I Hate Craigslist

So, I'm moving. And, like many a person who has to move, I have a surplus of stuff. And so, again like many person who has to move, I have turned to Craigslist in an attempt to offload it all.

And now I hate humanity.

First, of all, the reading comprehension skills of the average Craigslister are dire. If I put "Frontenac Metro" in the title of my post, why do I then get three e-mail responses asking me which metro I'm closest to? Maybe I should send the answer to them in a series of clues.

The first clue: Look in the title.
The second: No, seriously, I do not live at Metro Slow Cooker For Sale.
The third: Or at Metro Vendome.
The fourth: Rhymes with "Trontenac.:
The fifth: I hate you.

Or when I saw "pickup only", I should also not get an e-mail asking if I deliver. It's a 10 dollar shelf. TEN DOLLARS. Get your lazy ass over here and get it, I am not The Brick.

Also, I've noticed that a lot of people will e-mail you, you'll give them your contact info and then you'll never hear from them again. In a weird fit of anxiety, I always wonder if they're okay. Like, what if they're hoarders, and a pile of newspapers from '95 fell on them, and they're pinned underneath all the print unable to hit send? That would be an awful lot of guilt for me to bear.

However, I will say this for Craigslist. It's awesome at getting rid of the old appliances your new tenant decided she didn't want anymore. Even if the washer goes to one very optimistic, and very strong, Russian who ends up moving pretty much the whole thing all by himself, except for the part where the washer fell over and put a gash in my foot. Still, the blood spilled was worth it, as I didn't have to pay to have it disposed. And that is truly the greatest gift of all.

Eat Pray Love: Carnage At The Cinema

My general anxiety level was raised to code yellow (HORROR) recently. Why?

The reason stalks the land on two, long willowy legs, a bunch of pasta in its mouth, superficial Eastern spirituality on the brain, and a hot Brazilian... well, you know. It's also known as Julia Roberts as Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray Love: The Movie.

Ahhh! The horror! Alright, my issues with this movie aren't so much with Elizabeth Gilbert, or the problematic aspects of PrivLit, but with the biblio terrorism my Mom practiced when the book came out. I was at home for the summer after a miserable year at university, feeling depressed and unloved. At odd intervals, my Mom would compound problems by cornering me in the kitchen and reading out passages she found particularly amusing or enlightening.

When she was finished, I would remind her that I, too, could overcome my depression if she would only finance my round-the-world trip*. That never stopped her though. And since, considering the way my life is going, there is a 99.99999% chance I'll be moving back to Guelph soon as I relocate my life to Toronto, I'm worried she'll have another go at the memoir form of shock and awe. And while the movie is less portable, random snippets seem much more appealing compared to two hours held captive in a dark movie theatre.

*Working title: Stuff, Drink, Regret. Possible locations: Kansas City, MO; Moscow; Dark Night Of The Soul.

BTO: Binding iT Off

I'm taking a page from the fine philosophers Bachman, Turner et al and making my new life motto TCB: takin' care of business.

So far though, it's more like TCK: takin' care of knitting. About a week ago, I tired of the glut of half-finished and orphaned projects I had kicking around and decided to finish them all. First up, the most tragic knit of all: the Arctic Diamonds Stole.Started at least two years ago, this stole had an unfortunate run in with a leaky container of tomato soup. Instead of spot-treating the stains immediately, I hid it away in frustration. I am wise. I was wiser still in using extra braces elastics as stitch markers, because the rubber quickly degraded and added more, if also more regularly spaced, stains. Yee haw.
I forged ahead anyways and managed to get some of the stains out. I'm willing to accept the finished project, but only with some DRAMATIC FRINGE. At the rate I'm adding the fringe though, it will be another two years before it is complete. Oh well. Think of the DRAMA.
Next: My January Aran is getting sleeves! Consider it a belated 100th birthday shout-out to Elizabeth Zimmerman. By the way, that is a Penguin of Perseverence my Dad bought for me at a street fair. I look to it for inspiration.

Stuck On Pause, With Pasta

Oh mon dieu. I wish I had momentous news from my absence to report, but not so much. For a while there, my life felt like it was stuck on pause. I was waiting to hear back about one job, but thinking about moving back to Ontario. I was going off to volunteer, but coming home to play endless rounds of solitaire. I was on a unicycle, pedaling endlessly in space.

Ok, scratch the unicycle part, although it makes for a fun mental image. No wait, I want to continue with the metaphor. Eventually, though, I decided to stop pedaling and descend gracelessly from the unicycle. Now I am back on my own two feet, I have a plan and I begin to feel semi-competent again.

