A Protagitron Brown Thanksgiving

It's turkey time here in Canada, which means I've already fired up the Christmas carols and started spamming my American friends in defense of holding Thanksgiving in October. At work we were supposed to say what we were thankful for, and the only thing I could come up with at the time was "Wine gums and reported rapes in the U.S. hitting a 20 year-low." But I was just being difficult. There's been plenty to be thankful for, in the past year and just in general.

So, in no particular order, here are 10 things I'm thankful for. I would feel guilty eating pumpkin pie without mentioning them.

1. My stinkmaster general cat for all the many joys he brings, but especially because he falls asleep against my arm while I type on the computer.
2. Coffee
3. My friends for being entertaining and educational good eggs with good fashion sense. Also, for frequently putting up with my bullshit.
   
4. My Dad, for doing the same while keeping me in letters and clippings
   
5. Smitty The Wonder Sheltie
6. Jimmy, the adorable new son of a couple of wonderful people
7. The amnesiac properties of beer
8. Feminist blogs like The Sexist
9. Gainful employment
   
10. But perhaps most of all, wine gums.
    

Wherever you are, even if it's someplace where Thanksgiving doesn't come around until November, I hope you have a good weekend with good friend, good people and plenty of gravy. Now if I could just perfect my wine gum stuffing recipe, I would be all set.

Fail On The Ice

So, remember how a few weeks ago I was all "Oh, I'm TOTALLY going to watch The Battle of the Blades because I love my cheese TV?" Well, Canada, I tried to. I tried to, but it was the most amateurish and awkward ten minutes I had ever wasted on any show. And I watched the entire season of Bachelorettes in Alaska: Looking for Love, so I know of what I speak.

It's hard to pick just one way in which the show failed. Maybe it was the Dancing With The Stars-like move of having the practiced, female partners gyrate suggestively to mask the fact that the male partners can't dance, or rather, skate? That Kurt Browning and Ron MacLean seemed perpetually out of breath?

No, it would be that Dick Button's scoring monitor didn't work. Yes, this crucial part of the show wasn't checked before the CBC put this thing live to air. No 6.0 for you, CBC.

The Good, The Bad and the Funny

And another good thing: this amazing birthday present I got from my old roommate Katie*. The books are A Tale of Two Cities, Jane Eyre, The Maltese Falcon, Ghost World, Anna Karenina, Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility. They're on top of a pile of birthday books from another amazing friend. Am I that predictable? Yes.

Man, sorry to let my angry screed about Roman Polanski stay up there for so long. I meant to post something else, but I then life kept on getting in the way. Except for Thursday, since that was Day 4 of Project: Protagitron becomes a hermit and there was just no excuse. So without further ado, three little things about last week:

1. The Good: There's been a lot of this lately. I did nothing but knit and watch movies, curled up next to my cat, for four days. I had an amusing run-in with an old crush object, proving I am genetically incapable of pretending not see one convincingly. And pretty much the whole weekend so far has been awesome, from having curry with friends to seeing one of them kick ass playing lacrosse. Those girls aren't quite as nasty as womens rugby, but they're still pretty fierce. But so far, the biggest "good" has been seeing Dragonette with the delightful Poli and Amanda. We danced. Oh, how we danced. Except to music that was more like this. When I grow up, I want to have cheekbones like Martina Sorbara.

2. The Bad: I always thought the catty bitch thing was just a high school movie trope. And even then, the catty bitch always gets hers in the final act. But no! When I was on the bus, this horrendous girl behind me tore into some friend's girlfriend in a way that made me feel as if I had fallen into a John Hughes movie. It started off with "I just don't think her personality is sparkling enough to make up for how fat she is. I really think he's a chubby chaser," and then went on for ten minutes of the most vile shit I had ever heard. It was hard to choose which was the biggest turd sentence: "But personality comes in a lot of sizes. Why couldn't he get one that was thin?" or "She's like the pair of pants that're too big for him but he still wears." Really, honey? It's not like women don't get enough shit about their bodies already from the media, so just go on ahead and do the dirty work for them.

