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.

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.

Hello Mr. Chippy

Yesterday? Should be struck from the calendar. Sometimes I feel like I just lurch from one disaster to another, and sometimes I don't lurch- I identify the disaster, and instead of avoiding it, I roll around in it. To take away the sting, I applied liberal amounts of alcohol. Which lead to a funny conversation with my beloved roommate.

Protagitron: Did you get me a CD? And a drink? I found them on my desk.
BR: Um, yeah. Remember? I read out the titles of the songs?
Protagitron: Hmm, no.
BR: And you thought they were all depressing? And then I told you Macho Man was on it?
Protagitron: Nope, still nothing.
BR: And then you sang Macho Man for me?
Protagitron: Oh God. Are you lying to me?
BR: No.

So, I'm calling off the sauce for the next few days. I have the rest of the week off, since my summer classes don't start until next Monday. There are new prints of Last Year at Marienbad and Pierrot le Fou playing at the Cinéma du Parc. And Iron Man comes out soon. It's going to be a good week for popcorn and movies.

Speaking of Iron Man, I had the most delightful encounter at work the other day. Every so often, an old man comes in and buys fifty cents of chips. Since it's always at the end of my shift, and I'm usually pretty cracked out about what fresh hell my boss has caused me- most recently, cleaning up a moldy case of Pepsi- I'm always frighteningly peppy, so I think he's usually a little frightened of me. I call him Mr. Chippy. But the other day, we both stopped to watch the trailer for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull play. I tossed out that I was desperately looking forward to it. He said he was more excited about Iron Man. That became a fifteen minute conversation about comic books and their movies, where we found out we disagreed about Frank Miller but agreed on Neal Adams, loved X-Men but hated Spider-Man III, and that he held shares in Marvel. And was planning on going to their shareholder meeting! So, snack foods- bringing nerds together again.

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)