Hemp and Garlic (A Lust Story)

There, see? I do knit! Surrounded by the detritus of the paper I just finished writing, is my new knitting project, the Sleeveless Tuxedo Shirt. My tension, perhaps reflecting my lack of knitting over the past few weeks, is wildly off. Good thing this is in Hempathy, so I can plead the rustic defence. Anyway, if I'm even half as cute as the model in Interweave, it will be an adorable top to toss on when it's hot.

I had dinner with Frances at Boustan today. Boustan is a Lebanese place on Crescent which has a very nice sign, and very surly and indifferent service. Boustan is also rumored to have been a favourite of Trudeau's, the kind of apocryphal legend which is often better than a good review for keeping your business afloat. I eat there when I want Lebanese, but when I want to look like I care more than just a trip to Basha. I have to have my Lebanese fix, you know. If I never move again from the Montreal/Ottawa area, it will be because I can't bear to be away from my pickled turnips and shawarma meat. Sure, the rest of the time I could live in, I don't know, Sweden, on lingonberries and those little wholesome grain crackers, but I need my garlic and spice dose once every two weeks. Montreal just won't drive me off yet with its weather.

My New Friend

Bookshelf... or catshelf?

The day of the crap e-mail, I was in a foul mood because I made a public ass of myself twice- very, very loudly- in my econ stats class. First, I blurted out an exponentially wrong answer once, and then again, and then three times because I wanted to make the situation completely hopeless. You know, saying the wrong thing once you can explain away as a cough, twice as some sort of nervous tic, but three times? You're just dumb. Then I asked the prof to show me something he had just finished showing the class. He looks suspiciously like Santa Claus too, from the snow white beard to the square glasses, and knowing that I was now consigned to finding only coal and Statistics for Idiots textbooks in my stocking did not make me feel any better about myself. Until today.

In that class, we get a much-needed break halfway through the class, where we can all toddle off to smoke, check our e-mail, or get hosed at the vending machine. I was idly browsing online, checking The Comics Curmudgeon, when I heard a jolly voice behind me. "Ooo, comic strips!" I almost put my face through the monitor- I have a low shock threshold- and turned around. It was Professor Kris Kringle! I slurred something inarticulate about how it was a blog that made fun of lame comics, praying I hadn't scrolled down to an entry about someone fucking Marmaduke the dog. "Surely that's not still around, is it?" he asked, pointing to... Dick Tracy. Not June Morgan's breasts, praise Jesus. We then proceeded to have an awkward conversation where I blathered about Mary Worth, Dick Tracy's lovers, and the horror of the upcoming Liz/Anthony union on For Better or For Worse. I mercifully lurched to an awkward pause after I had used "lame" for the thirteenth time. "And I get to it by accessing... joshreads.com?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Thank you," he replied, repeating "joshreads.com, joshreads.com... I will have to check it out" as he headed back to the classroom.

I can't wait to see what mark I get when he realizes I've ruined the Family Circus for him.

Hark! My Mind Spews Forth

Or, An Unintentional Vol. II to the Last Mopey Entry

Recently, I've rediscovered the power of prayer. I haven't rediscovered faith along with it, remaining firmly unconvinced, but I have rediscovered its power to make you feel like you're doing something. Sure, in prayer it's still up to some benevolent deity, one I like to imagine as a nebulous, shimmering cloud that smells like donuts, but at least you've put in a request. Lately, I was worried about appearing greedy if I asked for specific things like an awesome job at Lush, a swimmer boyfriend, or flawless French. So I've been asking God to send me what I can handle, and what will make me happy.

Unfortunately, I have sadly concluded that God's a dick.* And it all started Tuesday with a harmless little self-deprecating joke. I have to read a Brave New World for a class, and changed my status to "Protagitron feels like an Alpha-Minus in an Epsilon body." Sure, I should have known better. I wasn't trolling for compliments or sympathy, but there's a little worm of self-hatred there. Of course, I found this e-mail from Q in my inbox when I got home:

"why would you ever say you have the body of an epsilon? you are beautiful. hearing that kind of stuff just makes me angry. I don't expect you to aim to please me but your words do have an effect on others."

