Thanksgiving Turkey

Where I live (Canada, America's toque) this weekend is Thanksgiving weekend. Thus, I am back in Guelph. I have swapped the go-go pace of the big city for the quieter pleasures of petting the dog and avoiding any discussion of the future with my mother.

How's that going? Well, on Saturday I desperately started to talk about my boyfriend to avoid the topic of grad school, and this morning I burst into tears for no reason. Judgment: middling. 

Still, in spite of all future-related anxiety, my family is one of the things I'm most thankful for this weekend. Along with the dog, pumpkin beer, health insurance and texts from Dan. And there's more. I can't list it all here, but it's a long list.

I forget that sometimes. The list of things that bother me is shorter, but it seems bigger. I worry that I'll never have enough money, and that I'll always be disappointed in my life. Of course they're slightly bound up in each other, and it's difficult to know which to attempt to fix first. If I make more money, will I feel like less of a failure monkey? Or if I do something I think is worthwhile, will I stop caring about the bank account? In any case, focusing on what's not happening doesn't make me any likelier to make something happen. 

Furthermore, if I was handed a customer satisfaction survey for my life, I would check off a solid row of 3's for satisfactory. I'm a little directionless and debt-ridden, sure. But so many things are fine, there are so many things I lucked out in, that the small pleasures should be more than enough. It's a happy Thanksgiving - the pumpkin pie is more than enough.

Domestic Sunday: Return to the Womb Edition

Back when I was choosing which university to go to, my two criteria were 1. it couldn't be on the West Coast, but 2. had to be far enough away that my Mom couldn't just casually drop in to see me. Don't worry I do love that woman (as my last minute purchase of grocery store flowers this Mother's Day proves!) but I really needed my space back then. And yet,  I now actually enjoy the occasional weekend in Guelph. Maybe it's my Mom's garden:

Or the dog:

Or maybe... THESE MUST BE MY HEINEKEN YEARS. Actually, these years I drink far better beer than Heineken:

This Sunday was brought to you by one of the last bottles from the Niagara College trip. My Dad and I went there a few weeks ago, so I could write a blog post about their brewmaster program for the Toronto Beer Week. To learn more about the program, you can read my finished post here. Or you can drink the results, as I did this afternoon. As expected for a strong ale, this one was very malty, to the point where it tasted of chocolate. Don't expect anything too bitter, and watch out for that 7.5% ABV. It will hit you eventually.

Odd Questions My Dad Has Asked Me

Grand news! I am moving to Victoria, BC, for a job! I'll be there for at least 44 weeks (well, unless I'm a total washout, but let's not think of that now - instead, let's great ready for the THUNDER of EMPLOYMENT and the THRILLS of LEARNING.) So, I am busy readying my supply of polar fleece and bulk food containers for the trip.

Sadly, this means I will soon be a 6-8 hour flight away from my family. I will miss them all terribly, although my kind, understanding father has one odd habit that has left me feeling I was living in a Quiz Bowl for the past two weeks. He asks questions. Lots of questions.

Most of which I do not know the answer to.

For your and my amusement, here's a list of five random questions he asked me today, to which my answer was either "I don't know" or "I'm not sure, but..."

1. A list of all the cookies offered at the cookie bakery I visited in New York, almost 18 months ago.

2. What the Russian people thought of Dostoevsky.

3. If there were any real Jewish restaurants left in Montreal, besides the delis.

4. Why k-os would write a song about Natalie Portman.

5. If there was any great writer or thinker no one had ever made a great documentary about... yet.

To Montreal I Return!

Somehow, I couldn't quite convince my parents that finding goose liver sausages, mashing them up, spreading them on saltines and calling it delicious was a viable dinner option. I guess they actually suffered through the '60s, so cooking from 1962 was not an option. So, you'll be getting a special DECADE MEAL on Sunday, where I make two recipes just to get caught up, and then you'll probably also get a special LIVE HOSPITAL BLOG Monday morning when I go to get my stomach pumped.

