Monty Living

I wrote the exam on Monday. It probably isn't the finest exam I have ever written. By the end, I was so desperate for the warmth and sunshine the open window in the exam room promised, I was barely managing to write a coherent paragraph. The last question may not even have coherent sentences. Some of them may just be sentence fragments. But I had scheduled dollar tacos and beer with my friend Erika, so I didn't really care. There's this slightly gringo Mexican resto and bar on Peel, Carlos and Pépés's, that has loonie nights- cheap pints and cheaper tacos for me. Is there really beef in those tacos? What do you care? It's a dollar!

Furthermore, that was game seven between the Habs and the Bruins. Watching a game in a bar in a real sports town is amazing. The way the bar goes nuts after every goal, even when it's the fifth, everyone dressed in jerseys and Canadiens gear, the general sense of merry, drunken, abandonment. And then, walking along Ste. Catherine after the game, you see traffic backed up for blocks and blocks. Everyone is honking the horn and screaming, waving flags and hanging out of car windows. Because an event hasn't happened until it's been Facebooked, everyone who isn't part of the revelry is taking pictures of it with their cellphone. It's too bad it descended into rioting and vandalism, but it was nice to feel a part of an imagined community for a while.

Tuesday was somewhat less eventful. I had to work, but at least pal Josh called Katie and me up and invited us over, even though I was a little whiffy with sandwich grease. He was going to make us matzo pizza if we brought over a movie (only stipulations: dry, "non-fiction.") I was initially a little wary of the matzo pizza. It sounded... unnatural. But it wasn't so bad. Tasty, even. The boys rejected our choice of documentary, "Gay Sex in the 70s", though. They preferred the crossword puzzle doc, "Wordplay." It wasn't a bad choice, but not nearly enough grinding.

Trauma and Lace

Well, let's just forget that week ever happened, alright? I'm still in recovery. Right after I had to write three essays in a week, I had to write three exams. Granted, it's my fault for not being more... studious and better at time management. But still, it was traumatic. I'm not even on solid foods yet, unless really dark stout ale counts. The other plan was some therapeutic sleeping in, which was ruined when my friend called from Boston. At 6. Because he was bored. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Helllllarrrrrggh.
Josh: Hey Protagitron, it's Josh.
Me: Wha? Ish six! I KEEEEEL YOU. [pause] How ish Boston?



Well, I'm feeling a little less homicidal now. I have yet another exam on Monday, and then a week off until my final exam on the 28th. I'm ignoring Monday's exam, however, and concentrating on my knitting, which was sadly neglected over the past few days. I love knitting this stole, since the lace is just interesting enough to keep things interesting while also being simple enough to master. I haven't seen any mistakes in the pattern yet, and it's turning out nicely. I'm hoping I'll have enough yarn left over to add some dramatic fringe. I think the stole needs sweepy fringe. Until I'm finished though, I'll just hold it up and pretend I'm a spider with a web.

Fake Band Names I Have Known

If you're anything like me, and I pray you're not because you'd be writing a ten page paper right now, you spend a lot of your time coming up with fake band names. I don't have the dedication, or the musical talent, or even the blinding egotism necessary to get a real band off the ground. What else can I say, but tell you that I spend more time coming up with hypothetical album covers than coming up with possible songs?

Whiskey Clandestino
Where it came from: A Jack Chick tract, by way of another forum. There was a topic dedicated to discussing those creepy little pamphlets, and in one strip that, no lie, involved bootleggers, moonshine was translated to "whiskey clandestino" in Spanish. Someone on the board mentioned that would make an awesome band name. I agreed so strongly, I stole the idea myself.
Description: The only all-cover band with a balalaika.
White Man's Pants
Where it came from: A recent favourite, it came from the self-published novel of some wackaloon linked on the Really.Bad.Novels topic at Snarkfest. Contains what might be the greatest two lines in the English canon: "Take back your white-man's pants. I will not wear them." And thus, a new fake band name was born.
Description: Mostly funk, a little klezmer, always drunk.
The Tsarinas
Where it came from: Who doesn't like the monarchs of Russia? Besides Pugachev. Or Alexander II's assassin. Or the Bolsheviks who executed Nicholas II and his family. Alright, so historically they haven't been a popular group, but their titles are pretty damn cool.
Description: All-girl band who's bubblegum pop hides a darker electronic edge.
Fine Yearling Ass
Where it came from: This hilarious Onion article, "Peasant Wedding Gets Out of Hand."

Delirious from the increasing mayhem, wedding patrons urinated out the windows of their thatched hovels, smashed earthenware jugs and whacked blind beggars with gourds.

The already-explosive situation soon deteriorated when a brawl broke out between members of the bride's and groom's families over the ownership of a pheasant.

Description: Alt-country with a lute and a sackbut.

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.

