Creampuff Revolution

Les resolutions de Creampuff - edition 2008

I know! It's already January 5th! It seems like I've blown the "procrastinate less/blog more" resolutions already this month, but I'll have you know that I have spent the last six days endlessly converting hundreds of posts from Textile2 to HTML and then reformatting them in order that they may be ready for the launch of the new onedegree.ca, the internet marketing blog we took over last year. It's taken six days to do one year's worth of posts and I've got two years to go and it's sucking my will to live.

But I am taking a break! Ha ha! Because if I wait too long, New Year's resolution time will be over - unless I wait for Chinese New Year. Which I seriously considered.

I love New Year's resolutions. I love reading yours - I love crafting my own - I basically love the idea that a "new year" equals a "new opportunity" to "suck less". I was pleased to note, when I checked last year's New Year's post, that I did manage to make good on several of my resolutions - I learned to knit socks against all odds, Flippy showed me how to make my blog searchable, we acquired a dog who forces me to exercise every day and while my various wages couldn't accurately be described as "livable", they do pay the rent. Also, I floss like it's going out of style, mainly because we don't have a dentist here yet.

Speaking of "becauses", 2007 was delightful in myriad ways, but it was also a fabulous year for excuses. FABULOUS. Living in Toronto for two months, adopting a dog, getting gay married - I had so many wonderful reasons to put things off! Like, for instance, learning to drive.

Hahahahaaaaa! I know! STILL!

I'm not going to bore you with why, because who cares? Suffice to say that, as part of my "embrace the new!" initiative, this WILL be the year that I actually do some driving. So...

1. Learn to drive. This means I will:

• Get my learner's license again 
• Take a driver training course
• Memorize our gay marriage vows so that I can recite them to Katr as I careen down the street with her in the passenger seat, white-knuckled and screaming.

Will I be able to take the road test before the gay divorce comes through? History will decide! Or perhaps Katr's lawyer.

2. Locate some health care professionals.

The dog has a vet, but we don't have a doctor or a dentist. Or a hairdresser, for that matter - we've lived here for a year and we both still get our hair cut IN TORONTO.

3. Finish my play.

Heeeeeeeeeeeeey - It doesn't seem to be writing itself. I realize that while it's still in an "unfinished state", it is PERFECT and brilliant in my mind. Once I declare it "finished", then it will be judged by others who do not love it as I do and that will blow. But you know - sometimes things blow! And no one will die if this blows. So I need to get the fuck over it and finish it. Preferably before we have to give up the fabulous printer we're "testing".

4. Knit Padu's sweater.

I promised Padu a sweater for his birthday. Last year. Hahahaaaaa!

5. Be greener.

We do plenty of environmentally conscious things around the house and beyond - buying carbon offsets for the car and air travel, using re-usable bags at the grocery store, signing up with greendimes.com, running the car off the dog's gas, recycling my hilarious jokes - but I confess that there are times that I can't face scrubbing out the peanut butter jar and just toss it instead of recycling it. There - I said it! So this year I'm going to suck it and wash those jars out.

6. 10000 steps!

When I first starting walking the dog, I nearly expired. Seriously - going from almost completely sedentary to walking for 2+ hours a day nearly did me in. But I have come to love my daily outings with Emmy Lou. Now that I can walk briskly for well over an hour without shitting twice and dying, I think it's time for a kicky pedometer and some really good headphones, so that I can keep track of our ambulatory progress and listen to Prince. I look forward to hitting the seawall fatly and startling passerby with my strange hidden clicking and sudden, off-key singing. Huzzah!

Okay, so those are the most specific of my goals for 2008 - I think if I can pull these off, it could be a banner year! Maybe I could KNIT the banner! And attach it to the back of the car while driving it! And then get pulled over by the fuzz!

Creampuff Doesn't Even Know Where to Start

We're back! So much blah blah to share! And pictures! Thank you all for your well-wishes and other hilarious comments!!

When I'm so behind on the blogging, I never know where to start, but since a few of you have specifically asked how the whole CBC Canada Writes national radio gameshow thing played out, perhaps I should just begin there.