Toronto was a ton of fun, even if it culminated with an embarrassing faceplant on a concrete sidewalk. I met up with all the friends I missed, including a crew who can outdrink me. The Ukrainian side of my genes was ever so ashamed of my performance. However, since I packed a week's worth of festivities into a day and half, most of which was spent carrying around my weight in clothes and sundries in a suitcase, I was pretty much dead when I returned to Guelph. So three quiet days with Smitty The Wonder Dog, my master chef dad and my mom were much appreciated. Even if they included conversations like this:

*Scene: debating dinner options with my family, with a cookbook's odd take on tuna sandwiches coming out ahead*
Mom: Since when did you start eating tuna?
Protagitron: Since I started being broke. I ate tuna noodle casseroles all the time for a while there.
Mom: But Protagitron, these are sandwiches and not casseroles, you know.
*I stare at the cookbook page facing me with "Tuna Sandwiches" in large letters. And a photo of a filling nestled between two slices of bread. As sandwiches so often are.*
Protagitron: I... was... aware of that, mother.
Mom: Oh, shut up.

Now I'm back in Montreal, celebrating a Netherlands win and poking my lazy, sleeping cat to make sure he's still alive. All is right in my world.

Moral Uplift, Dad-Style

Conversation I Just Had With My Dad:

Dad: I sent you a really cute picture of a really cute dog that had to be put to sleep.
Me: BuuUUH?!? But why?
Dad: Because he just looked so cute in the picture.
Me:BUT NOW HE IS DEAD.
Dad: Any your mother cried so much while reading it.
Me: WHY?!?!?
Dad: He looked a bit like a female lion...

This kind of reminds me of the time he picked me up from a movie theatre because I was sick, and spent the ride home telling me about a pet store that burned to the ground, roasting all the lovable beasties inside with it. Then he proceeded to list exactly which kinds became charcoal.

Monty, Je T'Aime

First of all, sweet holy hell it is humid in Montreal. Not only that, but it hasn't been sunny in days. It's like I'm being steamed to death in a pot of sadness. Blergh.

Second, my brother brought his special lady friend to visit Montreal today. Apparently, I was in charge with convincing her that it was an awesome city and she should totally want to move here right now. I hope she forgot all about the little falling out Montreal and I had a few weeks ago, when I was angrily cursing Montreal and planning on leaving it in a big wheel. I'm not certain how well I did, but I hope the combo of delicious honey chocolates and the D&Q store reeled her in.

I always find it strange showing off a city to a visitor. I feel like I should come off as being more cool than I really am, the kind of insider who knows where the best espresso place/venue/sock store is hidden. But, I am only human. I go to McDonald's sometimes, I usually get my coffee from the closest place to work and I'm as often at home watching episodes of Spaced as going to a show. But I do know a few good places and, like my ever-dwindling store of anecdotes, I'll exploit them for all the cred I can. Mwa ha ha.

What I Did On My Ottawa Vacation

Sorry this took so long to go up. If this was real life, and I really had to write a report for school, I would make up for my tardiness by handing this in bound by a classy duotang and with an illustrated title page. Well, just imagine a picture of the Parliament Buildings and the Museum of Civilization (neither of which I went to) with "My Ottawa Vacation" in the classiest of fonts: Curlz! Or maybe you don't have to imagine it!


But what did I really do on my Ottawa vacation? Well, I saw my brother for the first time in almost a year, for one thing. It was strange- we hadn't seen each other in so long, but we didn't talk about that. Or give a Cliff's Notes version of what we had been up to. instead we settled into our usual routine of good-natured banter and teasing. I don't think my brother would have been so calm if he wasn't freshly in love. The whole thing's awfully cute from her bangs to my brother's plan that they'll live in his garrett for a month. Yes, my brother lives in a garrett. Vincent Van Gogh would find it small. If he wasn't hepped up on goofballs. Or absinthe. Whatever, I'm no art historian.