To celebrate, here's a quick recipe, sans photos, for a dish I've been making a lot recently. I bought ingredients for a pasta salad since there was a picnic on the horizon. The picnic went swimmingly, even though it became an indoor thing thanks to rain, but I still have orphaned artichoke hearts. Hence this pasta dish. Make it when you're lazy, poor and have nuttin' but jars in the fridge and a basil plant on the windowsill.

The Fridge Is Bare And Your Life Is Overwhelming Pasta, or Carbs, Yay.
-enough spaghetti for one person
-a handful of oil-packed, sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
-two artichoke hearts, drained, sliced and separated
-one shot of olive oil
-a handful of finely-grated parmesan cheese
-two generous pinches of fresh basil, chopped
-salt and pepper to taste

1. Make spaghetti. Refer to the box instructions if you must. Drain.
2. Toss with sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke heart slices, and olive oil. Throw in basil, parmesan, and salt and pepper, then toss until the cheese begins to melt.
3. That's it, you're done. Serve with depanneur beer and a side of quarter-life crisis, but finish off with hope.

Social Media Blues, Pt 1: Back On Twitter

Twithulu, destroyer of worlds and 141st characters. Mug can be purchased through Warren Ellis' CafePress store, and was brought to my attention by the always-delightful Freshwater Mermaid.

If you haven't subscribed to this blog and aren't looking at it through your favorite reader - and really, why haven't you? Protagitron delivered right to your screen! - then you might have noticed a few changed. First, a few status bars have been ditched from my beleaguered blog side bar. And second, something has been added - a Twitter feed.

Some you may remember my first Tweet incarnation, as simply Protagitron. I tried it, dutifuly shortened links, tried to understand hash tags... and then Twitter began to annoy me, so I killed it. And now I'm back, as MsProtagitron.

Yeah, it's a second-wave shoutout. I have my reasons for coming back, but mostly it's just to see where this thing is going. I'm tired of certain media outlets telling me it's the future. I don't think it is. Perhaps it's a sign of my Luddite cred, but I find it only really works if you're a celebrity or a news source, or a friend. I care about the 140-character thoughts of the first because they're famous, the second because they're infamous, and the third because I know them. Otherwise, I find that the character limit is not enough to form a coherent thought, much less a personal connection. I would rather read a blog post.

Wow, just typing that made me feel old, which is something I never thought I would say about a sentence with "blog" in it.

What it is good for, though, is the constant posting of links to other, longer articles. Sometimes my own, but usually something from a real newspaper or dedicated blog. And I've noticed that the Twitter feeds I appreciate most generally function the same way. As long as I think of Twitter as the conduit and not the destination, then I think we can have a working relationship.

More Monty Adventures

Pictured: DAMN YOU, JEFF KOONS.

Right after my stomach had recovered from the grape-cream-ham-chicken shock and awe I visited upon it last Monday, m BFF4Life Katie came up to visit. She was my roommate for 2 1/2 years, so we basically share the same likes, dislikes and sense of humour as one another. Basically, there's one shared brain between us, which is why it's so unfortunate that she's been living in the States for the past 18 or so months. Before she returned, I had been reduced to aimlessly circling my apartment and repeating the same inside jokes we shared to the cat.

But then - she arrived! She came, we saw local attractions, we conquered. Highlights of the past 10 days include:

1. Eating cupcakes at the nut-free bakery, Cho'cola, aka the one baked goods hut that won't kill her.
2. Screening Ip Man 2 at the Fantasia film festival and applauding every fight scene
3. Following that up with dumplings from Qing-Hua equally deserving of applause
4. Being so tired that watching back-to-back episodes of Can-Con-Cop drama Flashpoint ended up being AWESOME
5. Going to Ottawa
6. Getting a personalized tour of Parliament from a friend and avoiding the roving tours of eager cadets
7. Seeing the Pop Life exhibit at the National Art Gallery, then concluding that I despise Jeff Koons
8. Eating burgers at The Works
9. Going to the Dollar Cinema and sweating profusely while watching the Crazies
10. Finding a great used bookstore in NDG, Encore Books
11. Touring the low-budget museum masterpiece that is the Georges Cartier house. They ran out of money to pay real interpreters so now you get recordings. Admission is a low, low $3.00.
12. Seeing the insanely decorated interiors of the Chateau Dufresne. And getting to see it again for 3-odd bucks because half of the house is closed.
13. Discovering that, on Mondays, every store adorable and whimsical in Montreal is CLOSED.
14. Having a mimosa at night. Annoying Katie by singing "I Drink My Mimosas At Night" to the tune of the Cory Hart classic. "So I can... SO I CAN... Get drunk in a classy-like WAY!"
15. In short, spending way, way too much money and having even more fun.

