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Sign Papers Have Rotted My Brain #836:
While walking home from the bus today, for no reason, I eagerly yelled out "TITLE TIME!!!!"
My paper, by the way, already had a title.

Stuff, AHOY!

I'm sorry. I had a traumatic presentation last Thursday, and to heal myself I went and secluded myself in a charmingly rustic New England inn. There, I met a handsome and troubled doctor, and we engaged in a tender but halting affair, that only ended when he went off to some place where the people are swarthy and the food flavoured with chili peppers. Unfortunately, there he was taken and decapitated by El Chupacabra. But I am a stronger woman for having loved.

Wait, no, that's the plot of the next Nicholas Sparks novel (in my head) Afternoons in Moca. I've just been holed up with tea and any one of the six papers I'm working on for the end of the month.

Anyway, some links that might entertain or amuse:

The history geek and comic book nerd that are married in my heart are enjoying this graphic novel in progress:
Family Man: Being the adventures of a young man with few answers but a big nose in 18th century Germany.
Also, if you have a store somewhere of juvenile stabs at literary greatness (I have an epic from 2nd grade called Chimp Saves the World) you'll enjoy this girl's attempt at ripping off Sweet Valley High.

1. BROKEN HEARTED: Emily has sworn off dating…forever! She can’t understand why people fall in and out of love or why people get married and then get divorced. Then she suddenly feels really different around her good friend David Morrison. Could this be the dreaded “L” word?

The sad thing is that they sound just like the real thing. Which reminds me: when I was in junior high, I found a volume from a Sweet Valley High rip-off series called Cheerleaders. It was titled Overboard! and the tag line was- I shit thee not- "Romance, AHOY!" Which is something I think of at the most inopportune moments, and giggle.

Hurligig

My one roommate is trying to bake an Obamacake in the kitchen right now, because God gave her a sign that if she baked it, he would win. We just had to mop up Cake We Can Believe In off of the kitchen floor though, so I feel like the signs have neutralized themselves at this point.

While she's at it, I am invaliding. Which means I am drinking tea with my cat and trying to ignore the mountain of readings I am not doing. And I think I am perfectly justified in my sloth because I spent my whole morning puking my guts out. Here's a handy video illustration of my morning, with just a touch more bigotry:

So, yeah, having to leave work because you're vomiting in the second floor washroom: not the sexiest thing ever. Also not sexy: cab drivers who don't know where Bourgeoys street is, and then won't listen when I try and give them directions. He just kept on going further and further away from my house, until I just started moaning "Take.... me to... Wellington... go left.... or just put me... out of my misery..."

He finally made it to Wellington. Where he started to make a right. Also, he was playing the theme from Schindler's List in the cab, so I don't know what any of that was about, but I didn't care, because I was home, home where no one could see me vomit and I could curse my body in peace. Home, where I could rest in between crawling to the bathroom by... watching some kind of marinade being poured over raw pork on the TV. Thanks, CBC. Or, once I crawled back to the couch and changed the channel, the View. I went back to the pork. I'm back on solids now, but I think I may have to go kosher from now on.

The (Fabulous!) Depression

Lange's Migrant Mother: So Hot Right Now?

Hey, remember the economy? It doesn't have glasses or speak in an Alaskan accent, and the last I recall hearing about it was that it had gone deep into FUBAR territory. As far as I could tell, currencies were all over the place, lenders were going bankrupt, and a whole country- Iceland- was about to go tits up, which would really throw the future production of Icelandic sweater patterns and sullen blondes into question. I couldn't tell much more. I started to regret dropping my economics from a major down to a minor. Maybe if I hadn't, I would have the code to understanding all of this, knowing whether it was worth buying while prices were low, or if I should just invest in canned food and a shot gun. Instead, I feel adrift, moved around by people who aren't speaking my language, while I flail around at analyzing navy recruitment ads in a postcolonial context.

The media took care of my fear by moving on to the presidential election and the World Series. Well, all of the media except for lifestyle media. Just check the New York times Style section. Restaurants across the land a feeling the pinch. Apparently, the situation is even so dire that a new portmanteau is required: "recessionista." If that doesn't make you barf, I'm sure they'll come up with an even more ralph-inducing term that uses "sexual" on the end. Destitutosexual, anyone? No one knows he's downgraded from Kiehl's to Suave! Gawker put up a photo album of the newly jobless. The weird thing is that it's all beginning to seem a little festive, like there's a kind of kitschy joy in the bathos of it all. It reminds me of when I used to read Little House on the Prairie and think "Wouldn't it be fun to live like this? Why, I could have salted pork, matching flannel nighties and my very own button jar!"