His roommates could sustain a sitcom, at least. There's the tall Philosophy M.A., who acts like Michael Cera and blow dries his air. I argued about homoeroticism vs. hyper masculinity for a while, since he (incorrectly in my view) believes that for the former to exist there must be some kind of intentionality on the part of the creator. I'm not sure if Commando is an able rebuttal or not. Then there's Vanessa, whose current boyfriend I met before her and who teaches locking at a dance studio. She would sing about my fishnets every time she saw me in a skirt. The last character has a name that should have prepared him for a life of porn stardom, but had decided to dedicated himself to campus activism instead. Unsurprisingly, he is vegan. They all treat my brother like some kind of den daddy, which is hilarious to watch. If your the little sister he has, at one time, shot in the face with a BB gun.

Oh, and things were done, of course. My brother is much cooler than I am, which means he knows all of the fun things to do in town. Like Time Kode on Friday, which is an almost-scenester gathering, but far enough from the beaten path that most of the bullshit is cleared out. And, reader, I danced. I danced because there was a protective layer of bad dancers around me, and the music was very good and very loud, and because I was wearing an extra-large hoodie. Oh, and there was a random movie with Sun Ra in it being projected, so maybe he was working his crazy mojo on me. The next day we met up with my cousin and his lovely wife R. I've been half in love with R since my cousin married her. She seems to know everyone, and have done everything, except for the things she's learning to do now. She also knows all of the good thrift and vintage shops, which is what we did. And all of the tony home furnishing stores. Some of those chairs- the leather, the line- were enough to make you house proud. And reject Ikea as the Swedish anti-christ.

Then it was dinner, and a movie. I was debating between Pontypool and I Love You, Man. I like to suppport Canadian film as much as the next person, especially when it involves zombies, but I also have a deep, deep need for glossy entertainment. So, I chose I love You, Man. To which I say: eh. I didn't regret any of the ticket price, but it really wasn't worth a penny more. It coasted a lot on the charm of Paul Rudd and Jason Segal, but anything that pulls off a running joke about Anwar Sadat (and a dog with an uncanny resemblence) is not entirely worthless. My brother *hated* it though, although perhaps it was less because it was boring and more because it might be uncomfortably familiar. This was discussed over brunch the next morning at the Manx, as my brother's best friend charmed some tea out of the waitress. I pushed my omelette around and wondered if I hadn't crossed some invisble line of authenticity by getting one with goat cheese and roasted peppers. I could have concluded this on the bus back to Montreal, after but I read. So I wouldn't miss my brother, or my family back in Guelph, or wonder soppily if I would ever wear a tatoo as well as my he does.

So, I left Ottawa without hitting any major tourist spot, not even the cat shelter. And I love my cats. But maybe that's the best way to see Ottawa, if you're a Canadian. Stay away from the tourist traps and you won't feel like a stock player in CanadaTown. And you might have a better chance of seeing my awesome brother.

Capital Bound

I'll be in Ottawa this weekend, visiting my esteemed (and unfortunately be-mulleted) brother. I haven't seen him for almost a year, since he went on a crazy adventure that took him from Ottawa to Korea, to Victoria, and then back again. Before I went, though, I just wanted to prove that the Monkey socks did get finished. I wore them yesterday, and they were perfectly fine socks. Although they made me hungry for cotton candy every time I looked at them.

Breaking News?

Artist's Rendering of My Mother

I'm beginning to suspect something about my Mom. I'm beginning to think that she has... powers. I should have known years earlier, when she had an unnatural ability to know when I was hiding books before bed, and where. But that was just a simple case of telepathy. Now, she's managed to collapse a truly righteous amount of stuff including one knitting project, many articles of clothing, a down coat, two pairs of shoes, many books, more DVDs, and a slow cooker, into one suitcase. People, I am left with one conclusion: my Mom can collapse the space-time continuum.
Hmm.
I hope she doesn't go all Dark Phoenix, as that would really destroy my graduation plans.

Guelph Digest

I thought my blog needed some sex appeal. This is my favourite mug from my Grandfather's "Naughty Mug" collection.

