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!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Open Letter to a Skunk
Dear Mr. Skunk,
While I admire your tenacity in making it in the big city, it would be nice if you could spray somewhere that is not right underneath my apartment window. I am currently agonizing over a minor life choice, and your fragrant emissions are adding a certain unfortunate je-ne-sais-quoi to my cogitations. Try the entrance to the Atwater Metro, it's not like your stink would stick out there.
And yes, Mr. Skunk, I realize that I am thinking way too much about this, and that I'm taking my stress out on you, but... but... you smell bad. So there.
Yours,
Protagitron
While I admire your tenacity in making it in the big city, it would be nice if you could spray somewhere that is not right underneath my apartment window. I am currently agonizing over a minor life choice, and your fragrant emissions are adding a certain unfortunate je-ne-sais-quoi to my cogitations. Try the entrance to the Atwater Metro, it's not like your stink would stick out there.
And yes, Mr. Skunk, I realize that I am thinking way too much about this, and that I'm taking my stress out on you, but... but... you smell bad. So there.
Yours,
Protagitron
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Protagitron Under Water
Yesterday I had my first swimming lesson. It's been one of the major hush-hush shames of my life that I can't really swim. Sure, stick me in the water and I won't drown. I'll even do a half-hearted doggie paddle, before listing to one side and lurching towards a comfortable sitting rock. But breast stroke? Butterfly? Freestyle? I am fluent in none of those. I managed to get through summer camp by signing up for arts and crafts and drama religiously- you should see the gimp bracelets I can crank out- but I didn't want to get through adulthood without at least knowing how to do the front crawl.
I mean, if the movies are to be believed, and they must be, humanity faces one of two futures. Either we become a flooded wasteland from climate change, or we become a zombie wasteland just because. And since I couldn't take zombie defence classes, I was left with learn-to-swim classes.
These classes are, by the way, a ruse. A clever ruse to get your money. First, there's the explicit costs of the classes themselves. Then you must purchase a swimsuit. Which requires not only money, but a masterful strategy to find not only one that is practical while not boring, but one without a few inches of shirring, hideous floral prints, or, God help me, rhinestones on it. Swimsuit manufacturers of North America, I will kindly provide you with three pieces of useful advice. First, there are some flaws no amount of artfully-applied shirring can hide. Second, no one wants to look like Grandma's sofa. Thirdly... rhinestones? Seriously? But a swimsuit was found.
You're not finished yet, though, The swimsuit requires various hair-removal purchases to be made. I am, genetically, cursed to a sideshow freak level of hairiness. Thank my Ukrainians and Scottish ancestors who probably decided to grow their own clothes. So, you buy a waxing kit, razors, and a depilatory in the hope that one of them will unlock the key to ad-worthy smoothness. The waxing will just unlock the key to a nasty-ass rash. Which means the purchase of some hydrocortisone cream must be made. And more alcohol, if I'm going to brave public viewing looking like this.
By the time I lurch into the gym, out a good chunk of cash and kind of tipsy, I realized I couldn't find my way into the pool. And not because I was that drunk. Because I couldn't find a damn door. I could see into the pool from windows, but all of the doors said "Pool Office," or "Pool Equipment," or "NO ENTRY- Male Swimmers must use locker room entrance." What's a female swimmer to do? Wander around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before going into the "Office" door, naturally.
The class itself went well. I like the water more than my skin likes wax, thankfully. Our instructor also seems like a nice goofy guy. Who is also blessed with a divine torso. As soon as my eyes started to wander south of his head, I would start to dumbly stare at his abdominal muscles, my mouth going all slack jawed. I have turned into a twenty-year old, female lech. This kid is going to turn out to be sixteen or some such nonsense. But until then, I'll do whatever Abdom- Andrew tells me to do.
I mean, if the movies are to be believed, and they must be, humanity faces one of two futures. Either we become a flooded wasteland from climate change, or we become a zombie wasteland just because. And since I couldn't take zombie defence classes, I was left with learn-to-swim classes.