All Wrapped Up

Today, in the continuing adventures of My Major Kicks Your Major's Ass, I got to go to a mall to do some research. Too bad I picked what might possibly be the most depressing mall in Montréal. Décarie Square is a mall on life support. It's most notable feature is that it's home to the Dollar Theater. Actual cost of admission: two dollars. It's one of those places where most of the chains have moved out, except for Winners and a single brave Ardène's. There isn't a Sears, at the Décarie Square mall- there's a Sears Liquidation Store. The units that aren't empty are rented out by local operations, like the Cell-Tec store or The Handbag Two. No, I am not making those names up. I was particularly taken with Quelque Hose, a store which sold well, hosiery. The store must have been forced to diversify after it was named, because it also sold greeting cards and novelty t-shirts. In the corner, a machine labeled Animaland swirled stuffing in a glass box, rather like a popcorn machine. You could stuff your choice of toys, although from pig to dog they all looked as morose as the mall's paint job. I almost bought a couple of tights and a teddy bear just to salute the store's punnery though.

Now I'm back from the deadlands of consumer society, and getting the taste out of my mouth by pouring over knitting patterns. I want to make a stole out of some lovely dove gray Zephyr I picked up at the Stitch Niche over reading week. I don't want the patterning to be overly traditional and fussy- it has to be either eccentric or geometric, because the dress I have in mind for it is a cute flowered halter dress that walks the line between a touch of retro and time bandit from 50s suburbia. There's a crinoline, for god's sakes. The top contenders are (all pictures c/o the pattern sources):
Hanami Stole, Pink Lemon Twist

Stole Notre Dame, Birgit Freyer
Cobweb Lace Stole, Michele Rose Orne
Arctic Diamonds Stole, Donna Druchunas
Who will be the victor? I don't know- I have a purple cardigan that needs blocking.

Posting From the McGill Netherworld

Jeez, I'm surprised this thing hasn't rusted over. Right after my last post, I was thrust deep into pre-reading week school work. In two weeks I had a paper, a presentation, five midterms and a few shifts I picked up at work. I gave up even the basic rudiments of grooming and sacrificed sleep so the world would have my essential essay about the McFarlane action figure of Frankenstein's Monster. Who knows when the fate of the world will depend on what this overpriced toy has to say about feminism? The world must know! So, I promised myself I would get back to knitting- and posting- the first Monday of reading week. Unfortunately, I was too busy raiding the parental fridge and spending money on discount yarn to post anything.

And then I promised to myself I would get around to it at the beginning of this week... which ended up becoming an impromptu Festival of Grilled Cheese. When you assume, because your job is constantly running out of important things for sandwiches like... all the elements of a sandwich, that there will be no supplies at all come Monday, and decide to stock up on bread, lettuce, and tomatoes just in case, that will be the day your boss finally pulls through. So, you're left with a bag of extra groceries- what to do? Well, cut those veggies up into a salad, buy a bunch of sliced cheeses, make a bread pudding (with caramel sauce), and have some friends over for a grilled cheese fiesta.

Not only will you be well-fed, but it will lead to awesome conversations. For example, besides my roommate and her boyfriend, I invited pals Josh and Frances. They are two of the most wonderful people, and two of the nerdiest. I think of myself as a dedicated nerd, so this is a high compliment. Josh, dedicated Trekkie, was complaining about the upcoming Star Trek movie, and the following conversation occured.

"Protagitron: Well, at least the cast is full of pretty.
Josh: That's the problem. It's not Star Trek!
Frances: Josh, I watch Torchwood, and sometimes prettiness is the only thing that makes things bearable.
Josh: How can you say that when you said you didn't like Seven of Nine because she's just eye candy?
Frances: But she is.
Josh: No she's not!
Protagitron: Hey, did you know Jeri Ryan's pregnant?
Josh: Ew, it will ruin her figure!"

So, in Labour Economics the next day, Frances and I were studiously taking notes on wage discrimination against women in the workplace. And by that, I mean we were writing notes to each other out of boredom like we were still in middle school. I will have you know, however, that we do not fold them up into those complicated squares. We're too mature for that. So, I made an appropriate doodle:

It was captioned: "7 of 9 suddenly finds herself discriminated against in the workplace."

Frances's reply: "It will ruin her figure. Ahahaha!"

Well, as they say at McGill: Grandescunt Aucta Labore. "Through work, all things grow."

A Spot of Bother

No pictures this post, although the plain cardigan is puttering along nicely. The past few weeks have been nothing but full, and I'm feeling rather breathless at this point. I've taken up smoking, although right now it's more of a hobby that I find amusing than a lifestyle choice. I also hold my cigarettes like I'm Norma Desmond without the holder, so it will probably remain that way. I'm writing a paper on an action figure. God bless Cultural Studies. And I've come the unfortunate conclusion that my hapless heart will always triumph over my logical brain. And not only because I'm terminally doomed to express myself like a moron when it comes to matters political. A maroon, even. A veritable dumdum.

No, I decided this because I keep on making the same mistakes when it comes to another person. My brain is all "Seriously, girl? No." But then my heart is all "I do what I want! Outta my way!" And it's all become a little sad and ragged, because my heart keeps on winning out. And I want the underdog to win one, so I'm working on things.

Here, until I have pictures of Manosy goodness, a list of three dolls I secretly want to own, when I am old and don't care if people think I'm a crazy doll-owning nut :
1. Barbie Catwoman
2. Madame Alexander Pride and Prejudice (Ah, the fine line between cute and Chucky)
3. Tonner NYCB Coppelia (I also love the ballet)

Swatch Rx

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

This is Your Brain on Off-Brand Cold Meds

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

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

Much I Do About Nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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