Creampuff Revolution

Happy Creampuff Holidays!!

Happy Holidays!! I hope you all had and/or are still having a wild and woolly holiday season!

After all the fun and excitement of our big gay wedding, we opted to take it pretty easy this year by cuddling up in our apartment with our turkey and our dog and basically doing fuck all. We had a magnificent Christmas Eve dinner and a delightful, languorous, unexpectedly snowy Christmas Day. I have to say that we both missed the pleasure of being with our families, but not the stress of entertaining or being entertained or having to explain what happened to all the eggnog or why I smelled of eggnog or what I was going out to buy more of at the store or why I was having chest pains. Also, I'm sure Katr was okay skipping my family's yearly "Decoy Wrapping and Gift Tag Clues Six Hour Present Opening Extravaganza" (the more fool her, I say!).

Lest you think we're becoming agoraphobic hermits here in Vancouver, we did attend a seasonal social event on the 23rd, when we ventured all the way ACROSS THE HALL to our lovely neighbours' open house. It was very festive and there were plenty of other homos there and some shrimp!  We enjoyed ourselves, but left fairly early after being cornered and barked at endlessly by a well-meaning, close-talking, very deaf older gentleman. Later on, when I took the dog out, I heard "Welcome to the Jungle" being blasted and a lot of whooping noises. Maybe our neighbours are swingers.

The "keep it simple" theme extended to gifts this year - while we both enjoyed the Amazonian bounty of family and friends, we each only got each other one thing.  Because I like to rub baked goods all over me, Katr got me a wide selection of delicious shower gels and lip glosses from philosophy. Mmmm.

I have been huffing them all for days. DAYS.  Fortunately, Katr hasn't noticed my new addiction, because I got her a Nabaztag.

I don't know what kind of dirty things she's getting up to with that Wi-Fi enabled rabbit. Sometimes, I hear it whimpering.

Emmy got a new treat as well. She discovered turkey.

Their love affair is ardent and touching.

She also got a couple of actual gifts - as Jeba's hilarious Christmas card predicted:

they did indeed squeak. Her new toy Dino has afforded us hours of enjoyment. HOURS.

 

As I sit here, contemplating my next turkey sandwich, it occurs to me that there are just a few days of December left - did you know? So little time to decide on my resolutions for the new year! Will 2008 be the year I finally get my driver's license? Or should I focus all my energy on my luge training for the 2010 Olympics? History will decide.

Ooo - for all those who are avidly interested, we've (Katr has) put together a post-wedding wrap-up blog over at www.kateandrose.com! If you were there, go relive the fun! And if you weren't, you can check out the ceremony and vows (nothing too cringe-worthy, I promise) and lots of other stuff. We're still working on it (particularly the thank-you page!) but we needed somewhere to put all of our tips and advice for the gay brides of the future. Because we're never doing that again.

Creampuff Solves Age-Old Mystery

I've been spending more time than usual thinking about hairstyles lately, while I try and figure out how to dress my increasingly mullet-like locks for the big gay wedding. Up? Down? Uh . . . that's it, up or down I guess. Sleek? Bushy? Like a helmet? Twinkling Christmas lights? I could go on. So I've been paying more attention to people's hairstyles lately and I came across one yesterday that caught my eye.

The owner of the hairstyle was wearing a fancy pair of jeans and a kicky cardigan. The cheerful spring in her step didn't really seem to fit in with the regular crowd at the Ivanhoe Pub, where she appeared to be headed. Her long, permed, honey brown hair was up in a strangely elaborate half-ponytail. 

I wasn't wearing my glasses, so I edged a little closer to see if I could figure out what styling trick she had employed to achieve her unusual look. I got within a few feet of the back of her head and took a good gander.  What had she . . . waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait a minute.

That's when I realized she wasn't sporting a fancy do. She had simply put her hair up with one of these:

GAH.

I was, in times gone by, quite a devotee of the scrunchy (and so were you - so zip it) but I always wondered who the hell would buy a scrunchy made of obviously plastic hair. And today, that mystery was was solved, as so many mysteries are, by a lady outside the Ivanhoe Pub. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Thank you. I will rest easy tonight.