The short answer is "it ended in humiliation and defeat!! HA ha!!". But here is what I remember:

• I show up at the CBC building on the morning of my wedding day, fresh as a daisy after three hours sleep. When I ask the security guard where to go, he tells me that I'm late and that they've already started and I need to run! Run! I doubt him but wander down the hall anyway. On my way back to tell him he's an idiot, I meet fellow finalist and blogger Ben Boudreau from Halifax. We mock the security guard amongst ourselves, but quietly, in case he's armed.
  
• The other finalists, Amy Neufeld (Edmonton), Jenny Ryan (Saskatoon) and Derek Krismanich (Kitchener) arrive. The lovely producers have promised brioche for breakfast and we are all excited. Because we are hicks.
  
• We go upstairs, get a quick tour and then grab some breakfast in a conference room. All the other finalists are sweet, smart, funny people and I like them all immensely. Goddamn it.
  
• One by one we meet the host and the judges as we chow down. They are all very friendly. So friendly that it almost makes up for the fact that THERE WAS NO EFFING BRIOCHE.
  
• I get lost going to the bathroom.
  
• We all pile into the studio for the taping of the "first day". It's cozy. But at the end of this round, two of us will be voted off the Canada Writes Island, leaving more room for the victors! This is good, because with all 5 finalists in there, there was barely room for my ass. I still have the marks.
  
• The taping begins. Contestant Jenny Ryan describes us, her fellow finalists, as "very good looking" (it's true - stunning, all of us).
  
• I make a crack to host Jian Gomeshi about how Katr said she might not marry me if I didn't come back bearing the coveted Canada Writes "Golden Mouse" award.
  
• Judge Elvira Kurt cracks wise that perhaps, if I am dumped by Katr, Jenny "all the other finalists are very good-looking" Ryan might sleep with me.
  
• I'm the first finalist up to read my "Canadian classic" movie pitch. The reading part goes okay. And then the judging begins.
  
• I hear my fellow finalists quietly vomiting behind me as the previously jovial judges tear into my light Victorian lesbian romp the way I tear into an eggnog cheesecake - viciously. Judge Terry O'Reilly makes good points about what my pitch is lacking. Judge Dionne Taylor might have said something, but all I remember is her scrunched up "me-no-likee" face. Judge Elvira Kurt says (among other things) that it's just a mess of cliches and she's surprised it took me a whole hour to write it. Through the sleep deprivation and general nausea, a single thought flickers into my foggy, foggy mind as my Canada Writes journey comes crashing to halt. The thought is "Heeeeey! I might make my hair appointment after all!"
  
• I sit back down. I survey the bloodless faces of my suddenly terrified fellow finalists. Jenny Ryan holds up her notepad, on which she has written "I'll still sleep with you." Then Derek Krismanich holds up his notepad. It says "Me too."
  
• One by one, the rest of the finalists present their movie pitches, with varying degrees of approval from the Dragon's Den. It's pretty clear overall, though, which two of us are not going to make the cut. Hint: one of them is ME.
  
• Ben Boudreau and I each have 10 seconds to convey our final thoughts once we are voted off. I hope that one of us throws a diva fit, drops the F-bomb and stomps out. Sadly, we are both too Canadian.
  
• I say something both polite and very true about what a great experience the whole thing had been and how fantastic the other finalists are. Elvira Kurt cracks "Oh, she's not bitter at ALL." I laugh and think "Oh, Elvira Kurt. How I used to giggle at your childhood tales of sleeping in your bathing suit. And now - now, you are dead to me."
  
• The remaining finalists get their next challenge (an hour to write a 200-word humour piece about their childhood) and we all leave the studio. There are hugs and goodbyes and best wishes and everyone is lovely. Still a little shell-shocked, Ben and I wander out to the hallway, where the videographer tapes an exit interview with us. I haven't watched it yet, but remember thinking that we were HILARIOUS. Then we both take a whiz and leave.
  
• I whip out my cellphone and call Katr. "I got voted off first!!" I holler into my phone. "Will you still marry me if I don't  bring the prize laptop to our marriage as my dowry?" Lucky for me, the answer is a resounding "yes" and not just because we've paid a huge catering deposit. I hop in a cab to meet up with my love and her friend Tagu. And then . . . I get my hair done for my wedding. Jealous? HA ha!