3. The Funny: I tend to speak quickly and somewhat sloppily. Usually this just leads to people asking "What?" a lot and my mom imploring me to speak properly. But the other day at work, my adorable desk neighbor asked: "Is that an accent, or is it just the way you talk?" Heh. The next time someone asks me "What?" I'm just going to plead it's my impenetrable Southwestern Ontario accent. Thick as pea soup, it is.

*She ordered from an Etsy seller, SophiesBeads, if you want to get your own.

Sympathy For The Director

Alright. So, when did I wake up into a world where the rape of anyone was okay, much less of a drugged thirteen year-old? As a feminist, I've come to terms with the fact that my stance on gender issues is not shared by most, but I still thought that raping a child was universally viewed as a bad thing. No matter how tragic the rapist's personal life might be, or how good his movies are.

Yes, I'm talking about the Roman Polanski mess. Everyone is, and most of them make me angry when they do. Surviving the Holocaust only to see your wife and unborn child slaughtered seems almost too cruel to be true. But that sympathy doesn't preclude from believing that rape is wrong and that he should serve a sentence. Or from thinking that a cushy life in France and an Oscar are not a substitute for jail time.

I know his judge was a nut, but that doesn't mean he wasn't guilty of a crime. The Holocaust and the Manson murders are mitigating factors. But unless he couldn't tell the difference between right and wrong at the time of the offence - and no evidence seems to indicate that - that doesn't mean he's innocent.

But here are some things that do mean something. The victim was below the age of consent, which means she could not give it. That makes it rape. She was drugged, which means she could not give consent. That's rape. And she said no. That's rape too. Any way you look at it, any definition or test you can come up with, you get the same result. And a host of other crimes or tragedies one has suffered doesn't mean it can all just go away.

Further reading: What Scorsese And All The Rest Know About Roman Polanski That Maybe You Don't - Allison Benedikt
Common Polanski Defenses, Refuted- Amanda Hess

Plant Killah

I think it's time to accept the fact that my orchid plant is dead. First I over-watered it, then I under-watered it and then I decided at the 11th hour to have a regular watering schedule and try and tend the thing.

Unfortunately the top part looks suspiciously like a Tim Burton film (curled and choppy) and the bottom isn't looking too hot either. Rest in peace, brave orchid, and at least you fared better than the Indian Rubber Plant I used to dump my orange juice into. Fermentation is only a good thing in wine and beer, people.

Anyway, I'm beginning to wonder if my inability to keep houseplants alive is a sign of some pathological inability to settle down. I've been in this apartment since July and some of the rooms still look as if I haven't fully moved in yet. I bought a curtain rod at Ikea two or three weeks ago I still haven't got around to putting up. It just sits there, mocking me with its industrious Helvetica font and easy mounting system.

But I've decided not to worry about it and buy the only solution: an aloe vera plant. Those things are nigh impossible to kill.

The WASPiest Thing Ever

Those of you who know me outside of this blog know that, in spite of being half-Ukrainian, I have one of the WASPiest names on record. My name is the mayonnaise of names. The country club. The black watch plaid blanket, etc.

So, with my pedigree, I'm sure you can imagine why the following appealed to me in a bizarre way:

Oh. My. God. Let's look at the way in which each of its WASPy qualities nest, one inside the other, to create the ultimate garment for when you're picking up cider at the local orchard.
1. It's from LL Bean
2. It's a cardigan from LL Bean
3. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean
4. It's a fair isle cardigan from LL Bean with pointer dogs patterned on the yoke.

This thing makes me crave roast like none other. I would order it (and demand to be called "Betty" from then on) but it's sold out. Damn it!

I Love You, Canada

Okay, I have a maple-flavored confession: I'm kind of excited for the Battle of the Blades. Why? Let's see. I like cheesy dance competitions. I was forced to like figure skating by my Mom, although lingering bitterness towards Elvis Stojko remains. I often tolerate hockey. Combine these things and CBC's low production values and sense of earnestness, and you get something I'll definitely sit in front of when I'm eating dinner from a can.