The thing is, life in pioneer times wasn't all that fun, and I'm just thinking of the dental care. The Great Depression wasn't that much better, although it did have toothpaste. And we couldn't even manage half as well as they did. They were used to thrift, used to having to work. If I ever have to go on the road to find decent work and food, I would probably eat a poisonous berry off of the side of the road after blowing all of my cash on Wendy's. You know what they did to stretch out food on the cheap? Use a lot of eggs and cheese. You know what's expensive now? Eggs and cheese! We would have to live off of margarine and the jars of cheap cocktail weenies at the Dollar Store, and that's a whole lot more intense and less fun than trading the Prada in for a knock off. I don't think this is going to be as bad as all of that, but just in case, I'll be pulling the Grapes of Wrath off of the bookshelf. Maybe there's a special section in there about cooking cheaply I've forgotten.

From The Files of Minor Annoyances

There are many things about the world that confuse me. Fundamentalist Christianity. The economy. Personal relationships. The Burger King burger that comes with mashed potatoes and fried onions as garnishes.

And another thing: girl versions of sports team merchandise. In other words, is there no team logo safe from be-pinkening? I wanted a birthday present for a friend, a simple Canadiens shirt, and what did I find? Rhinestones. Rhinestones, and hunter green, and black, and pink, and then more pink, and then a shirt that had multiple Habs logos scattered over the shirt with a big tattoo rose in the middle that said "Montreal Canadiens." Does Quebec have an equivalent to Chavs? If so, here's a FrancoChav costume for Halloween: bleached hair, tight acid wash jeans, and that shirt. Note how sneaky that crafty NHL is:
Oh, what a cute ringer shirt... you might think. However, on closer inspection:
Rhinestones! Unnecessary rhinestones!

I will not stand for this. Well, not until they pay me great big wodgers of cash for my distressed fuchsia on rose Detroit Red Wings design, complete with matching glitter logo pin.

VIA Strikes Again

I have my… issues with transportation. I have been screwed over on a plane, in a bus, on a boat, and in a train. Oh God, how I have ever been screwed over on a train. If you’re not Canadian, and if you have never experienced, you probably have never experienced the joy of a VIA trip, you poor thing. The limitless joy of watching a seven hour trip stretch out to twelve, the exquisite beauty of sitting on a broken-down train in the middle of Ontario’s armpit, and the wonder of the four dollar chips are all part of the VIA experience.

I would go on the bus, but the bus experience has involved staring at a grease patch, with one single white hair smack dab in the center, a former seat tenant had left until Toronto. Which, really. I can forgive the grease patch, but the perfectly placed, thick, white hair just seems premeditated.

So I go by train, to limited degrees of success. I’m actually writing this on my way home from Guelph for Thanksgiving, on the train. This trip has gone, all things considered, reasonably well. We are a mere ten minutes late, and I got to sit next to my roommate for most of the trip. However. I needed glorious Internet access for a school project, which Via conveniently offers on most of its trains, if you pay nine bucks for a full 24 hours first. Rather inconveniently, this service is apparently a fickle beast that doesn’t like the Toronto-Montreal corridor. Yep, right after I had cited (in appropriate MLA style) my last source, I switched trains, but apparently left Internet access behind. I had hoped it was a temporary measure, but temporary is now going on five hours, so I guess VIA got me again.

Their welcome e-mail wished me a “productive day.” Now they’re just being mean. 

(Posted after I got home to functional Internet and the cats.)

My Future Beckons, And I Think It Has an STD

My roommate and I have made a pact- by the end of the week, we'll have some kind of rough idea of what we're doing with our lives. WHICH IS WHY I'M CURRENTLY HYPERVENTILATING INTO A BAG. We're not talking a detailed narrative here- who knows what the ETA on the house in the suburbs and the one kid in Montessori will be- but at least a general plan for the next year. OH GOD I AM OLD. I'm currently vacillating between grad school and a year off teaching abroad, but important details, like which grad program, where, what country I want to teach English in, and so on, are still blank.

Katie is doing much better, and has actually narrowed down her schools to a shortlist. While she's been doing that, I've watched the Celine Dion made for tv movie. I might have some catching up to do, particularly now that I'm traumatized by what turned out to be, to quote Iris, "soft porn about their relationship." "Their" meaning Celine and Rene, or rather Celine and a creepy older Quebecois man who managed her since she was twelve. Played by an Anglo actor in a bad wig.

