision to tell everyone I still knew in Guelph that I always get morose on this date, and am quarantining myself away from the general population to contain the suck. Which of course, makes it perfectly understandable that I am mildly miffed that no one in Guelph has invited me to their New Year's thing.
Which I, of course, would just refuse anyway.
Sometimes I don't make sense, even to myself. And yet, still:
Monday, June 9, 2008
In Which I Plumb The Depths, And Reveal How Sad I Am
I'll be honest. Like most middle-class, white, Canadians I have been lucky enough to float through life without experiencing any true tragedies. I've never known much about persecution, racism, pestilence, illness, starvation, or war. I just watch them on TV. Of course, this doesn't make me feel blessed. I'm a flawed person, and so a sea of minor annoyances and petty grievances afflict me. I leave my wallet at home, and my keys as well. I'm bad with money. I have not been knitting or sewing as much as I used to. McGill never gets back to my e-mails. I can never muster the cajones to apply to as many jobs as I should. And so on, and so on.
The biggest two issues, which feed into each other daily, are first, how hard it is to watch everyone else be happy as you continuously fail, and secondly, the "no mans" problem. I'm usually embarrassed about the latter, since it seems like I'm betraying my feminist ideals and the awesome, happily alone person I used to be. I don't know what happened. It just seemed like one day, I realized there was one rite of passage I had missed, of being loved, or just being found attractive. And as much as I tried to let it not bother me, it began to feel as if a door to maturity had closed without me noticing. Being alone would have been fine if it was my choice. But this wasn't. And watching all of my friends fall in love, and be in love, and throw me over again and again because of that silly notion, began to sting. I would say that love is a crock, but I've seen what it can do to people, so I believe it's real enough.
And it wasn't just the partnering, it seemed like everyone else was moving ahead with their life while I was stuck in a holding pattern somewhere over Regina. They had jobs and internships, and scheduled voyages to their boyfriends. I had an obese cat and some Westerns on DVDs. And trying to fix things just made me anxious. Particularly the smash of Fall '09, which somehow dribbled on until now and will be detailed in a later entry. Then I tried to throw myself in with any man I saw, figuring I would take the buckshot approach to finding love, or at least finding sex. But they already had girlfriends, or were gay. Even my gaydar wasn't working! Most of the time they just didn't feel right.
I've been thinking about this more as I've been lurking on an acquaintance's blog. I met Ted through Fight Band, and took an immediate and intense dislike to him. First of all, being with him was like being with a foul-mouthed, homophobic hummingbird. I think I even have a whole inch on the guy. He's also one of those white guys with an acute case of China Doll Syndrome, and since I'm neither Asian nor cute, I was pretty much ignored.
But then... he kind of grew on me. The more time I was forced to spend with him, the more I realized that there was a soft, squishy soul there. I mean, he had a white board on his door with his goals for the day, upon which was written only "Find true love." I'm not made of stone! And then I found his blog. It detailed his quest for true love, frequently in Japan. His ideas about love, as an undertaking requiring military-like stratagems and constant baseball metaphors, were alien to me. Is this what it's like for other people, do they talk about going 0 for 2 and measure their batting averages? How many of you have found your lover by calling on your pinch hitter on the bottom of the seventh? I don't even know if my own sports metaphors make sense, because I don't watch baseball. Maybe I should start talking about my own quest in terms of curling, or figure skating.
I always thought that if/when anything happened, the other person would know as well. I didn't know until Ted that I could wage a siege on their emotions. Or, shudder, call sex "playing baseball. " Maybe that's what's wrong with me, I'm too passive, waiting until I trip over some obvious sign before admitting that something might happen. Or simply just my waiting for someone else is killing me, and I should get off my ass and go out there and land the triple axle. The problem with that, as I've web-stalked Ted is that the chase begins to displace the prize, because once he landed a girl he seemed to lose interest in her. And I got hurt once or twice when I tried to be even marginally more agressive, and I can't any more. So, this one's for you, Ted: I think I'll ride the bench for now. And yet, Ted's Elvis Stojko-like dedication to skating despite his groin injury, and monomaniacal reliance on sports metaphors has inspired me. Even though the situation looks bleak now, I have hope. Maybe I'll get the bronze even if I miss the gold medal.