Well, how was everyone's Christmas? I spent mine Chez Grandma, in the town of Ingleside, which is kind of like a suburb of Cornwall, a town whose most notable feature was its paper plant. Which has since closed down. I feel bad about making fun of it, because the people there are quite nice. However, being in a small town when you're stuck with family, and old enough to resent the fact, is no fun. Although Guelph is not Montreal, you can still get out of your house and go somewhere. In Ingleside, there is no "there" there, at least outside of the house after regular business hours. Unless if it's somebody else's house. What I'm driving at is that I spent a lot of time upstairs, reading, this Christmas. I still recorded two bits of Grandmotherly wit and wisdom to carry you guys into the New Year, however:

1. "And they were selling popcorn for thirteen dollars! I just about shit myself!"
-Grandma Protagitron on her encounter with price gouging at a production of Mamma Mia.
2. "And she was using the toilet, so I had to pee in the sink! It was that or piss on the floor."
-Grandma P again, on proper bathroom etiquette when traveling in the state of New York.

What year is it at Grandma's house? Is it 1954, 2004, 1982, 1983, or a year represented on none of these calendars?

I am now back in Guelph, considerably more enlightened. Also, considerably better dressed. Montreal friends, there is a reason to get out of the city. I don't care if you're going to Ontario, or Moose Jaw, or even staying in Quebec and going to some po'dunk town where the locals give you the stink eye. The second hand clothing is going to kick Montreal's ass. I'm not saying that Montreal doesn't have good thrifting, just that you are competing with 1 620 692* other people for the choice items, and they are probably craftier and better at haggling than you are. So, you can either be lucky, fork over some serious coin, or content yourself with the best the early 90s has to offer in burgundy corduroy.

Guelph Haul

I am never lucky, so I am Guelphy. In today's haul: Vintage herringbone jacket, made in Edinburgh sometime in the sixties, judging from the label. Diane Von Furstenberg scarf, which I paid more for than I usually pay for secondhand goods, but 14$ for DVF is a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And, from Value Village, the Bluest Coat in the World. It is so blue it is post-post-blue. It deserves its own biohazard sticker. The legally blind might be able to make out light, dark, and this coat. I love it, and plan to be buried in it.

There is another good reason to go to Guelph: All Strung Out. Mote has her own (awesome) yarn store. I wasn't around when it opened, but I had to come down and drop a few dollars. Not as much as I would have liked, but I am under severe financial and space considerations. Also, my stash is in danger of smothering the cat, which would just push me over the edge from righteous to sad spinster. So, I limited myself to just some Diamond sock yarn, which is a gift for a friend anyway, and some Noro Kureyon Sock, which is for a secret project. But here's why you shouldn't do the same:

1. Supporting local businesses is awesome.
2. Mote is a lovely person.
3. Who doesn't love yarn?

I can't think of a better three reasons. And for those smartasses who are wondering if I even knit anymore, some day there will be pictures. Or maybe line drawings. Whatever.

Winter in balmy Guelph. Slushtastic!

A Few Things About My Brother

This is my brother.
I think he's pretty cool.
He's got a bitching tattoo and he can play guitar real well.
But he's got a very cute girlfriend, so don't get too excited.
Sometimes he drives me crazy, but he has a good heart.
He's back in Canada after a brief foray into South Korea.
It was horrifying for him, but his stories provided me with much amusement.
Apparently his Korean apartment was much nicer after the Russian prostitutes moved out.
He made it out of the country without the Korean police turning him into bulgogi.
I really like bulgogi, so I would have been torn between sadness and hunger.
I'm glad he's back.