My procrastination isn't because I'm scared of growing up- that's a fate I've accepted with stoic resignation- but of getting letters of recommendation. I hate writing CVs, and I hate harassing people to lie and write something about how original and engaging I am. BUT I DO NOT WANT TO BE A FAILURE. If they were all more honest about this, mine would read something like "Protagitron does her work semi-competently, and even spells her name correctly sometimes. She will probably not make any major or minor contributions to her field, but she will pay her tuition on time, and generally smells inoffensive."

Come to think of it though, I don't know if I could even get that far. Most of them don't know who I am, and if they do, they know they hate me. I was keeping one professor in reserve, the ever-delightful Professor Mole, but ruined it all by talking to him outside of class a few days ago. Here's how that conversation went:
Protag: Hello, Professor!
Mole: Protagitron, how are you doing?
P: ... I'm... here. That's, uh, half the battle, right?
Mole:... Yes. Yes it is.
P: ...
Mole: ...
P: Have a nice day?
... and scurry. At this rate, even my application to CDI College isn't going to be processed.

Just Call Me Mrs. Crazy Man

I never thought I was the marrying kind, but thanks to SnarkFest, I've finally found a man who's changed my mind. Let me introduce you to my future husband- that is, if he doesn't "iggy" me.

"If I find that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain the parts of this profile that pertain to you, I will simply state something like: "It is clear that you did not carefully read, comprehend and retain what I stated in my profile, you are now iggied." Iggied means that you are put on my ignore list so that I no longer receive messages from you."

Well, I better read carefully then. Let's look at some of his qualifications:

"You cannot walk seven (7) miles non-stop averaging 1 mile per 20 minutes and without drinking or eating anything during the walk."

He'll never see the Ho-Ho's I've hid in my fanny pack! Great, on to the next one:

"As my wife, you will have no desire for a career of your own, since as my wife your career will be working side by side with me starting and running our own businesses (Yes, I’ve started and ran my own successful businesses in the past). Only my future wife and me will know the details of the businesses until they are started. All you will know now is that they will be financial in nature, they will help others financially."

Well, that doesn't sound shady at all, so I'm on board. In fact, I'm willing to transfer all of my current assets to him RIGHT NOW. I hope he can use a couple of bucks and a coupon for a free Subway cookie for his business venture. But, wait!

"I was married once, 20 plus years. I haven't kissed a girl since being divorced over three years ago."

Wait, someone divorced this peach? But, why? Who could show such a stunning lack of judgment? What could this perfect man possibly have done to warrant a divorce?

"Most women, even those ten years younger than me look older than me. I want a woman who looks younger than me."

You know, I think something's coming to me...

"Sorry, but when it comes to turning me on, light chocolate to white skin color is needed. However, there are exceptions for darker skin, but they have to be very beautiful."

Yep, I'm definitely locking in on an answer...

"I want a woman whose goal is to be praised by God with the same praise God gave Sarah, Abraham’s wife, that is, God praised her for her servant attitude and obedience to her husband even to the point that Sarah called her husband lord and master. Such a woman can scarce be found, even in the Christian community who supposedly believe the Word of God. Scarce can be found a Christian woman that even comes close to receiving the same praise from God as Sarah did."

But it's only a hypothesis... could he be a giant toolbox? Is that it?

"And generally never becomes a problem for the man to fulfill. But, as time goes on, the wife starts using her sexual favors as a tool to manipulate the man into giving her what she wants or doing what she wants. First, this shows that the wife is becoming less submissive and more disobedient. But the bottom line is, when the wife demands payment, whether in the form of things (getting her what she wants) or actions (do this or that for her), she has become a whore."

I better whore around for more evidence before I present my conclusions to the public though.

"Where the slave and wife are most similar is when they are given a command. In this instance, they are both to obey with all their heart, mind, body and soul with an enthusiastically positive attitude. They are to both obey because they love the one giving the command."

Ah, eureka! RESOLVED: CRAZY INTERNET MAN IS A GIANT DICK. QED.


Ah, the Internet. It's always like turning the rock over on humanity, you never know what's going to crawl out. Still, immersing myself in the mind of this loon made me wonder if I had my own list. If I was looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with, what sort of criteria would I put on my list? And then I remembered that I had a list like that. When I was eleven. It was full of ridiculous things. He had to be tall, at least six feet, but that was mostly so I could have a minion to reach things from the high shelves at the grocery store. I wanted him, and I do not lie, "To care about the world and NEVER VOTE PC OR REFORM." It was 1998, in other words, and I underlined never twice. Oh, and he had to have dark hair and blue eyes, be "impossibly handsome," (I think I had hit the Harlequin stash then) wealthy, drive a nice car, and give me a library of my own. Then I realized that, as of Tuesday, I was twenty one. Exactly ten years older than my checklist, although you wouldn't know it, since dep owners still ask if I'm buying beer for my parents. And what has changed? I've learned that I would let all of my requirements go for some people, even when the situation was hopeless and doomed, doomed, doomed to anyone of sound mind or sobriety. And I like it better that way. At least I'm not trying to leave Harlequin cover copy.