The biggest two issues, which feed into each other daily, are first, how hard it is to watch everyone else be happy as you continuously fail, and secondly, the "no mans" problem. I'm usually embarrassed about the latter, since it seems like I'm betraying my feminist ideals and the awesome, happily alone person I used to be. I don't know what happened. It just seemed like one day, I realized there was one rite of passage I had missed, of being loved, or just being found attractive. And as much as I tried to let it not bother me, it began to feel as if a door to maturity had closed without me noticing. Being alone would have been fine if it was my choice. But this wasn't. And watching all of my friends fall in love, and be in love, and throw me over again and again because of that silly notion, began to sting. I would say that love is a crock, but I've seen what it can do to people, so I believe it's real enough.
And it wasn't just the partnering, it seemed like everyone else was moving ahead with their life while I was stuck in a holding pattern somewhere over Regina. They had jobs and internships, and scheduled voyages to their boyfriends. I had an obese cat and some Westerns on DVDs. And trying to fix things just made me anxious. Particularly the smash of Fall '09, which somehow dribbled on until now and will be detailed in a later entry. Then I tried to throw myself in with any man I saw, figuring I would take the buckshot approach to finding love, or at least finding sex. But they already had girlfriends, or were gay. Even my gaydar wasn't working! Most of the time they just didn't feel right.
I've been thinking about this more as I've been lurking on an acquaintance's blog. I met Ted through Fight Band, and took an immediate and intense dislike to him. First of all, being with him was like being with a foul-mouthed, homophobic hummingbird. I think I even have a whole inch on the guy. He's also one of those white guys with an acute case of China Doll Syndrome, and since I'm neither Asian nor cute, I was pretty much ignored.
But then... he kind of grew on me. The more time I was forced to spend with him, the more I realized that there was a soft, squishy soul there. I mean, he had a white board on his door with his goals for the day, upon which was written only "Find true love." I'm not made of stone! And then I found his blog. It detailed his quest for true love, frequently in Japan. His ideas about love, as an undertaking requiring military-like stratagems and constant baseball metaphors, were alien to me. Is this what it's like for other people, do they talk about going 0 for 2 and measure their batting averages? How many of you have found your lover by calling on your pinch hitter on the bottom of the seventh? I don't even know if my own sports metaphors make sense, because I don't watch baseball. Maybe I should start talking about my own quest in terms of curling, or figure skating.
I always thought that if/when anything happened, the other person would know as well. I didn't know until Ted that I could wage a siege on their emotions. Or, shudder, call sex "playing baseball. " Maybe that's what's wrong with me, I'm too passive, waiting until I trip over some obvious sign before admitting that something might happen. Or simply just my waiting for someone else is killing me, and I should get off my ass and go out there and land the triple axle. The problem with that, as I've web-stalked Ted is that the chase begins to displace the prize, because once he landed a girl he seemed to lose interest in her. And I got hurt once or twice when I tried to be even marginally more agressive, and I can't any more. So, this one's for you, Ted: I think I'll ride the bench for now. And yet, Ted's Elvis Stojko-like dedication to skating despite his groin injury, and monomaniacal reliance on sports metaphors has inspired me. Even though the situation looks bleak now, I have hope. Maybe I'll get the bronze even if I miss the gold medal.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Side Effects of Caffeine Noted In Jittery Fashion
Artist's Rendition Of Me Wearing The Cardigan. Note Cat Brooch. Hello! I am SPEAKING IN CAPITALS AND EXCLAMATION POINTS because I've had lots of coffee today! Lots!
*crazy hands*
I've also guilted myself into posting again. I made a mental promise that I wouldn't until I had finally finished the coroner's report on the purple sweater fiasco, complete with photos. Unfortunately, it was just too depressing to take them. Pistache kept on wandering into the frame, and the combination of frumpy sweater+ diseased cat was just too sad to bear.
Also, I gave away my "extra" camera cord which turned out to be my "only" camera cord. And, where are my batteries for the camera? Honestly.