These classes are, by the way, a ruse. A clever ruse to get your money. First, there's the explicit costs of the classes themselves. Then you must purchase a swimsuit. Which requires not only money, but a masterful strategy to find not only one that is practical while not boring, but one without a few inches of shirring, hideous floral prints, or, God help me, rhinestones on it. Swimsuit manufacturers of North America, I will kindly provide you with three pieces of useful advice. First, there are some flaws no amount of artfully-applied shirring can hide. Second, no one wants to look like Grandma's sofa. Thirdly... rhinestones? Seriously? But a swimsuit was found.
You're not finished yet, though, The swimsuit requires various hair-removal purchases to be made. I am, genetically, cursed to a sideshow freak level of hairiness. Thank my Ukrainians and Scottish ancestors who probably decided to grow their own clothes. So, you buy a waxing kit, razors, and a depilatory in the hope that one of them will unlock the key to ad-worthy smoothness. The waxing will just unlock the key to a nasty-ass rash. Which means the purchase of some hydrocortisone cream must be made. And more alcohol, if I'm going to brave public viewing looking like this.
By the time I lurch into the gym, out a good chunk of cash and kind of tipsy, I realized I couldn't find my way into the pool. And not because I was that drunk. Because I couldn't find a damn door. I could see into the pool from windows, but all of the doors said "Pool Office," or "Pool Equipment," or "NO ENTRY- Male Swimmers must use locker room entrance." What's a female swimmer to do? Wander around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before going into the "Office" door, naturally.
The class itself went well. I like the water more than my skin likes wax, thankfully. Our instructor also seems like a nice goofy guy. Who is also blessed with a divine torso. As soon as my eyes started to wander south of his head, I would start to dumbly stare at his abdominal muscles, my mouth going all slack jawed. I have turned into a twenty-year old, female lech. This kid is going to turn out to be sixteen or some such nonsense. But until then, I'll do whatever Abdom- Andrew tells me to do.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Protagitron SMASH.
No posting because I've been slacking off in every interesting area of my life. My stash should be confiscated for failure to appreciate it. My sewing machine as well. What has been taking up my time, besides summer classes, poor life decisions and painful gym sessions? Apartment drama llama ding dong.
Basically, I'm trying to negotiate between what I want, what my beloved roomie wants, what new roomie wants, what my old landlord King Douche wants*, and what my cat wants. Only the cat is being satisfied right now, because all he wants are scratches and food. So, all of my entries would be totally dull right now anyway, because it would just be re-hashings of contingency plan A or B, and parts of the Régie de Logement, and the math of subletting our place at a price that moves without losing more money.
King Douche has also installed what I like to call the TetanusGiver. For whatever reason, the perfectly nice banisters on the outside stairs were removed and replaced with odd bits of wood haphazardly nailed together. You'll either get slivers, poked by a rusty nail, or fall off the side if you apply any pressure to it. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, for something, but that period has now stretched into a week plus. At least I will have a handy tool of suicide should this situation remain ever bleak. If the broken neck from my fall doesn't get me, the tetanus from the rusty nails eventually will. Or massive hemorrhaging from a sliver.
I would post photos of the Tetanus Giver, but my camera cord is temporarily out of my custody again. So my blog posts won't be getting any more exciting any time soon.
*Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like Buffalo Bill. Hopefully what he wants is not my skin for his lady suit.
Basically, I'm trying to negotiate between what I want, what my beloved roomie wants, what new roomie wants, what my old landlord King Douche wants*, and what my cat wants. Only the cat is being satisfied right now, because all he wants are scratches and food. So, all of my entries would be totally dull right now anyway, because it would just be re-hashings of contingency plan A or B, and parts of the Régie de Logement, and the math of subletting our place at a price that moves without losing more money.
King Douche has also installed what I like to call the TetanusGiver. For whatever reason, the perfectly nice banisters on the outside stairs were removed and replaced with odd bits of wood haphazardly nailed together. You'll either get slivers, poked by a rusty nail, or fall off the side if you apply any pressure to it. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, for something, but that period has now stretched into a week plus. At least I will have a handy tool of suicide should this situation remain ever bleak. If the broken neck from my fall doesn't get me, the tetanus from the rusty nails eventually will. Or massive hemorrhaging from a sliver.
I would post photos of the Tetanus Giver, but my camera cord is temporarily out of my custody again. So my blog posts won't be getting any more exciting any time soon.
*Who, by the way, looks suspiciously like Buffalo Bill. Hopefully what he wants is not my skin for his lady suit.
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