Today's truffles:

Passion Fruit * Silky dark chocolate ganache paired with a thin layer of passion fruit and Tahitian vanilla. (This truffle was so pretty I almost couldn't eat it. ALMOST. The passion fruit held the Tahitian vanilla hostage. The Tahitian vanilla was breathless . . . and aroused.)

Vanilla Fleur de Sel * Creamy caramel with Tahitian vanilla infused and a touch of Fleur de Sel (sea salt from Brittany) (Mmmmmm. And now that I know what "fleur de sel" is, I'm going to start using it more in every day conversation, like when I order my sandwich at Subway. "Could I get a dash of sub sauce and some fleur de sel on that? Wicked.")

Creampuff Interview - Mother's Day Edition

First of all, to my mom: Happy Mother's Day! Thank you for giving me birth, for keeping me happy and alive through childhood, for supporting my endeavours and my choices in life and for being fucking hilarious. I hope you enjoy the trip to the spa we're setting up for you! I'm not saying which spa here, because I don't want you to be harassed by blog-reading riff-raff. Riff-raff - you know who you are.

Second of all, to hopeful mothers-to-be Whozat & Shrike: I WILL get to those memes. I PROMISE.

Third of all, to wenders' mom: You questions are answered below. Also, Happy Mother's Day!!

A little background - wenders was playing this interview game on her blog and ended up interviewing her mom, KnittingPainterWoman. I joked on PainterWoman's blog that I thought wenders' questions for her were quite restrained and that if I had been interviewing MY mother, I probably would have asked a bunch of accusatory questions like "why did you ground me so much?" PainterWoman, like my mother, is a therapist - perhaps she sensed that I needed "talk a few things out". So she sent me the following awesome questions:

What question would you most like your mother to answer, and what do you think that answer would be?

The truth is that I don't remember ever actually being grounded. It wasn't that I didn't get in trouble, mind you, but a stern talking-to, followed by extra chores or perhaps docking of allowance were generally the punishments of choice. In fact, I was quite proud that, unlike most of my friends, I never got grounded. I asked my mom once why she was against it. If I recall correctly, she said something like: "Well, sweetie, if you've done something that made me so angry that I wanted to ground you, the last thing I'd want is you hanging around here all day and reminding me that I'm pissed off." Which I think makes all kinds of sense.

As for what question I would CURRENTLY like my mother to answer, that's a tough one. I COULD ask her something like "How'd you get to be so cool?" or "Would you rather a wrist corsage or a pin-on deal for our big gay wedding?" But the reality is that I'm not a person who asks a lot of questions. I prefer to make things up. Also, I've been watching alot of Alias lately, so I suppose that my fantasy question for my mom would be "All those years that you were an elementary school librarian, bringing home the most awesome books ever and patiently, lovingly teaching us to read . . . were you also, by any chance, secretly a space cowgirl, fighting for interstellar justice, backed by an anonymous billionaire?" And I imagine her answer would be: "That's right. Between working full time and having two kids three years apart, I was also saving the universe, darling. One space-hog at a time." And then I would say "I KNEW it!!" and then she would show me her space boots.

If you got to pick an "alternate life" how would it be the same/different from the one you have now?

I'm kind of a lazy dilettante. I've dabbled in many artistic and athletic pursuits in my life, but whenever anything started to require actual work (like reading a manual or learning music theory or drinking fewer milkshakes before dance class), I would lose interest. This is an ongoing problem for me, actually, and may require some kind of Ritalin derivative. Or hypnosis. I'm open to suggestions, people. Anyway, I suppose that if I were to pick an alternate life, I would be interested to see what would have happened if I'd actually been driven to pursue any of these things in a serious way. Perhaps I would have been a champion weightlifter who wrote opera! Or a professional cat's cradle instructor! Damn.

What invention do you wish someone would invent?

I would like to skip this whole "hybrid vehicle", "alternative fuel", "carbon offsets" thing altogether and get someone to invent a teleportation device. The device would run on the blood of the innocent. Hahahahaaa! Just kidding. It would run on any kind of blood, regardless of innocence.