So, there would be the sad, sad, corpse of a sweater here. Yep, it looks so whole now. But its benign appearance hides its true nature. Put this on and I gain fifteen years and twenty pounds. So, I'm done. I've dumped it, and I'm already on the rebound with some unused balls. It's the Airy Wrap from Fitted Knits. My last sweater from that book turned out so well I'm sure the stars will finally align for this one. Granted, the Manos is more rustic than the airy mohair of the model sweater, which as a fellow knitter astutely pointed out, will mean that the ties will have to be re-engineered. I figure I have two options. I could decrease sharply and just knit a very thin tie for longer than the pattern requires, for a look I'll christen "granola bondage fetish." Or, I can shorten the ties, and incorporate buttonholes so that it can be fastened neatly at the side. I find this colour of Manos hard to match buttons to for some reason. Purple is just a colour that doesn't come naturally to me.
What else doesn't come naturally? Flirting. Trying to make. Hitting on people, and being hit on in return. Sexing... up. I could go on like this for some time, but my euphemisms would become increasingly obscure and disturbing. I mean, I currently have this weird thing going on with this guy B (much more on that later), but there's also an ever so adorable specimen in my Labour Economics class, who has me rather confused. I'm absolutely hopeless when it comes to telling if some one's hitting on me. Standard policy: everyone finds me repulsive, and are probably trying to con me out of my wallet as well. I was at a computer terminal in Leacock a week ago, idly scanning the Times, when the specimen in question (let's call him Frank) came to use another computer. We chatted about our class, joked about a comment I had made to the prof, and then I... fled like he had the plague. And he doesn't. Boyishly cute, Frank is! It's just that I hate being a bore, so I'll leave before the conversation gets to that awkward point when someone has to make up an excuse to leave. But then, I realized that... hey... he was talking to me. Joking. And smiling at me? Could he possibly have been flirting with me? Or had all the information on the wage gap caused me to lose all sense of perspective?
I've chatted with him twice since then, and I have no clue. But it's certainly a novel sensation.
Blah blah more pictures when I've solved The Mystery of the Missing Batteries, blah blah.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Snow Gear
I kept on forgetting it was December- seriously, I dated one of my notes from Monday October 3- so Montreal decided to remind me with snow. Lots of snow. "I can barely open my balcony door to put the garbage out" kind of snow. I knitted up a new hat to celebrate, and keep my ears attached to my head. So, of course it had to be photographed in the snow.
Pattern: Glaistig from The AntiCraft
Yarn: Debbie Bliss Aran Tweed in 03
Needles: 4.5 mm Addi Turbos and Aero DPNs
Mods: None, really. Knit with one strand instead of two since it was aran weight wool anyway. I must have failed reading comprehension, because I still cannot figure out why we need instructions for a back half cable- I never got around to making one. Still, it's cute and keeps my ears warm.
As for the other stuff- acute disappointment in the area of the heart is not the only thing going wrong. My Dad couldn't come and see me this weekend, he's sick, the family car broke down, I'm sick, the cat still has a questionable skin condition... it's just the most annoying one, since it's turned me into one of those Women Who Obsess. I did, however, indulge in some ego-boosting flirting with V (of the girlfriended nature) and his friend this morning. Unfortunately, I don't know his friend's name, and he may be gay. However, he is tall.
Which, at this point, is enough for me.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
In Which I Exploit a Tragic Death For My Own Ends
After a disastrous Thursday evening, in which I felt like a stalker, a loser, and a trial size pack of dish soap someone chose not to use- yes, really, and it would take too long to explain- I needed an excuse for the random bouts of crying I was going through. I cried walking home, I cried eating breakfast, I cried reading a book. Of course, I probably shouldn't have picked My Year of Meats, which features that m-word troika of feel-good topics: the meat industry, miscarriage, and marital rape. I even cried during Predator, my depression cure of choice. You know, Arnold, maybe the Predator just wanted to be loved too, you know? And collect a few human trophies along the way? He didn't need to die! Maybe you should have just given him time to adjust because he might be dealing with some emotional issues, Q- er, Arnold.
And so I was provided with one: the death of Evel Knievel. I knew him first as the daredevil in the snappy suit who I was sure had years of car jumps and broken ribs in front of him. But now he's become so much more. Family man, entrepreneur, and the reason I salted mall Pad Sew with my tears. Now I will go and light a red, white, and blue candle to his memory while drunk dialing everyone I ever had a crush on in high school- barring the Crush of Doom. Look out, Chris from grade 12 English- I'll be slurring my devotion to you tonight.