[okay, so it looks a little scruffy in this picture - but the flowers! So cute!]

So thank you, CBC, for providing me with some additional fun and frolic on the morning of my nuptials. It really was a blast. And as for the parts that weren't a blast - well, let's just say I drank to forget.

Up next - the wedding! Followed by the honeymoon! Pictures of stuff! And this thing I wrote before the whole wedding happened about how our stupid bathroom at the Holiday Inn destroyed my innocence forever!

While you're waiting for the next installment, do head over to DropDeadHappy for Edition 2.6 of the International Carnival of Pozivities. Read - learn - get involved in the fight against HIV/AIDS - and be sure to leave comments for the contributors!!

Creampuff to Random Person Hammering: "I Will Kill You"

There are times in one's life when one has to adjust to living with a certain baseline level of stomach-churning barf-xiety. When it happens to me, I try to keep things in perspective! I try not to complain or freak out, because it's just work stuff and wedding stuff and no one's going to die and I know there are people out there having REAL problems and I am not one of them. I try to switch from coffee to chamomile-lavendar tea. I try to butch up.

Taking one thing at a time and staying focused on the task at hand certainly helps. But when I'm this close to flashing the crazy eyes, certain situations cause the chunder to rise from down under and I cease to handle anything well. These situations or events may include:

• Technological problems (computer, phone, Q-tips)
• Anything that causes a deviation from the very tight schedule of events I'm following IN MY MIND
• The dipshit who is currently hitting something with a hammer somewhere in our building

The concrete building we live in transfers sound in strange ways. The Hammer could be coming from next door or from 5 floors down. Because we don't know where it's coming from, we have no clear direction for our wrath and screaming "HOLY FUCKING SHIT, QUIT POUNDING THE WALL!!" doesn't seem to be working.

I know it can't go on forever. Eventually the Hammer will fall silent and its wielder will move on to other things, like drilling. I don't need to totally lose it over this water-torturesque noise. I just need to just calm down and focus on my HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!! QUIT POUNDING THE -

The hammering! Finally stopped! Oh, sweet nanosecond of silence - how I enjoyed you before the fire alarm started going off.

Dog - earn your keep! Lower my blood pressure with your cuteness!

Okay.

In other news, I'm still totally KICKING 10th place ass in the Best Individual Blogger category over at the 2007 Weblog Awards! It's the last day to vote for your favourite blogs - and I have to say, I've discovered some great new ones, many of which involve pictures of the Catspiracy. Which is awesome, because more ways to procrastinate is exactly what I need right now.

Creampuff Class

It was a pretty harried morning Saturday as Katr and I prepared to go to Toronto for a few days of workin'. As usual, I had left some vital chore, like packing, until the last minute. Katr, never the most relaxed traveler, was even more frumbly than usual due to some electronic mishaps and the dog - the dog knew something was up.

After his hilarious joke about storing our mail in the dishwasher was met with a lecture on what was or wasn't funny to stressed out creampuffs, my brother and his girlfriend wisely absented themselves and hung out on the balcony, where the sounds of creampuff bickering blended nicely with the calls of the seabirds buzzing our little outdoor cafe. The dog joined them. I didn't blame her.

Katr and I frumbled to the airport, grumbled through security and mumbled at each other in a surly manner as we waited at the gate. I had just finished my pre-boarding bathroom break ("What . . . is . . . wrong . . . with . . . this . . . TOILET PAPER??? GodDAMMIT!!") when I heard the gate agent call my name over the PA system. Great. What now?

I frumbled my way up to to the desk with my boarding pass. Dan at the desk was wearing a grave expression. I prepared myself to have to fight for my window seat. And then Dan said these magic words:

"Do you mind if I bump you up to Business Class?"

It may surprise you to learn that I don't spend a lot of time wanting to kiss dudes. But I nearly frenched this guy. The only thing that held me back was knowing that trying to tongue Dan the Air Canada employee would definitely give me away as a hick who'd never flown Business Class. And I am nothing if not sensitive about my hickishness.

"Sure," I answered nonchalantly, tossing my hair in so insouciant a manner that I nearly dislocated my neck, "that would be lovely."