I Have Seen the Future, and It Has a Post-It With My Name On It

I spent the long weekend at my grandma's house, an Internet-free dead zone haunted by the ghosts of garage sales past. It's always a little uncanny, because every time I use the upstairs bathroom I realize that the same bottle of European Formula shampoo has been in the tub since I can remember. That's at least 12 years, people. I think it's ossified. Grandma's house does provide the laughs though, as her obsessive pack rat nature has sometimes lead her to branch out from her usual collections of thimbles, spoons, depression glass, flow blue china, etc, into the truly bizarre. So, I play a little game of "One of These Things..." My all-time top find was a lesbian pulp fiction novel, which just edges out the statue of Moses with horns. Kinky grandma.

Even while I was exploring the house with fear and awe, my relatives were portioning off pieces of it. Is this kind of dividing the spoils common? When people aren't even sick or infirm? My aunt even asked for the car. My aunt doesn't seem to have a high opinion of granny's longevity. Or else the resale value on her ride is really, really good. The whole thing kind of weirds me out, but I refuse to get shafted. So, the next time I visit, I'll engage in a little plan called "stealth post-it noting." I see an object? Bam! Suddenly a Post-It note with my name on it is there. Who put it there? Was it me? Probably. Expired can of soup? Bam! Table? Bam! Cheese in the fridge? Bam! The house? You better believe there's a 3M product with "Protagitron" on it on the porch.

Bam!

Happy Festival of Boxes! (With a Bonus Gift)

I was going to post yesterday, but between the turkey, the presents, and the family ("That's Ukrainian math, DEBI!") there was just no time. Smitty sends a bunch of seasonal wishes all wrapped in a big bow though.

Fortunately, both my Dad and my brother are music junkies, so going home is a free chance to shop for music. My Dad keeps everything in tall CD towers, in order by genre and then by name, so I just browse and pick up a stack like I'm at a music store. This year, I'm having the weirdest urge for Pearl Jam and U2. I think it might be because my brother is leaving for Korea soon, and not coming back for a whole year. I'm getting all mushy and nostalgic for the days when we were all packed into the family van for trips anywhere educational and not in the least interesting. I've been to more museums commemorating the Civil War through the medium of wax than, well... it's just bad enough I've been to any. Weirdo Americans. And their little wax corpses. Anyway, my brother was the perfect sullen teen and monopolized the car stereo and its cruddy tape deck with U2's Zooropa. I was on an utterly futile quest to play a lot of Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes, and yet my family still let me live.

I've made it through the U2's 80s and 90s catalog and I'm on to Pearl Jam. But I'll say this- I still think that U2's Pop is an underrated album. And it's not only because of my deep and abiding love of synthesizers. They tried to do something different, and I think most of the songs have a certain end of the century ennui, with a darkness under the gloss, that I like. And it's better than a lot of their albums after the critical reaming of Pop, which have all begun to sound like diabetic versions of The Joshua Tree. But at least they give the Grammy award-carver elves employed. So, as a belated Christmas gift to anyone who needs one, here's two songs from my Secret Album Love, Pop:
If You Wear that Velvet Dress- U2
Staring at the Sun- U2
Enjoy, and have a nice winter break!

Eve and A Damn Hat

As you may have guessed, my brother wrote the last entry. But why stop at being his MySpace friend? You can also friend his page at the Southern Ontario Sex Offenders Registry page- his is the one that plays "Every Move You Make" on a loop.

It's Christmas (again) and I am power knitting (again) in order to finish my mother's Christmas gift by tonight. Somehow I managed to finish and block a lace shawl for my Mom last year before I even had to catch the train home. I wonder if she would notice if I just wrapped that shawl up again? The latest is the Basque Beret from Classic Knitted Style, in two strands of blue stashed sock yarn held together. I'll put up pictures once- and if- it's finished. Right now it just looks like a big tonal blue blob that will make a lovely Easter present. With, however, a very nice hemmed reverse stockinette brim. I did do a crochet provisional cast on instead of the one Ms. Avery calls for, and held a strand of elastic as I worked the brim so it would keep its shape. When it came time to knit from the provisional edge and the working edge, however, it did feel a bit like wrestling with spiderwebs.