And so I was provided with one: the death of Evel Knievel. I knew him first as the daredevil in the snappy suit who I was sure had years of car jumps and broken ribs in front of him. But now he's become so much more. Family man, entrepreneur, and the reason I salted mall Pad Sew with my tears. Now I will go and light a red, white, and blue candle to his memory while drunk dialing everyone I ever had a crush on in high school- barring the Crush of Doom. Look out, Chris from grade 12 English- I'll be slurring my devotion to you tonight.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ouch.
The cat has dropped. Actually, more like thudded. This cat is huge. Pictures with household objects for scale (pens, Heinz ketchup bottle, medium pizza from 2 pour 1) to follow tomorrow.
What else dropped? My left leg, onto the ground, after my right ankle did a funky twist move in front of James McGill's tomb. Sure, I walked it off, and thought at most I had a pair of grass-stained pants and a mildly bruised ego. Instead, the mild pain in my right ankle became an intense pain, and now it's slightly discoloured and swollen. I think I tempted the Great Lever of Fate in my last post, when I mentioned my klutziness. Now, I can't even put weight on it, and have resorted to crawling around my apartment on all fours, or undignified hopping. Pray for a miraculous recovery tomorrow, so that I can attend my Film Studies class, taught by Nedward, and bake a cake.
At least Pistache is absolutely adorable. He's already out and socializing, and even managed to heave his girth up onto the couch for some TV-watching with Protagitron the Invalid. I'm also hoping that, if I can't walk, then this will be my excuse to get some much-needed knitting time in.
What else dropped? My left leg, onto the ground, after my right ankle did a funky twist move in front of James McGill's tomb. Sure, I walked it off, and thought at most I had a pair of grass-stained pants and a mildly bruised ego. Instead, the mild pain in my right ankle became an intense pain, and now it's slightly discoloured and swollen. I think I tempted the Great Lever of Fate in my last post, when I mentioned my klutziness. Now, I can't even put weight on it, and have resorted to crawling around my apartment on all fours, or undignified hopping. Pray for a miraculous recovery tomorrow, so that I can attend my Film Studies class, taught by Nedward, and bake a cake.
At least Pistache is absolutely adorable. He's already out and socializing, and even managed to heave his girth up onto the couch for some TV-watching with Protagitron the Invalid. I'm also hoping that, if I can't walk, then this will be my excuse to get some much-needed knitting time in.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Up Yours, Hypothalamus!
The last few weeks have been a series of annoyances and mistakes, somewhere along the spectrum of the banal.
Which is why I thank God that tea and Roy Orbison's music are both readily available. Roy Orbison reminds me that things could be worse, and tea makes me believe that things are just about to get better. I've finally righted all of the knitting wrongs I made, and am caught up with e-mails, bills, and all the rest of my many annoyances.
Speaking of e-mails: for a few months, I was convinced that those nonsense Spam e-mails were really secret codes some mysterious (but wealthy!) figure was sending to me. Really, I had just read The Westing Game and other kids caper books too much as a kid, and was desperate for adventure. Which... would be a good excuse if I had been twelve. But I was eighteen. Finally, a computer geek I had a passing acquaintance with loudly and publicly informed me that they were just Spam after I had printed them all out and spent months trying to decode what Karamazov had to do with stock tips.
And further embarrassments: For many years, I had a long-standing, and secret, crush on a certain boy in high school.
Well, I thought it was a secret, until I found out that a middle-aged woman I worked with at work knew who he was. Which means either my mom told her, which is bad enough, or worse- the crush's mom knows! Which means he knows! Forgive me for being unbearably high school about the whole thing, but he was much better-looking, more popular, and more athletic than I was. And taller. Oh, how very much taller. Even though I'm way past it now, it would still be embarrassing to the pimply teen aged girl that lives in us all, in my case, in the monstrous zit right between my eyebrows.
So, I was hanging out with some high school friends last Thursday, when we ran into a raving bitch working the late shift at the local all-night grocer's. This led to a conversation about how you never seem to run into the people you want to see again, and I said that I wanted to run into the ex-crush, to see if he was worth all the hormones I wasted on him. Well, the next day, I was walking with my Dad downtown. When, out of his native habitat sprung the Exus-Crushinus, in a family herd of mother and brother. I didn't say hi. I didn't wave. I didn't even make eye contact. Instead, I abruptly turned to my Dad, and launched into a rapid twelve point discussion of my hatred for Mondays. I narrowly avoided whiplash and a collision with a pole. I finally went into the bank to withdraw some money, and as I stabbed my PIN into the keypad, I wondered if maturity would ever catch up with puberty.