"I see you're traveling with someone," he said, frowning at his list.

"Yes," I said, throwing caution to the wind, "can she come too?"

If Dan caught the whiff of hick desperation, he didn't show it.

"Sure," he said, "here you go. Have a nice trip."

I took the new boarding passes in my hands and felt a surge of power. I sauntered back over to a bewildered Katr, fanning myself with our new tickets.

"So," I said, when I got back to our seats, "how 'bout we fly . . . BUSINESS CLASS today?"

I swore I heard sweeping music in the background as Katr's eyes filled with tears. It was epic.

Business Class. It's everything the legends tell you. Spacious seating (so important to a creampuff). Quieter. No bad smells. Actual food plus free flowing booze for 5 hours. I hear some of the newer planes have personal entertainment systems and individual gumball dispensers; our plane was older and I didn't care. It was HEAVEN and I couldn't believe our luck. I kept humming "Somewhere in My Youth or Childhood, I Must Have Done Something Good" from the Sound of the Music, until one of the flight attendants gave me a look. While I had her attention, I waggled my empty wineglass at her.

I was careful not to betray my status as a first class virgin (worldly and sophisticated Katr has flown first class before) but I was clearly not alone. The dazzled eyes of some of our fellow Business Class passengers gave them away as first timers too. Also, how they kept asking the flight attendants how much the food cost and what the hot towel was for and how much IT cost. Ha ha. Plebes.

It was the first plane trip I've ever taken where I felt like I hadn't had to ENDURE the flight. I walked off the plane feeling fresh as a fucking DAISY. And I knew in that moment that I had been spoiled for "Economy Class" forever.

This conviction was reinforced by our hellish return trip, where we were jammed back in with the rest of the Great Unwashed on a plane so hot you could have grown rice. Stupid Sound of Music.

Creampuff Gets Great Deal on Crap

Between the hot summer and walking this dog and my gig as the lead singer of The Chafetains, I found myself in dire need of new summer duds. So this weekend, my love and I hied ourselves to North Vancouver, to take advantage of a summer sale at the fat girl store.

We should definitely have eaten first.

I don't think I've ever seen a sale that gi-huge-gic at the fat girl store. I could barely handle the bounty of t-shirts, capri pants (Syd's favourite) and bathing suits, some of which were even in my size. Bright colours! Slimming mirrors! Consumer frenzy! I tried on and rejected countless things before amassing a pile of fabric you could make a circus tent out of. This alone should have warned of the horrors to come.

It wasn't until I got home and started actually wearing the clothes in public that I realized THEY WERE AWFUL. Cheap-looking, unflattering, shapeless. Comfortable, sure, but ASS. And purple? Forget-me-not blue? TEAL? It's like a clown shat.

It's as if I've filled my closet with nothing but candy coloured capri hospital scrubs. And somehow, no matter what combination of colours I put on, it looks like I'd let my patients dress me. My blind patients. My blind patients who want to get back at me for taking their temperature rectally.

Even the dog seems embarassed to be seen with me. I'm considering telling people that she's a service dog, because then maybe they'll cut me some slack over my attire. Because clearly I have needs that are special.

Also, Katr and I managed to buy the exact same bathing suit without realizing it. Yeah, that's right. Matching creampuff swimsuits. Keep your eye out for us in Tofino at the end of the month, where we'll be shooting our major motion picture Tweedledum & Tweedledee Hit the Beach Fatly.

Goddammit.

New Dog Runs Creampuffs Ragged

NB: This is a post about our new dog! It's largely dog-related and may go into a little too much detail for the non-dog-lover to give a shit about. I just thought you should know.

As most of you know, I've wanted a dog for nearly 7 years now, ever since I discovered that it was CATS, demon CATS and not dogs that I was allergic to. When I lived with a roommate, getting a dog seemed unwise. When I first shacked up with Katr, our condo building did not allow pets. But when we moved to Vancouver last fall, getting a dog was near the top of my list of priorities.

And this weekend - my doggy dream came true. Meet Emma (whose name will probably change at some point but not now, 'cause we're too stressed out)!

Isn't she the sweetest little Chinese Shar Pei you ever saw? So rumply in the face! Doesn't she look peaceful, all curled up there on the floor, miles away from the nice bed we bought her? Mmmm.