If it doesn't get finished, I figure one bow and a stapler will make it into a very floppy wreath. And it would still beat my grandmother's gift to her this year- one value pack of abrasive soap pads. Lovingly wrapped. And lemon-scented. I tried putting them on the tree as Christmas ornaments, but my Dad took them off.

Donna Martin Graduates; My Brother Follows

Sorry, another hiatus was undertaken. My beloved elder brother, the one who shot me in the face with a pellet gun and tackled a fellow football player who was heckling me, graduated from Carleton University today, and I simply had to go down and see my brother. I'm completely, un-ironically, proud of my brother today. He worked hard for this, and seeing him walk across the stage, handsome in his gown, and both older and younger than he's been in a long time... I got a little sad. My brother's moving on, moving up, moving out- and I wish him all the best.

As a fitting reward for a day of warm and fuzzy sisterly feelings, I came home to a message on the answering machine from John, the guy who's sub-letting our apartment in Montreal. The phone and Internet were down there, and he was sure that I had forgotten to pay the bills. Which, of course, sent me into twitches and tics, since I had made sure to pay of both bills. I don't even have a choice about paying my Internet bill! Bell invasively charges it directly to my credit card! After I ate an emergency donut, I checked my e-mail, and John had checked with Bell and both bills were paid in full. But I'm still vexed and annoyed, because I feel like it still reflects badly on me somehow, even though it is the work of that demon, Bell. And now there are no more donuts.

Bell strikes again.

Stupid June

I just realized something today- my family doesn't communicate in full sentences. Instead, we grunt and mumble, and occasionally shout a few key words. I feel like we're regressing, and millenia from now, as the rest of humanity flits around in flying cars, with porn jacked into my heads, the terribly inbred descendants of my family will still be shuffling around our brick house, grunting out directives to each other, incredibly stunted and hairy. Like today:

Me: *mumble mumble* I BRING BAGS.
Mom: *grunts*
Me: Bags in BIG BAG.
Mom: *grunts*
Me: What?
Mom: If you have time *mumble* put bags AWAY. I need. *grunt* Bathroom.
Me: Okay.

Happy Easter

My Grandma has a lot of weird stuff.

I hope everyone had a safe and happy Easter, Passover, or whatever you celebrate during spring. I visited Ingleside. It's hard to describe Ingleside, a small town not all that far from Cornwall in Ontario. It's where my Dad spent most of his childhood for a start. It's also the place where, a few days before Christmas, my brother and I were wasting some time at the lone dollar store, and heard the sounds of musical cards singing "Happy Birthday" and "Feliz Navidad" and the like an aisle over. Next, we heard a female voice say: "Hi, Jan! Sometimes I just come here and listen to the tunes!" I'm sure it has some great qualities, or at least better than the ones it has in my mind. Part of the problem is that we were conditioned by my Dad, who made sure to blow that Popsicle stand as soon as he could, that Ingleside is about as much fun as a case of herpes.
There's a sign just outside the town that says "You are now half-way to the North Pole."
You're also half-way to nowhere.
But, the grandparents still live there, and we love them. And her delicious, delicious pies. Plus, its closer to Montreal, and Ottawa where my brother lives, so we usually do Easter there. It was nice to see the family again, especially since my parents brought Smitty up. Remember the little gaffer with the white spot from all the puppy pictures? He looks like this now. And has the personality of a politician with ADD- charming, but exhausting. I tried to smuggle the cuteness back to Montreal, but no dice.

And expect more, and better, pictures. I went into Henry's in Ottawa, a great camera store on Bank, thinking I would just wander idly while my brother priced tripods, and walked out with a Canon Rebel XT. The body was used, but in perfect shape (they hadn't even put the strap on), so I got it for a measly four hundred bucks. And my brother gave me one of his cheaper lens until I could afford better ones. I've now become one of those annoying people who run around believing everything is for photographing, and for photographing at least five times. Yes. Also, I hit up Yarn Forward, and bought some cable needles and a Chibi. The Rowan RYC Classic Alpaca book managed to overcome my reserve, but I'll write about that later.