Oh, sure, it doesn't seem that bad. He meant well, right? He called me beautiful, right? Well, that's part of what bothered me. I always think that's bullshit, and I still think so even when my friends or my family say it. I have eyes, and ears, and a brain. And when I see myself, and see the way others treat me, I know that I'm not beautiful. It used to bother me a lot more than it does now, and well, it still does sometimes. Still- don't lie to me. Or engage in some lame everyone's a precious, beautiful snowflake crap. But that wasn't the only thing. It was that patronizing tone. I felt like a daughter who's being scolded by her father here, not a friend. I didn't need the after-school lesson on how the power of words, and I don't need to hear how angry he is. Oh, and I particularly didn't need this coming from the same guy who made me cry many months ago. Which is pretty much what I told him over chat, and guilted him for dumping this on me on an already crappy day.

Which I regret doing. I should have been kinder to Q in retrospect. Although my feelings for him are laced from time to time with bitterness, I still have a genuine fondness for him. What I admire about Q, and it's not his taste in television, but his seemingly unconscious faith that the world is a fine place that will be good to him. And others. I think he means very well, even when it ends up hurting other people. And I also think I made him feel bad. I suppose we're fine now. But every so often, I wonder if this is the best it's ever going to get for me- dealing with misunderstandings and vague insults from friends, and never anything else. And then I throw another prayer up to God, that if that's the case, to give me a bottle of JD in my hands and a true crime marathon on A&E.

New Header!

I engaged in some arts and crafts over the weekend, and now I have a shiny new header. I think it's funny (who doesn't love a wacky dog riding a sheep?) but now it's making the rest of my blog look bare.

Coming To a Street Corner Near You

I kind of feel like Montreal's become a convection oven. Even my sweat? Is sweating. I tried to do some statistics homework last night. It's an assignment that counts, sadly, as I'm sure it doesn't make any sense at all. Stats homework in the middle of a heat wave? New torture in Hades, yo. I also choked down some Forster for my 20th Century Lit class. I'm not a big fan of Forster- his philosophy seems so fuzzy, like he's trying to articulate something that he just can't reach. And his characters could succinctly be described as nutbars. But I get to read Mrs. Dalloway next, which is... better.

The job situation is also wilting in the heat. I am, by nature, incredibly shy when it comes to handing in my résumé, which means that I manage to hit one or two stores before scurrying off to home. Yesterday, I tried a card place in the mall, in spite of my horrific availability. I was foiled in my attempts to scuttle away so they could interrogate me on my hours. Then they asked me why I wanted to work in a card shop. After babbling something about how it looked like fun (lie!) and then something incoherent about how people are usually buying cards for happy occasions, but sometimes they are buying cards for sad occasions, and it would be nice to help people (you're doing it wrong, brain!), I then proceeded to spit out the lamest thing in the history of lameness: "Cards... bring people together."

Gah, well, if I can't get a job working at a card shop I could probably get a job writing them. The person interviewing me then complained that men were the worst interviews, because they always say something like "Derrr, 'cause I need a job." I didn't tell her that I admired the honesty of boys in this instance. Today I'm hitting up at least three cafés, and if all else fails, I'll become the most practically dressed hooker in history.

In Which I Plumb The Depths, And Reveal How Sad I Am

I'll be honest. Like most middle-class, white, Canadians I have been lucky enough to float through life without experiencing any true tragedies. I've never known much about persecution, racism, pestilence, illness, starvation, or war. I just watch them on TV. Of course, this doesn't make me feel blessed. I'm a flawed person, and so a sea of minor annoyances and petty grievances afflict me. I leave my wallet at home, and my keys as well. I'm bad with money. I have not been knitting or sewing as much as I used to. McGill never gets back to my e-mails. I can never muster the cajones to apply to as many jobs as I should. And so on, and so on.

