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.

Socks For November

Mismatched On Purpose Socks
As the Montreal cold sets in, a new pair of socks is always appreciated. These came from the yarn my fabulous sockpal sent for me. They're from the Regia Kaffe Fassett line that came out a few months ago, though they've been hibernating all lonely and unphotographed for a while. They're rather lovely, but the pattern is just the old stockinette standby with short row heel and decrease toe. Seriously, only two things make these worthy of mention. The fact that they're most assuredly not knit to match (one's Landscape Fire and one's Mirage Fire), and the lovely colours- that Fassett fellow sure knows colour. I do think I like the stripe versions of the colourways better though- they seem to become muddier when variegated.

As for the situation I mentioned a few posts back? That whole affairs of the hearts thing? Sweet Christ on a cracker, is that ever a disaster of DeMillean proportions. At least I have ascertained that I do, in fact, have a thing for him. However, I have also ascertained that I should not. I have also annoyed all of my friends by bombarding them with neurotic ramblings on this topic. Here's a sample conversation between the roomie and me:

"We're so awkward! He talks to me and never says anything about it! Then he doesn't talk to me at all! Then we have awkward, feeble conversation. But then we also have really interesting ones, too. I can't do this! I must delete AIM from my computer entirely so that I'm never encouraged to speak to him again. What am I doing? I can't concentrate on my studying! Why don't we have more alcohol in the house? Please, shoot me in the head, fearless roommate.
So.... enough about me. What's new with you? Wait, has he said anything about me?"

So, I have come up with an easy, three-step plan to end the madness.
1. Join more clubs and games. The brain can't obsess when it's listening to someone whinge about CKUT funding!
2. Hang out at places that are related to things I enjoy. At best, I can find someone cute who likes those things too. At worst, tomorrow I'll have some shiny new reading material from the Drawn and Quarterly store.
3. Bar it up. In spite of my looming financial insolvency, I can't think when I'm drunk. Plus, the potential for amusing, but poor, life choices is high.
In the event of none of these steps working, we move to the fail safe.
FS: I shoot myself in the head.

Microeconomic Theory Has Stolen My Brain.

No more posting until I get this horrid exam out of the way. I'm becoming a hermit for the next few days, living off of only the food in the pantry and teaching my cat to fetch the mail. Please check in a few days in case of death.

Horoscopes and Horrors

I'm generally skeptical, but I do have one unfortunate failure of critical belief: my little horoscope widget. This tiny piece of code on my Mac dashboard is on a level with the Times and the New Yorker when it comes to factual accuracy with me, due to one brilliant moment of prognostication a year ago. It correctly predicted that a coupling would result from my recent mixing of social spheres, and boom- my Guelph pal Ginger was going out with my McGill pal Oscar after meeting at my birthday party. It didn't predict that they would break up four months later, but then again, nobody- and no thing- is perfect.

Every so often I check it to see if it will repeat this eerie feat again, hopefully in some manner that is more beneficial. To me. In the Department of Sex. Which is on the same floor as the Department of In My Pants. Today's was rather cryptic. Apparently I was recently introduced to someone who can get things going. A potential benefactor. And if I don't remember their identity, then I should just wait until they pop back into my life, at which time the plan will become clear. The plan is to wander around campus, using the Terminator analysis-cam on everyone I see, trying to decide if I a) know them and b) could use them in some sort of plan. And only then c) what the hell their name is. So, if I walk into any posts or trees this is why.

From the Department of Horrors:
Pistache on Halloween. He went as Jimmy Buffett.

A Memo From the Pentagon

I was wandering around the drugstore when I spotted this. I think the reason I had to buy two is self-evident. I had the time of my life drinking them. Nobody puts my bottle in a corner. I carried a pop-ermelon.
Katie and I are going to keep these for classy centerpieces. Stick a gerber daisy in each one and hot glue my lock of Patrick Swayze's hair to the middle. Martha Stewart would be so proud.

She would probably also sign off on my newest knitting project, the Pentagon Aran Cardigan from Knitting Nature. My other KN project, the Basalt Tank, is in stasis, but I've been knitting a few rows of this in between midterms. So far I love it, but I'm pretty sure I'll be running out of yarn before this project is over. It's Cascade 220, so it shouldn't be that difficult to come up some more (paging Frankie!) but as for dye lot... well, those luscious cables will obscure everything, right? And the yarn itself is a little heathered too, unexpectedly with yellow over red, so maybe that will blend better. I'm debating whether or not to change the sleeves, but until I get to that point, I'll just happily cable away. It keeps my mind off other stuff anyway.

Well, perhaps it's best to treat this situation as hypothetical. Which it is. Totally. I mean, say your name was "Protagitron", and you had generally kept to yourself in areas of the heart up until now. With the exception of the endurance competition that was the Crush of Doom in high school.

Now, say you're carrying on an innocent in-class flirtation with "V," who has a girlfriend anyway. But maybe it's not so innocent on your part, even though you keep on telling yourself that it is. And, furthermore, imagine that he says hello to you one day, and looks like he wants to talk to you, and does the over the shoulder sexy smile thing, as you rush off to your economics class. That should be made illegal for the unavailable, right?

And then, to make matters worse, suppose your fearless roommate tells you that a friend, "Q" has a thing for you. And you're pretty sure that he doesn't, but it's enough of a novelty that you're flattered. So, you're friendly to him because you're not one of those asses who openly reject friends who were never interested in them in the first place. But then, you wake up and realize you may have, while doing this, kind of developed a thing for him, too.

And, while all of this is going on, it would be perfectly reasonable to get through it by drinking many, uh, "Protagitrons" (tea and whiskey) and listening to Roy Orbison on a loop, no?