The long yellow thing is a duck. She hates this duck.

Emma is three years old and we got her from the TnT Shar Pei Rescue. These shar pei people - SO NICE. Meeting them - getting the low down on the mighty shar pei breed - having them over so they can make sure we're not crazy jerks - it's all been a great experience. Which brings us to today.

Yeah, I'm not going to lie to you guys - we are nervous wrecks. I have no doubt that our general lack of dog experience and also lack of sleep are the main contributors to our overwraughtness. No matter how many books you read and how many episodes of The Dog Whisperer you watch, nothing really prepares you for being a BIG FREAK when the dog actually materializes and you have to deal with it.

To be fair, it's not like young Emma has done anything super crazy. I mean, she was a barking, whining, door-scratching mess for about 15 minutes after her foster parents left and then she settled into a pattern of checking one balcony, checking the other balcony, checking the door, checking us and starting again. Then, after we took her for a longish walk yesterday, she snoozed the afternoon away. But last night the poor thing kept waking up and barking up a storm, presumably because she was disoriented. She wouldn't sleep in our room and I ended up on the couch in the living room. The wrong move? Probably. But at 2:00 a.m., few alternatives presented themselves. Sigh.

Going into this, we knew that Emma:

• Didn't like dudes - hey, good match!
• Didn't like to hang out outside too much - hey, like us!
• Occasionally barked at the foster mom's loud teenage son - hey, no problem. We have no loud teenage son!
• Is very good around non-teenage boys and is not dog aggressive - hey, sweet!
• Followed her foster mom everywhere - and now she follows me! Good times!
• Doesn't care for toys - reeeeeeeeaaaaaaaally? Who doesn't like toys?? (Hint: our new dog Emma)

All of these things are true, except that she also barks at flies and, once today, at me. Also, her foster parents live in a quiet, suburban area and they said that when they brought her into town, she perked right up. But now I'm wondering if all the city noise (not to mention the fucking loud-speaker-laden DragonBoat Festival on across the street this weekend) isn't just stressing her out. Also, she LOVES cars and tries to climb into every one she sees, whether it's stationary or moving, which, you know - that's not good. At least she really seems to be enjoying licking herself. That's important to a dog.

What's my point? My point is that it's Day Two and we're already losing our shit. We're trying to be calm, assertive pack leaders here, people. And I feel like we've done our best so far to be consistent with our behaviour and still give her space, because shar peis like that. And I'm PRETTY sure I'm just being kind of a sleep-deprived wuss about the occasional barking and whining and that once I've slept, I won't feel like I'm having an anxiety attack. But we are feeling very ill-equipped and unsure how to proceed. Should we walk her more? Less? Keep her on a leash with us all the time? Leave her alone? Will the pot brownie help? After all this excitement, am *I* the one who's not dog-appropriate??

So hey, dog owners and lovers - please, please help us out. Share your new dog settling-in stories and tips!! We thank you - Emma thanks you - and that poor, neglected duck thanks you.

Creampuff Avoids Facebook Like It's Aliens Brandishing the Anal Probe

Facebook. I do not care for it.

I do not have a good reason, like I did when I refused to get a Myspace page. I think we can all agree that Myspace is horrible. It's more like in elementary school, when everyone else in my class, EVEN THE BOYS, begged and pleaded with their parents to buy them Cabbage Patch dolls and I didn't want one. Because they were uggo.

In the face of increasing and nearly daily pressure to join, I sat down to try and think of some legitimate reasons why I am so violently opposed to joining Facebook. Here's what I came up with.

1. I just don't want to.
   
2. I'm already in touch with most of the people I actually like from elementary, junior high, high school, university and beyond. How do I know? I know because they're all inviting me to become their friends on Facebook.
   
3. This weekend, I received the following email:
   
   Roro -
   I was talking to [name withheld] (also a fan and an acquaintance of yours from Edmonton) and we cyberstalked you to find an e-mail address [emphasis added].  I hope you don't mind the intrusion.  You don't know me, but we're both from Edmonton and I've seen you in a few
   plays.
   