Tomorrow, I promise to talk about the spinning and the tank top graveyard. I can even make the girl guide hand thing, and there will be sockpal news! Yay.
Which is why I thank God that tea and Roy Orbison's music are both readily available. Roy Orbison reminds me that things could be worse, and tea makes me believe that things are just about to get better. I've finally righted all of the knitting wrongs I made, and am caught up with e-mails, bills, and all the rest of my many annoyances.
Speaking of e-mails: for a few months, I was convinced that those nonsense Spam e-mails were really secret codes some mysterious (but wealthy!) figure was sending to me. Really, I had just read The Westing Game and other kids caper books too much as a kid, and was desperate for adventure. Which... would be a good excuse if I had been twelve. But I was eighteen. Finally, a computer geek I had a passing acquaintance with loudly and publicly informed me that they were just Spam after I had printed them all out and spent months trying to decode what Karamazov had to do with stock tips.
And further embarrassments: For many years, I had a long-standing, and secret, crush on a certain boy in high school.
Well, I thought it was a secret, until I found out that a middle-aged woman I worked with at work knew who he was. Which means either my mom told her, which is bad enough, or worse- the crush's mom knows! Which means he knows! Forgive me for being unbearably high school about the whole thing, but he was much better-looking, more popular, and more athletic than I was. And taller. Oh, how very much taller. Even though I'm way past it now, it would still be embarrassing to the pimply teen aged girl that lives in us all, in my case, in the monstrous zit right between my eyebrows.
So, I was hanging out with some high school friends last Thursday, when we ran into a raving bitch working the late shift at the local all-night grocer's. This led to a conversation about how you never seem to run into the people you want to see again, and I said that I wanted to run into the ex-crush, to see if he was worth all the hormones I wasted on him. Well, the next day, I was walking with my Dad downtown. When, out of his native habitat sprung the Exus-Crushinus, in a family herd of mother and brother. I didn't say hi. I didn't wave. I didn't even make eye contact. Instead, I abruptly turned to my Dad, and launched into a rapid twelve point discussion of my hatred for Mondays. I narrowly avoided whiplash and a collision with a pole. I finally went into the bank to withdraw some money, and as I stabbed my PIN into the keypad, I wondered if maturity would ever catch up with puberty.
Tomorrow, I promise to talk about the spinning and the tank top graveyard. I can even make the girl guide hand thing, and there will be sockpal news! Yay.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Weird...
Remember that Monarch Knitting book I found in the used book store? Well, I was looking through a list of upcoming knitting books at Amazon, and what do I find: they're re-printing it. And it's supposedly "hard to find". Moments of knitting coincidence like this frighten me.
Also, Véronik Avery's book is scheduled for release in September. I'm really looking forward to this one- I can't think of a dud Avery design. Annie Modesitt has a book coming out too, a little earlier in August. I have mixed feelings about Ms. Modesitt- sometimes her designs can be innovative and lovely, and other times they are... not so much. I'm still recovering from the baby onesie she design in the latest Vogue, which kind of reminded me of a Tyrolean flour sack. But then there's this corset top, which is gorgeous. Although I may be wary of her, after an ill-advised attempt at the Pin-Up Queen sweater from Stitch and Bitch. It was my fault, really, and I doomed it from the start. To be flattering on my figure, the pattern would have required a few alterations. Alterations that I didn't have the skills at the time to figure out. I did a stubbornly half-assed job on my swatching, a bad idea for Classic Elite Lush, which blooms prodigiously with wear and blocking. Actually, the yarn choice, while certainly luscious, was a bad choice for the garment I had in mind. I wanted a sweater I could just pull on and trot off to school in, one that would be flattering any day of the week. Instead, I ended up wearing a wee fuzz factory, one that sent puffs of fiber skywards with every moment, and matted with anything more than gentle use. Eventually, I conceded defeat, and hid it in the closet. I've been slowly frogging it over the last year, for a better purpose. And maybe Ms. Modesitts pattern will find a purpose too- with a better yarn.
One that doesn't cause a sneezing fit.