The biggest two issues, which feed into each other daily, are first, how hard it is to watch everyone else be happy as you continuously fail, and secondly, the "no mans" problem. I'm usually embarrassed about the latter, since it seems like I'm betraying my feminist ideals and the awesome, happily alone person I used to be. I don't know what happened. It just seemed like one day, I realized there was one rite of passage I had missed, of being loved, or just being found attractive. And as much as I tried to let it not bother me, it began to feel as if a door to maturity had closed without me noticing. Being alone would have been fine if it was my choice. But this wasn't. And watching all of my friends fall in love, and be in love, and throw me over again and again because of that silly notion, began to sting. I would say that love is a crock, but I've seen what it can do to people, so I believe it's real enough.

And it wasn't just the partnering, it seemed like everyone else was moving ahead with their life while I was stuck in a holding pattern somewhere over Regina. They had jobs and internships, and scheduled voyages to their boyfriends. I had an obese cat and some Westerns on DVDs. And trying to fix things just made me anxious. Particularly the smash of Fall '09, which somehow dribbled on until now and will be detailed in a later entry. Then I tried to throw myself in with any man I saw, figuring I would take the buckshot approach to finding love, or at least finding sex. But they already had girlfriends, or were gay. Even my gaydar wasn't working! Most of the time they just didn't feel right.

I've been thinking about this more as I've been lurking on an acquaintance's blog. I met Ted through Fight Band, and took an immediate and intense dislike to him. First of all, being with him was like being with a foul-mouthed, homophobic hummingbird. I think I even have a whole inch on the guy. He's also one of those white guys with an acute case of China Doll Syndrome, and since I'm neither Asian nor cute, I was pretty much ignored.

But then... he kind of grew on me. The more time I was forced to spend with him, the more I realized that there was a soft, squishy soul there. I mean, he had a white board on his door with his goals for the day, upon which was written only "Find true love." I'm not made of stone! And then I found his blog. It detailed his quest for true love, frequently in Japan. His ideas about love, as an undertaking requiring military-like stratagems and constant baseball metaphors, were alien to me. Is this what it's like for other people, do they talk about going 0 for 2 and measure their batting averages? How many of you have found your lover by calling on your pinch hitter on the bottom of the seventh? I don't even know if my own sports metaphors make sense, because I don't watch baseball. Maybe I should start talking about my own quest in terms of curling, or figure skating.

I always thought that if/when anything happened, the other person would know as well. I didn't know until Ted that I could wage a siege on their emotions. Or, shudder, call sex "playing baseball. " Maybe that's what's wrong with me, I'm too passive, waiting until I trip over some obvious sign before admitting that something might happen. Or simply just my waiting for someone else is killing me, and I should get off my ass and go out there and land the triple axle. The problem with that, as I've web-stalked Ted is that the chase begins to displace the prize, because once he landed a girl he seemed to lose interest in her. And I got hurt once or twice when I tried to be even marginally more agressive, and I can't any more. So, this one's for you, Ted: I think I'll ride the bench for now. And yet, Ted's Elvis Stojko-like dedication to skating despite his groin injury, and monomaniacal reliance on sports metaphors has inspired me. Even though the situation looks bleak now, I have hope. Maybe I'll get the bronze even if I miss the gold medal.

Down Into Hades

Sorry that a weird empty post popped up. That was an accident, something while I worked on a big , long post about my men troubles, and an acquaintance of mine who I alternately admire and despise. However, it is much too hot in Montreal to retrieve anything, and so I'll continue to enjoy my new hobby: sweating.

Beware My Awesome Powers

A few days ago, my Dad was in town and we were walking along Sherbrooke, right past the Musée des Beaux Arts. The posters for the big Yves St Laurent show had just gone up, which meant I had just found out about them, at which point the following conversation transpired.
Protagitron: Oh. My. God. I have to see that! The clothes.... the draping... WHY ISN'T IT ON NOW?
Dad: Is he still alive?
Protagitron: Who? Yves? Oh God no, I'm sure he died a couple of years ago.
Dad: Oh, I thought he was...
Protagitron: Nah, he's dead.