   Years ago you wrote a play that was performed at the Citadel (possibly by [name withheld]?  [name withheld]? Someone who was a girl?  I can't recall) that was notable for many reasons, not the least of which was
   that it included over 50 synonyms for vomit.  Very notable as it has come up in conversation at least once a year since I saw the play read.
   
   It goes on. But my point is that someone I hardly know had NO TROUBLE tracking me down to ask about some play I wrote when I was 17 and I didn't need to be on Facebook for them to do it.
    
4. I love tiny updates and disconnected minutae as much as the next gal, but if I want those, I'll watch Entertainment Tonight. What I want from my friends is actual NARRATIVE. I want to hear your stories. So basically what I'm saying is that I'd like everyone I know on Facebook to just have a fucking blog like a normal person.
   
5. Unlike my beaverancée, I feel that I do not need to be on this thing "for work" just yet, although she has pointed out, fairly convincingly, that this may not be the case. I believe her words were, "a presence is better than an absence". Hmph.
   
6. Everyone I know who's on Facebook laughs (or cries) over how obsessed they are with it. Updating their status. Leaving notes on friends' walls. I believe them and am afraid. I spend too much time in front of the computer already. The last thing I need is some other reason to stay up late hitting "refresh". Seriously.
   
7. A lot of people I know, love and miss are on Facebook and let's be honest - we're shit at keeping in touch. On the other hand, alot of other people are on Facebook too. People I dislike and wouldn't ordinarily have to deal with. People I've been avoiding since elementary school, junior high school, high school and university. People who chap my ass. 

I know I'm being ridiculous. It feels pretty good. Ultimately, though, I feel that my "no likee" position on the mighty Facebook is untenable. It comes down to two possibilities: Will I continue to childishly hold out until Katr just joins and impersonates me to potentially save my career? Or will I ultimately cave independently of her because Gina Torres invites me to become her Friend on Facebook? History will decide.

Creampuff Needs to Tie a Red Balloon To That

I knew that when Katr and I moved from Toronto to Vancouver, it would be an adjustment. Obviously, we would (and do) miss our Toronto friends terribly and trying out an unfamiliar city, while adventurous, can also be daunting. For all that, though, we felt that we were moving from one big city to another and that certain things would remain constants. Mainly, we believed that certain amenities would be as available in Vancouver as they were in Toronto. It came to my attention this weekend that I need to manage my expectations around some of those amenities. I mean, I recognize that I've gone from living an incredibly privileged life in Toronto to living an incredibly privileged life in Vancouver and that ultimately, I have NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT. Which is why I need to tie a red balloon to the following three items and just LET THEM GO.

1. Why are there no fucking garbage chutes in Vancouver?

In our old building in Toronto, there was a garbage chute and recyling area on every floor. Sure, if you had gigantic garbage, like a couch, you had to take it down in the elevator to the dumpster outside, but most of the time, taking the garbage out was a real treat. This set-up also made so easy to recycle conscientiously that you would not be embarrassed to look Al Gore in the eye.

At our current place, there is a garbage room on the first level of the parking garage. To get to the garbage room, you take the elevator down, pass through a security door, go down a flight of stairs, pass through another security door, drag your garbage through the parking garage, pass through another security door and then you're in the garbage room.

Making it such a hassle to take the garbage out means that people procrastinate until they have several bags of garbage and recycling and have to do one big trip. You can hear them, angrily clanking and dropping the F-bomb (no, it's not just me) in the elevator. Usually, between their apartment and the garbage room, a bag will break or an item will fall out. They will not pick it up, because they are angry and sweating. And then when I take OUR garbage out, I will trip on the thing they dropped. By the time they finally pass the security gauntlet, they are so annoyed (and probably late for something) that they just throw everything in the dumpster. A lot of people (and not just the people in this building) confess to not making an effort to recycle here. IN VANCOUVER. Al would be very upset and I don't blame him.

2. Why the fuck can't we get good food delivered in Vancouver?

Katr and I have simple tastes, really. In Toronto, we had three food delivery standbys: Swiss Chalet, Pizza Hut (I know, I know) and Holee Chow (I KNOW, okay?). When we were feeling REALLY flush, we'd order whole wheat tree hugger pizza from Magic Oven or Thai from Spring Rolls.