Also, Véronik Avery's book is scheduled for release in September. I'm really looking forward to this one- I can't think of a dud Avery design. Annie Modesitt has a book coming out too, a little earlier in August. I have mixed feelings about Ms. Modesitt- sometimes her designs can be innovative and lovely, and other times they are... not so much. I'm still recovering from the baby onesie she design in the latest Vogue, which kind of reminded me of a Tyrolean flour sack. But then there's this corset top, which is gorgeous. Although I may be wary of her, after an ill-advised attempt at the Pin-Up Queen sweater from Stitch and Bitch. It was my fault, really, and I doomed it from the start. To be flattering on my figure, the pattern would have required a few alterations. Alterations that I didn't have the skills at the time to figure out. I did a stubbornly half-assed job on my swatching, a bad idea for Classic Elite Lush, which blooms prodigiously with wear and blocking. Actually, the yarn choice, while certainly luscious, was a bad choice for the garment I had in mind. I wanted a sweater I could just pull on and trot off to school in, one that would be flattering any day of the week. Instead, I ended up wearing a wee fuzz factory, one that sent puffs of fiber skywards with every moment, and matted with anything more than gentle use. Eventually, I conceded defeat, and hid it in the closet. I've been slowly frogging it over the last year, for a better purpose. And maybe Ms. Modesitts pattern will find a purpose too- with a better yarn.
One that doesn't cause a sneezing fit.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Almost Snow Day
I woke up in the middle of a snow globe set to spin, and still they didn't cancel school. Public schools were cancelled, but unfortunately not university.
Which meant I trekked out of the house at 8:50 in order to have a super-fun time with Professor Woodlouse and Elizabeth Smart's many cultural allusions. I've been avoiding getting my awful, awful paper back in that class for, oh, a week now. Also, avoiding my drama paper. And my Russian presentation grade. Russian in general. Cultural Studies quiz.
Life, ahem.
Anyway, after my arctic trek and first class were over, I tried to finish up the Foucault reading. Unfortunately, I can barely read him when I'm in a good mood, and trying to do so when I'm cranky and wet... leads to me going "O RLY Frenchie?" and tossing it angrily back in my backpack. Also, urgings to burn my course pack. Decided to just wing it in my Cultural Studies conference instead. Thank God that focused on the Kafka short story we had to read.
Oh, Kafka.
Remember when I had a strange, inexplicable crush on you in high school? Crazy times, you Czech weirdo. Crazy times.
Finally finished "Long Day's Journey Into Night" between naps at the library, which didn't improve my mood what with the morphine addiction and drunkenness. I was ordered by my brother to go to a concert tonight, 120 Days at the Mile End Centre, and I really wanted to, but I was cold, hungry and tired, and... it was all the way in Mile End. So I finished off the day by watching A Room With a View while eating bulk almonds and drinking tea with my roommate. And you know what?
That was actually a pretty good end to a crap day. Tomorrow is supposed to be mild, so I'm going to take advantage of that with a trip up the mountain and then Nuit Blanche.
Which meant I trekked out of the house at 8:50 in order to have a super-fun time with Professor Woodlouse and Elizabeth Smart's many cultural allusions. I've been avoiding getting my awful, awful paper back in that class for, oh, a week now. Also, avoiding my drama paper. And my Russian presentation grade. Russian in general. Cultural Studies quiz.
Life, ahem.
Anyway, after my arctic trek and first class were over, I tried to finish up the Foucault reading. Unfortunately, I can barely read him when I'm in a good mood, and trying to do so when I'm cranky and wet... leads to me going "O RLY Frenchie?" and tossing it angrily back in my backpack. Also, urgings to burn my course pack. Decided to just wing it in my Cultural Studies conference instead. Thank God that focused on the Kafka short story we had to read.
Oh, Kafka.
Remember when I had a strange, inexplicable crush on you in high school? Crazy times, you Czech weirdo. Crazy times.
Finally finished "Long Day's Journey Into Night" between naps at the library, which didn't improve my mood what with the morphine addiction and drunkenness. I was ordered by my brother to go to a concert tonight, 120 Days at the Mile End Centre, and I really wanted to, but I was cold, hungry and tired, and... it was all the way in Mile End. So I finished off the day by watching A Room With a View while eating bulk almonds and drinking tea with my roommate. And you know what?
That was actually a pretty good end to a crap day. Tomorrow is supposed to be mild, so I'm going to take advantage of that with a trip up the mountain and then Nuit Blanche.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)