I guess I could come up with a new list. Right now, it would read something like "Must be nice, enjoy arguments, and tip well." Smelling inoffensive is also desired but not crucial. As for the online crazy man, I don't know. I'm trying to be kind and positive, but I can't help hoping the perfect checklist girl gives him a raging case of stealth junk rot. Because they don't publish Consumer Reports for people, jackass.

A Love Letter, A Little Too Late

My roommate's cat in Stitch Niche yarn.

For the past week or so, I've been trying to ignore the fact that my favourite knitting store is about to close down. Which is easy enough to do when I'm a few hours away, and can keep myself busy with school and work. Or when I can convince myself that Frankie will somehow find a way to keep it going. But I have to accept that it's going soon, and before it does, I want everyone to read me get all mushy, so they can know how much the Stitch Niche meant to me. You see, it saved my life. When I dropped out of school second year and needed to pull my life from the brink- and maybe kill some stash at the same time, if that wasn't asking too much- Frankie's kept me going. Every week I would show up, pretend I was happy and normal with the other women, and knit a little more. Another block would be added to Leo's baby blanket. Another pattern repeat to Katie's socks. And in between all of the stitches, I didn't have to pretend as much anymore. I might not have become happy or normal, but I was a little more so. Enough to get by on, to get to the next week, until I had made it through a four months and could pass for a functional human being. Sure, it wasn't just the Stitch Niche- stores as places of mystical transformation work better in books than in real life. Real life is messy, and has to deal with counselling sessions, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, repeats of Canadian Idol and other petty grievances. But it, and all of the women there, meant a lot to me. They meant safety.

Before this, I never really understood why people got upset when stores or businesses closed. To me, they were just places, and the public shiva over Sam the Record Man or CBGB struck me as excessive. I thought those people were just substituting something that could be bought for communities that had to be earned, the kind that grow up around beloved parks and dignified churches. I was wrong. If we buy things to fill a need, than why can't the places where we buy mean the same to us as that church? Especially if they maybe, finally, begin to fill that need? Even if they don't, maybe it's just the residual nostalgia that makes us sad, for when happiness was something that could be purchased with legal tender. I don't know. Trying to quantify it just makes me sigh irritably.

And, anyway, my sadness is only a part of this. There's everyone who used to show up, and then there's Frankie. This place was her time, and her love, and her effort. And it was nothing but bad luck that she had to close it. I hope, if any one's reading this in Guelph, that you'll find time to visit it in the next few weeks, and to buy some pretty yarn as well. Alpaca doesn't quite take out the sting, but it's a good place to start. It was a great place. But Frankie will always be a great person.

Praise Jesus and Pass the Undies

I'm beginning to think my life is a romantic comedy without the romance. In other words, a whole lotta awkwardness and pratfalls. I mean, really, a few weeks back my cat took a mighty shit on my bed while Q the Ass got his stuff. At work, I have to contend with both my unfortunate, doomed crush and the cash tyrant who has conceived an intense dislike for yours truly. Oh, and today, when I went into the Gap to try on a skirt, the saleswoman told me to make sure I had underwear on. I was, frankly, taken back. I always thought I radiated that essential Protestant prudishness, the kind that means sensible white cotton at all times, when instead I've been musky with wanton harlot. Wanton, lady business-airing harlot. Who just wants a plaid skirt. TO DO HER WHORISH UNDERWEAR-FREE BUSINESS IN. God. Perhaps I should consider wearing my underwear on the outside, like Superman, every time I shop at the Gap. It would be marginally less embarrassing.

Anyway, all that awkwardness was for nothing. On me, the skirt looked suspiciously like it came from an R. Crumb drawing. It was less "cute but warm" and more "plump teen who's sexually available to creepy, skinny dudes who will then draw them performing fellatio on an ostrich." Well. At least I have a Halloween costume for this year, but I might need to drag around an essay- with illustrations- explaining it.

Next Up, Whenever I Carve Out Some Time: I get all mushy about some sad knitting news I heard of out of Guelph.