Here in Vancouver, there is NO SWISS CHALET. The closest one to us is in Burnaby, which is a 20 minute drive away. Needless to say, they do not deliver. What the hell?

Here in Vancouver, we can't find good Chinese food for delivery. I know - IN VANCOUVER. We literally live IN CHINATOWN. We've ordered from four different places and it's sucked EVERY TIME. And our STANDARD for Chinese food is HOLEE CHOW.

Here in Vancouver, Pizza Hut delivers. But there's only so much Hut a girl can have. GAH.

Vancouverites - we are open to suggestions, so - don't be shy.

I grudgingly admit that the lack of available delivery food is probably a good thing, as it encourages us to actually cook more. Which brings me to my next point.

3. Where the fuck is my grocery store?

I have been extremely spoiled in that every place I've ever lived in Toronto was within walking distance of a grocery store. Creampuff likes the grocery store. Other people go to record stores or clothing stores - I linger in the bulk food section and squeeze brie in the cheese aisle.

Our first place in Vancouver was close to two different markets, both of which enjoyed my frequent cheese squeezing. But after a thorough exploration of our current neighbourhood, I was shocked to find - NO GROCERY STORE.

Now, I CAN get really good fresh fruits and vegetables a few blocks away in Chinatown. I can also get really incredible tea and 8 different kinds of dried squid. But I can't buy a yogourt.

On this point, I know that I am just being a pussy. I can take a bus or the Skytrain to a grocery store and it really only adds half an hour to my shopping trip. I am, however, still trying to wrap my head around the lack of grocery store and my tiny brain is having a hard, hard, bitter time of it.

Today, though, the bitterness must end. The garbage chute issue will be not be changing anytime soon and we've signed a year lease so . . . I am getting over it. I'm sure that there are lots of places to order from where the food doesn't taste like ten kinds of ass and we just need to find them and so . . . I am getting over that too. And as for the grocery store - whenever we run out of Nutella and I'm daring to feel in any way petulant about having to go to the faraway store, I'm going to look out at our spectacular view:

and maybe have some peanut butter instead.

Creampuffs Share an Office

It's Day 3 of my beaverancée Katr and I both working from home. We're still engayged (thanks, Viscount!), so clearly things are going okay. We hit a couple of snags early on - the coffee cream went over to the Dark Side sometime Sunday night, so Monday morning's coffee was ruined - RUINED!! - and since our effing table from the Brick continues to be MIA, I'm still working on a T.V. tray table in our "office". But overall, the transition's been pretty smooth - and tomorrow, Katr's going in to the office, giving me the day to fill our bathtub with warm donuts and slide around while watching Firefly on the portable DVD with the Gina Torres parts on slow mo work on stuff.

It seems that the most important element in successful office sharing between beaverancées is open and honest communication. Communication about our space needs, bandwidth needs, phone needs, snack needs and random fondling needs. I am finding, however, that this need for open and honest communication poses a slight problem.

The thing is that Katr's communications are generally pretty simple and direct. Mine, on the other hand, are layered, like a delicious trifle, or like the Kaibab Limestone, Toroweap Formation, Coconino Sandstone and Hermit Shale that make up the top four layers of the Grand Canyon. I've been tracking our exchanges over the past couple of days and they say alot about who we are as people. For example:

I say: Would you like the last Snickers?

I mean: I would like the last Snickers. If you ask for the Snickers, I will give it to you. Then I will return to my T.V. tray desk with my Mars Bar and seethe. Later, when you ask me if I want some tea, I will seem distant.

Katr says: No, you go ahead and have the Snickers.

Katr means: No, you go ahead and have the Snickers.

I say: I'm having a little trouble with this template.

I mean: I've spent ALL MORNING trying to figure out how to get this stupid, PowerPoint-y arrow to disappear and it WON'T and I've read all of the help articles and it doesn't make sense and I HATE IT!! I HATE IT!! And if you love me like you say you do, you'll come fix it or at least be as upset as I am about it!! Plus I have cramps!! And I'd like you to bring me a muffin!

Katr says: Aw, that's frustrating. Here, I'm sending you a link that might help.

Katr means: Aw, that's frustrating. Here, I'm sending you a link that might help.