Then, a few days later, I saw this headline on the Times:

Yves Saint Laurent, Giant of Couture, Dies at 71

...
Oh God, I killed "Yves" with my brain!

Fortunately, I'm seeing the show this Sunday morning with some friends. We'll have to get there early, since the lines have been crazy ever since his death. Sniff. Morbid rubberneckers, all. I'll have you know I'm just going for the DRAPING.

(Sex à New York) dans Montréal

Between studying last weekend, I paid my XX chromosone dues by seeing Sex and the City. I had to. I couldn't take passing another cluster of women talking about the movie, in bars holding cosmos, in groups in front of the theater, or in crowds wearing Sex and the City shirts. It was either resist and die or give in to the madness.

I always knew I would give in to the madness. I have a weird relationship with the show. I hated it when it was on the air. I hated the characters, I hated their clothes, I hated that their voices would lurch in and out of normal hearing range and dog whistle shrill. I hated seeing Sarah Jessica Parker's face everywhere. And the nameplate necklaces and those stupid flower pins! But after my emotional breakdown of '06-07 coincided neatly with the local ABC affiliate broadcasting edited for TV episodes, it grew on me. Like a fungus. I downloaded the original episodes online. Although it was surprising that a woman named "Samantha" had always been there, I only loved it more. I never forgot its faults, but I found that it occasionally threw out insightful or touching bits along with the crap. It became like comfort food, or crack, or maybe a bit of both. Meth-laced mac and cheese. So of course I had to see the movie.
Now, ninety percent of the stuff written about Sex and the City is pretty damn asinine. I'll never understand the obsession with pegging where in feminism it belongs. My personal opinion is that while it could not have existed without feminism, it is not particularly feminist as such. There's also the stock topic of how vapid it is, which I think misses what part that plays in its appeal. So I won't bore you with more limp cultural analysis. I'll just give you a recommendation.

First, if you've never seen an episode, do not go. The whole thing won't make any sense and you'll garrote yourself with soda straws out of boredom. If you've seen the series, and liked it, bear in mind that the movie is around two and a half hours long, and most of it is about Carrie. Charlotte, the pressed and pleated WASP (who converted to Judaism, so throw a J in there) gets barely any screen time, although some of the better laughs. The infidelity story between Miranda and Steve- and God bless the person in the audience who hissed "Bastard!" when he confessed- is refreshingly adult, but a little rushed. The best part of Sam's storyline is its provision of male nudity. The rest is all Carrie this, and Carrie that, and between the new decor and the constant Starbucks cups, she's beginning to feel a little overpolished, a little too safe and flat. Even Big looks like he hits the tanner too much, or tweezes too often. The weird thing is that, in spite of all this, it's still satisfying. Like the show, it was bad for me, but I liked it. Call it the Cheetos defense of movies, and buy a ticket if you want the same. But please don't tell me if you're a Miranda or, dear Lord, a Carrie. 'Cause I'm a lady Stanford Blatch.

My Big Fat Greek Examohgodthepuns

Well, I just had a week of nutty shenanigans to contend with. Instead of trying to rent an apartment in the city, I will soon be buying a hut in the far North and living amongst the polar bears. They cannot harass me by phone or e-mail, only eat me which would be ever so preferable.
Ahem. Anyway, I have my Greek Mythology final tomorrow. Today I did seven straight hours of it. I think I've ODed on our Hellenic brethern. I've changed the cat's name to Philoctetes, and the degu's to Ajax. I'm so desperate not to study any more, even though I still need to be able to locate Aulis on a map, that I'm watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding on tv. With bad reception. Maybe it will tell me something more about the Aeschylus tragedies I haven't read yet. I think John Corbett is playing Orestes!
Wait, no, my tv reception is just that bad.