What accomplishment (if any) must you achieve to know that your life has meaning?

Winning NASCAR. It's like my white whale. Mainly because when I show up at the track, they keep trying to sell me bullshit like "You need to have a license" and "You're heavier than the actual racecar".

To what fictional place would you be willing to relocate?

I know you're all thinking I'd pick the world of Anne of Green Gables, but the truth is those people had to work hard and shit outdoors.  Forget it. After due consideration, I must conclude that no fiction has stirred my imagination quite like Jasper Fforde's tales of Literary Detective Thursday Next. I would like to live in the world of Thursday Next, where literature replaces religion and I could have a pet dodo. I would also have a funny name, like "Fonda Squirrel". And I would work with Thursday at Jurisfiction, where I could leap in and out of any book ever written! I could spend a day at Hogwarts or tell Raskalnikov to get over himself! I could stop in for a plate of fried green tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café! And before long, alert readers would notice Anne Shirley suddenly finding herself attracted to "the stout girl with the nut-brown hair, Grecian nose and blue-grey eyes who uses slang and scratches herself." Sign me up!

Speaking of signing up, here are the rules of the interview post. Participate - IF YOU DARE.

So, you wanna play along?
Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me, please.”
I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing.
You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not.
You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
So, there you go. Cheers.

Creampuff Finally Posts a Recipe

A couple of weeks before I left Toronto, my (step)grandmother, Anro, came to town to see a play with me one Sunday afternoon. We went for lunch beforehand and had a great time catching up on all the family doings. She ranted about how she wants to start a clothing line for seniors (Tagline: "Not all seniors want to look like 15 year old hookers"). I ranted about how hotels SHOULD give us a deal on a block of guest rooms for our big gay wedding but they DON'T because they are ass, all of them, ASSSSSSSSSSSS! Somehow, perhaps in an attempt to relax, we ended up talking about reefer.

While my grandfather was alive, I visited him and Anro one fine Easter. My grandfather was an avid gardener and keen to show off his prize daffodils. We wandered about the yard until we came upon a patch of herbs and tiny vegetables in a back corner bordering the neighbours' yard. Grandpa told me that their neighbours ran a nursery and had arranged with my grandfather to help with the upkeep of the yard in exchange for a chunk of the garden. Then my grandfather took off in pursuit of a marauding squirrel and I took a closer look at the neighbours' plot. And I saw a lot of these.

Because the neighbours were growing weed in my grandfather's yard.

Fortunately, the neighbours are generous types and have been hooking my step-grandmother up fairly regularly since my grandpa passed last year. Sadly, it seems that Anro was having some issues enjoying her time with Mary Jane.

"I have trouble rolling my own," she said to me, "because of my arthritis. It's VERY frustrating. Maybe I should get a bong?"

"Well," I said to her, "I don't know from bongs. But I know you like chocolate." 

"I DO," she said, emphatically, then patted her silver bob back into place.

"Well, then do I have an idea for YOU."

She was all ears.

"First," I told her, "you're going to want to get yourself two boxes of Duncan Hines Brownie Mix. Or Betty Crocker. Whatever. Set one box aside. Take your weed and give it a good grind, with a mortar and pestle if you have them. Then you're going to take a couple of big pats of butter and heat 'em up in a frying pan. Then you're going to take about a tablespoon of your weed and you're going to LIGHTLY sautée the weed in the butter. LIGHTLY, though, don't overdo it. Then you're going to add the sautéed weed to the brownie mix along with all of the other wet ingredients and bake it, as you would normally do."

"Alright," she nodded, "I'll give that a try. But what's the other box of brownie mix for?"

"Well, here's the thing," I said. "While the first batch is in the oven, you'll want to make up a pan of pot-free brownies. See - sautéeing the weed in butter actually releases MORE of the THC than smoking does, so you may be dealing with some very powerful brownies and you shouldn't have too many at once. But of course, after you've had a few of the 'special brownies', you might feel the need to eat a WHOLE PAN OF BROWNIES. So that's what the second pan is for."