Of course, with my luck in picking CBC shows, it will become a ratings bomb and die an unmourned death. Just like my beloved MVP: The Secret Lives of Hockey Wives. Why must Canada suffer through Little Mosque On The Prairie when that little slice of delicious cheesecake is gone from our lives forever? Sigh.

Anyway, I'm pulling for anyone but Domi and Christine Hough-Sweeney. By the way, this song is the one I've mentally choreographed an entire figure skating routine to. Oh, the dramatic hand gestures I do in my mind...

P.S. I know, for official competition it would have to be a wordless version. God.

Damn Woman Troubles: Jennifer's Body

Megan Fox: expression by Sissy Spacek, dress by David's Bridal 2009 Prom Collection

Don't go and see Jennifer's Body if you want to be scared. It's not a horror movie. Sure, it sounds like one, with half-eaten corpses and a good girl named Needy who suspects that something's gone wrong with her best friend Jennifer. Yes, Needy, she's "not just high school evil" or, to paraphase a line from Ginger Snaps, another movie full of girls gone bloodthirsty and feminist goodies, there's something wrong with Jennifer. More than her just being... female.

Yes, once again the female body is used to juice up a horror movie, to give it some edge and a veneer of social commentary. Just like a typical chiller, there's a satanic ritual that leads to the lovely Jennifer getting all chewy on some boys. But atypically, there's very little tension or gore. If you're a hardcore horror fan, you can guess when every scare is being set up.

And then you'll wait, and wait, because Karyn Kusama's just a beat off when it comes to the jump tactics. At one point, Needy suddenly sees a bloody and wild-looking Jennifer crossing the road. Then she disappears, and Needy desperately scans to the left and the right, barely giving herself time to look right in front of her. Of course you know that's just where will be. Jennifer suddenly appears on the windshield, but not before Needy looks a few more times at each side. It's hard to jump when you're checking your watch.

But should you go and see it if you're looking for something feminist to chase down your popcorn? Maybe yes, maybe no. I can see readings that work both ways. This movie doesn't shame female sexuality like most horror movies, and particularly slashers, do. But Needy's eager and awkward sex is framed completely differently than Jennifer's carnivorous lust. The consensus on female sexuality in this movie seems to be that it's just fine, as long as it's with a boy who's as quirky as you. Things go wrong when you play the field, or when you finally let the textual lesbian relationship in the open in a somewhat porny scene.

And that still doesn't get into how your enjoyment of the movie will depend on your personal thoughts on Diablo Cody: screenwriter, celebrity and lover of all things leopard print. The script definitely sounds like one of hers, sometimes funny, often annoying. If hearing "What's up, Monistat?" doesn't make you twitch, you like your feminism taken lite and you don't need to be scared, it's worth a trip to the cinema.

Happy Birthday To Me

Yesterday was my 22nd birthday. It was just me and the parents because I'm back in Guelph and lord knows where most of my OG (the G stands for Guelph) friends are now. Plus, I'm reaching that age where birthdays are a day of mourning, melancholia, and bitterness. And at my folks' house, I don't have to pay for the booze, so that gets a lot cheaper and easier.

But, that being said, it was quite a nice birthday. There was plenty of food, lots of cake- as you can see above- and two whole days off work to be slothful. Or at least, as slothful as one can be when you're knitting a baby blanket on a deadline.

But more on that later. Right now, a shout out to any readers I might have: I'm getting my Google Reader back in action, so if you have a blog, or the name of any blogs I simply *must* read, let me know in the comments.

To Guelph!

I'm off to the hometown tomorrow. I'm sure Proustian reveries set off by farmer's market bacon, or at least beer illicitly drank in the basement, are not far off.

At least I usually get some decent thrift store finds.

Until then, don't give into whatever secret Twilight lusts you've been harboring and see Little Ashes. Unless if you have an ass of STEEL because this thing is long. I would give it a longer autopsy (hero worship of Garcia Lorca? episodic nature? NOT ENOUGH NAKED PATTINSON?!?) but I think I already spent long enough on the movie.

Remember folks, just say no to the pretty.