Fields of Green (Finally)

Uh, remember when I promised these pictures over a month ago? Or have you forgotten because it's been over a month? Well, here it is: my sweater! It fits perfectly.
Pattern: Boatneck Bluebell Sweater by Stephanie Japel; in Fitted Knits.
Yarn: Fleece Artist Kid Silk 2-Ply, in Moss. This is an absolutely gorgeous combination of colour and yarn. The haze of the mohair and the gleam of the silk really complement the tonal variationsof the dye, giving the knitted fabric a lot of depth and richness. Too bad those evil Nova Scotians discontinued it, eh?
Needles: 3.5 mm circs
Notes: I knitted one less purl ridge around all of the ribbing sections. At first this was an unintentional mistake, but after trying it on I decided it was more flattering on me this way, so I continued with two ridges instead of three throughout the sweater. I compensated for the lost length by doing more rows of ribbing. I think I also (unintentionally) knit fewer garter rows than called for at the neck, but I don't care enough to fix it. Otherwise, I followed the pattern exactly. I wish I hadn't, and just knit the sleeves in the round. I wonder why the lovely Ms. Japel didn't, but I'm sure she has some sort of design reason for doing so. Anyone care to elaborate? Or speculate?

But that is really just splitting (kid mohair) hairs, when the finished sweater is this lovely and flattering. And simple to knit. It calls out for a floaty, elfin skirt to twirl in, no? Well, sweats will just have to do. Particularly if I go through another month of school hell like the one I just finished. Also, a month of sickness, romantic confusion, and terrible mess. Next entry: new knitting projects, and an attempt to quantify the the magnitude of my romantic disaster.

Whee.

Great Moments in Analysis, Episode Whatever

" The most blatantly sexual couplet Pope has transferred from Thalestris's angry speech in 1712 to Belinda's lament when she addresses the Baron:
Oh hadst thou, Cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any Hairs but these!
What else could this mean except pubic hairs...?"
-Halsband, The Rape of the Lock and its Illustrations (1980)

Well, duh.



Sorry about the absence, there was a glut of school and life business, but my camera batteries are charging right now so expect photos of the green sweater, and the cardi in progress tomorrow.

Facebook Cattiness at 10pm

Yeah, I know I promised pictures, but I haven't figured out how to take pictures of myself that aren't a charming close-up of my chin. So, you get to hear about my Facebook habits instead. I have an acquaintance of an acquaintance who I'll call "Frank." I obsessively check Frank's Facebook profile once a week.
Why?
Because Frank is GIGANTIC KNOB. And because I'm a bitter, small person I get a kick out of his terribly pretentious profile. His interests include "giving food to beggars on the street." Yes, beggars . Careful! He might break into a song from Les Misreables at any moment! Oh, and he's "got a little obsession with nature and the beauty of the aesthetic around us all." I hope this includes the gigantic neon boobies on display on St. Caths. Knobbity knob knob. He treated my friend like crap, so I think my cackling is completely morally justified here.
Unfortunately, checking his Facebook profile also leads to the sad reminder that he has a girlfriend, and the realization that someone loves him more than anyone loves me. Except for my fat cat with the FIV and the scabs. And that he will probably do better in life hacking at monkey brains or whatever his thesis is than I will do in my entire life. So, the lesson: the people you despise are probably more love than you are. On the bright side, repressed jealousy makes the cattiness that much sweeter. See, the world takes care of its own.

Finishing the big green sweater finally kicked my knitting mojo into gear. I wanted to knit projects- all kinds of projects, the more intricate the better. Looking through Interweave Knits or Rowan magazines became a pornographic experience. However, most of my favourite sweaters are currently destined to remain unattainable centrefolds. I can't really afford a whole sweater's worth of Jamieson's for a Fair Isle sweater. I do, however, have a bunch of Cascade 220 I've been dying to knit with. I knew I wanted a cardigan, but I wanted something more exciting than just simple knit and purl, or traditional cables. So I've swatched for Norah Gaughan's Pentagon Aran. And I'm really excited to begin cabling. Right after I stop sniggering that one of Frank's favourite bands is Nickleback. There's aesthetic for you.

Dispatches

I'm just the slightest bit tipsy, so no real blog post. The Greenberry sweater? Is finished, thank Christ- AND IT IS AWESOME. Although, in the morning, when my critical faculties are once again available, we'll see whether it truly is that awesome. Until then, as I told my pal Ginger last night: "Don't ever say you're not really drunk- or a creepy stalker. 'Cause nothing will make you seem more like either."

Until tomorrow...

Spin Class: A One Act Feeeelm by Protagitron B. Protinski

Open on THE SPIN ROOM, your typical athletic room with wood floors and the MIRROR OF SHAME. Forty students are exercising on spin bikes. Facing them, is CAPTAIN PEPPY, a keen, but tiny, Asian man on his own bike. Track in to PROTAGITRON, sweating profusely.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Come on ladies, PUSH IT!

PROTAGITRON
I hope you CHOKE on your [beep] pep, you [BEEP]ing [beep]sucking spawn of SATAN.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Give it all you've got, guys! Go the extra mile!

PROTAGITRON
You suckled at Beelzebub's teat, didn't you?

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Alright, I want you to go even faster for the next thirty seconds, okay?

PROTAGITRON
One day I will fashion a charming scarf from your entrails, you SON of a-

Protagitron seizes up and clutches her chest

-heeeeack!

Protagitron falls off her bike and to the floor. One pedal bobs, as her left foot twitches sadly.

CAPTAIN PEPPY
Alright, now we're trekking up Mount Everest. Climb, everybody! Climb!

Track back out through the door. END SCENE.

Note: I actually do enjoy spin class. Shh.