"Of COURSE," she said, "how smart."

"Aw, shucks," I said, "you have to say that, 'cause you're like my grandma."

Anro promised to whip up some of the brownies before my next visit the following week. Lunch at her place a week later was delicious and delightful but, sadly, there was no loot-bag of two-bites for the ride home. Ah, well. I assumed that, like me, Anro liked to TALK pot brownies, but not actually follow through. So you can imagine how I laughed when I got this e-mail from her:

"It was great to see you both times. I was mad at myself for forgetting to give you the special brownies I'd made for you to take on the bus. I had a few after I baked them and was glad it was evening & I wasn't going anywhere but the ceiling for awhile! They'll go back in the freezer for the next time."

Ah, Anro. Just knowing that you might be high on pot brownies and laughing hysterically at your cats the next time I call is reward enough for me.

Now that I'm back on the west coast, I'm looking forward to doing more baking myself. Katr's been carefully nursing the stick of peace and relaxation that she refers to as "The Joint" for many months now (fretting over its whereabouts, cooing to it, etc.), but yesterday we had a visit from the Ganja Fairy, who brought us a housewarming gift! What shall we make with it? Brownies? Banana bread? Flan? All I know for sure is that I'm stocking up on Cheetos. They may not be the most healthful snack when you've got the munchies, but at least the orange cheese powder lets me track where I've been.

Creampuff to Seals: "You Are All My Children"

Because I'm here and queer and zuhn asked us to, I thought I'd try my hand at video blogging today. Turns out that my hand don't really know how my camera works. HA ha! Enjoy! Well - after it loads, that is . . .

Of course, as the lovely melle noted in the last round of comments, I believe my "seals" are actually "sea lions", which are a kind of seal and may still be referred to as "seals", if you are a marine biology hick. What's the difference? Sea lions bark more and have ears and are descended from bears. Seals, on the other hand, somehow get Heidi Klum into bed.

Creampuff Valentine's Gay Special

Valentine's Day is here again and, as usual, I'm bitter.

Katr's in town for work and she leaves on Valentine's Day and this is the last I will see of my love for a month, but because of the nasty cold I contracted while she was here, I suspect that there will be far more hanky than panky. Nothing says "Come hither" like a sexy negligée and a wet, hacking cough. My one consolation is that at least my illness will make it a little easier for her to leave me, because when I am sick, I am also whiny like a man.

It must said that, single or no, I've always hated the Valentine's Day. In elementary school, the agony and ecstasy of card-sending - in junior high, the drama of the carnation-gram - in high school, the tragic searing of the tongue with too many cinnamon hearts - in university, the dreaded Goldschlager hangover. For years, my roommate Jesk and I had a Bitter Single Girl's Valentine's Day ritual where she would buy a flat of Valentine's cupcakes at the Loblaw's and I would rent a tender, heart-warming film from the Blockbuster, like Terminator 2. Then we would order pizza, eat cupcakes and enjoy the bloodshed. Those were good times.

Anyway - I've been tagged again by the lovely Winter to tell you 5 Things You Don't Know About Me (the same Winter tagged me to share 5 Weird Things awhile back) and I thought that with Valentine's Day shitting cinnamon hearts and shiny red decorations upon us, I'd like to share a Special Embarassing Lurve Edition 5 Things with you all. I've always been freakish and secretive about love, so coming up with these took a really long time. In no particular order, here they are.

1. Before I met Katr, my longest relationship was with a boy named Daniel. I fell in love with him on the first day of kindergarten, when he wouldn't stop crying after his mom left. "Yep," I said to myself as the tears rained down on his Cookie Monster sweatshirt, "that sissy boy is MINE." We used to play Star Wars at recess together - he was Luke and I was Leia. We were together until Grade 4, when I gave him an ultimatum - his video games or ME. It was hard being single again after all that time, but it wasn't long before I stepped into the arms of my next love, Yorgo. Coincidentally, Yorgo often played Han Solo in our Star Wars recess games and he and I took up together around the same time Return of the Jedi came out and we all found out about Luke and Leia being twins. Clearly, Daniel and I weren't meant to be. Plus, Yorgo bought better stuffed toys. Score!