Unfortunately, I did not do the following things in the past 1o days:
1. Laundry
2. Sweep floors
3. Clean living room
So maybe this return to real life is needed.

It Came From 1962: Chicken Breasts With Seedless Grapes and Marie's Crusty Peach Dessert

As promised, I made a whole meal. Well, I skipped the salad, because I think I had reached my monthly, if not annual, jello intake. However, making a main course and a dessert is a meal by my standards, which are the standards of an unemployed 22-year-old who hates to wash up.

So appreciate what you get, damn it.


Even if it's this. Again, this is supposed to be "Chicken Breasts With Seedless Grapes." Now, I spy plenty of seedless grapes (green instead of the white ones called for - apologies, Zada), but where's the chicken breast? Let's go to an oh-so-appetizing closeup to find out.

Hint: It's to the left.

Yes, it's there in the middle, gasping for air under a wine-infused cream sauce, ham, mushrooms and bushels of grapes. They should have just called this recipe "Sauce For Closeted Alcoholics" and let all the desperate housewives finish off the rest of the "dry white wine." It would have made more sense. Then again, there's a lot about the sixties that doesn't make sense to me, but I'll just drink up, be merry and learn to love the cigarette smoke.

In spite of its alarming colour scheme, which reminds me of '80s prom dresses, it's surprisingly edible. Or maybe that's just the wine talking. And here's dessert:


Fortunately, Crusty Peach Dessert is just another name for a peach crumble or crisp or whatever, so it is DELICIOUS. However, I do think the name would make for one hell of an STD euphemism.

To Montreal I Return!

Somehow, I couldn't quite convince my parents that finding goose liver sausages, mashing them up, spreading them on saltines and calling it delicious was a viable dinner option. I guess they actually suffered through the '60s, so cooking from 1962 was not an option. So, you'll be getting a special DECADE MEAL on Sunday, where I make two recipes just to get caught up, and then you'll probably also get a special LIVE HOSPITAL BLOG Monday morning when I go to get my stomach pumped.

Toronto was a ton of fun, even if it culminated with an embarrassing faceplant on a concrete sidewalk. I met up with all the friends I missed, including a crew who can outdrink me. The Ukrainian side of my genes was ever so ashamed of my performance. However, since I packed a week's worth of festivities into a day and half, most of which was spent carrying around my weight in clothes and sundries in a suitcase, I was pretty much dead when I returned to Guelph. So three quiet days with Smitty The Wonder Dog, my master chef dad and my mom were much appreciated. Even if they included conversations like this:

*Scene: debating dinner options with my family, with a cookbook's odd take on tuna sandwiches coming out ahead*
Mom: Since when did you start eating tuna?
Protagitron: Since I started being broke. I ate tuna noodle casseroles all the time for a while there.
Mom: But Protagitron, these are sandwiches and not casseroles, you know.
*I stare at the cookbook page facing me with "Tuna Sandwiches" in large letters. And a photo of a filling nestled between two slices of bread. As sandwiches so often are.*
Protagitron: I... was... aware of that, mother.
Mom: Oh, shut up.

Now I'm back in Montreal, celebrating a Netherlands win and poking my lazy, sleeping cat to make sure he's still alive. All is right in my world.

To Toronto I Go!

I'll be in Toronto and Guelph for most of this week, so my online access might be spotty at best. I'll try and do a 1962 recipe at some point though, and maybe an explanation of why Twitter has returned to my life, as you can see in the toolbar to the side. However, if I don't, it's because I'm too busy being two days too late to the G20 protests.

Actually, there's another reason for my visit but, depending on circumstances, I'll have to get into that later. Until then though, wish me luck in the land of English speakers!

American Splendor, Soccer-Style

I went out to watch the Ghana/USA match today. Bros were very much in evidence at the bar. Polo shirts, two USA jerseys... and a whole lot of hilarity. Seriously, I don't understand why the rest of the world has such a hate on for American fans. They're brash, loud and amazing. If I wanted a classy kind of fan, I would watch more polo.

Anyway, even though I was cheering for Ghana, I found these following drunken bon mots so frigging priceless, I had to record them in this here blog. Please imagine them slurred, it's essential to the effect:

3. "Sliiiiiiide, you dumb prick!"
2. In response to the British announcer giving the 2-1 score: "We knoooow, you British fuck!"
And my personal favorite, keeping in mind that the Ghanian jerseys were red:
1. "Kill the redcoats!"
It's funny because it's historical.