I say: Hey hey.

I mean: I've been writing historical lesbonic fiction all day. I've finally figured out how to avoid having each of the girls undo all 25 of each other's tiny mother-of-pearl buttons, take off their bodices, their overskirts, their hoopskirts, their petticoats, their corsets and their chemises before they can access each other's trembling loins. Wanna know how I did it? Two words: crotchless drawers. That's right. They're not only historically accurate but they're HOT. Take off your shirt.

Katr says: Little handsy today, aren't cha?

Katr means: Oooo - I bet my avatar in Second Life would look awesome with bigger boobs.

Do any of you guys see . . . a pattern here? Like, a pattern of some kind?

The funny part is that I assumed, in the past, that Katr's communications were as subtext-laden as my own. We've been together nearly four years, yet it is only recently that I have come to understand that I, in fact, am merely projecting this subtext. When Katr says "Boy, the kitchen is a disaster," what she actually means is "Hey, the kitchen is messy". She does NOT mean "WHY can't you keep the fucking kitchen clean, you lazy, free-loading, donut-bath-taking beaverancée?? WHY??"

Hmmm.

Clearly I have some issues I need to work out. And clearly this "sharing a home office" thing is going to lead to some much needed personal growth.

Now take off your shirt.

Creampuff May Have to Tone It Down A Little

As most of you know, I've been working from home for the past two years. While I do occasionally miss the companionship and intrigue of office life, I find that working at home suits me, partly because I like setting my own schedule - 

(7:00 a.m.: Work.

7:05 a.m.: Watch Dick in a Box video three times. 

7:15 a.m.: Watch Box in a Box video twice.

7:23 a.m.: Try to decide which one is funnier. Then try to decide if I am truly being objective about which one is funnier or if I'm being swayed by the Box in a Box singer's bodacious ta-tas. Hmm. Better watch them both again.

Noon: Lunch.)

 - but mainly because I don't have to wear pants and stuff.

The thing is that I've made working from home look REAL good to my girlfriend (or "fiancée" now, I guess - although, since we're getting gay married, isn't there some kind of "gay engaged" term we can use?  Preferably something with the word "beaver" in it? "Beaverancée"?).  As of Monday, my beaverancée Katr will also be working primarily from home! Both of us! At home! Together!

Obviously, this will be an adjustment for both of us. We'll have to share the phone and the broadband connection (Kate: Geez, this document is taking forever to download. What are YOU doing? Me (muting Dick in a Box video): Uh . . . nothing. Want some tea?). We'll have to be strategic about when we do laundry, because the washer sounds like a jet taking off. Until the effing Brick delivers the dining room table that's now A MONTH LATE, we'll be sharing a desk.

Also, I will have to try not to:

• Assume that just because Katr's finally home with me doesn't mean that her sole purpose is to spend all day, every day, laughing at my jokes, helping me with what I'M working on, fixing my technology problems and feeling me up;
  
• Drop everything to spend the day watching the Crossing Jordan/ CSI/Without a Trace/Law & Order (but never "Law & Order SVU", or, as I call it, "The Weekly Rape")/Any other crime drama my beaverancée hates marathon and knitting (Project Runway marathons are okay);
  
• Walk around with no pants on near the new webcam when Katr's on a video conference with clients;
  
• Sing at the top of my lungs and use stuffed animals to act out "Would You Light My Candle" from Rent;
  
• Blow the grocery money on blow and then say Nick Nolte mugged me and stole it (Sorry, Nick).

As Friday is my last day of "home alone" time, I'm also trying to figure out what to do tomorrow. It's not like I wait for Katr to leave every morning so that I can cover the couch in plastic, coat it in olive oil and slide around while watching The Matrix with the Trinity parts in slow mo. ("Why does it smell like Italian food in here? What's this on the remote?") But, you know - I feel like I need to have some kind of last hurrah. But what? A Homicide: Life on the Street marathon? An all-day daquiri bender with Nick Nolte? A knitting, pantsless, pie-eating trifecta? Or should I just cover the couch in plastic, coat it in Devonshire cream and watch Battlestar Galactica with the Katee Sackhoff parts in slow mo?

History will decide. Or perhaps Syd will.