2. I mentioned the queer youth crush I had on Buliana Bivato in the previous post, but I did not mention the root causes of this crush, namely that she was a great singer, she was taller than me (a rarity) and that at some Fringe or Teen Fest party, she kissed me on the mouth. Looking back, it was not in any way a hot n' heavy liplock - it was closer to the hello or goodbye peck you give your close friends, if you have kissy friends. Any lingering I perceived was no doubt due to teen drunkeness. But my knees giving out after she walked away? THAT was teen lust. I was wearing a pink sweater. I turned the same colour as the sweater. I may have slept with the sweater on that night but I confirm nothing.

3. Once - and I am not proud of this, except that I AM kind of proud of it - I shouted out my own name in a . . . climactic moment. I was not alone at the time. Now, in my defense, I was with someone I had no intention of ever seeing again and in my mind, the whole point of getting it on that night was to make myself feel better. Still . . . not my classiest moment. Nor were the subsequent moments when I couldn't stop laughing.

4. Deeply fed up with a years-long bout of unrequited love, I decided for awhile to have an imaginary girlfriend. Not the "I totally have a girlfriend! Ooh, you wouldn't know her, she goes to another school" kind. The "you don't measure up to my imaginary girlfriend" kind. Her name was Mel. She was a creampuff and she had a chin piercing (which is funny to me - why a chin piercing??). She was also very handy around the house. After a few weeks, I shyly and reluctantly told my therapist about Mel and she was THRILLED that I had found love - IN MY MIND. "She shows up on time! She returns your calls! She's fat - and she LOVES it!" Mel and I had a blissful few months together and she helped me through a very rough patch. Thanks, Mel!

5. Starting in high school, I kept a journal that was SUPPOSED to be about theatre projects, but which quickly devolved into what can only be described as a WANK repository. Oh my god, people. The WANKERY of this thing. I am surprised that my laptop has not collapsed under the weight of all the (often lurve-related) angst. I suppose you could argue that, because I generally write comedy, the wank had to end up SOMEwhere. And despite it's EXTREME embarassingness, I cannot bring myself to delete it. All of its longing and yearning and self-hatred and screaming blood metaphors and word by word accounts of dramatic conversations were important to me at some point - also, it's a great file to poke around in when I'm looking for a good title. My latest play, Kiss With Your Teeth, takes its title from the following Wank Journal line: "You know it's time to stop smiling when you start to kiss with your teeth."

The problem with the Wank Journal is that there are no dates and generally no identifiable names or places, in case the WJ ever fell in the wrong (i.e., anyone else's) hands. So while I like the title of the play, I really have no idea where that line came from. Probably best not to.

So there you have it - 5 Embarassing Lurve Things About Me. If you'd like to celebrate Valentine's Day by mocking your past love-capades on your own blog, let me know! For Katr leaves me tomorrow afternoon and I will need to be distracted and amused come nightfall. Perhaps I'd better pick up some of those lesbian books you all recommended. And some Kleenex.

Creampuff BYOFs

  It was a crazy weekend of packing up and moving and trying out the new bed (oh, don't get all hot and bothered. After a day's worth of heavy lifting, the first few minutes on the new bed went something like "Oh YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAH!! Boom chicka zzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .")

Sunday afternoon we were headed back to the old place, as Katr had some work to do and the information superhighway wasn't hooked up at our new place. Katr had gone to collect the vehicle and I was headed to the "garbage room" on the main floor.

And so it was that I found myself alone on the elevator. And in that moment of quiet solitude, I let one rip.

It was fabric-rendingly loud and impossibly lengthy and I quietly said "HA ha!" to myself. "I christen thee, elevator!"

Nanoseconds later, it occurred to me that I hadn't really thought this through. I was alone in a slow-moving box with a limited air supply and I'd eaten vegan just a few nights before.

As the fumes threatened to overwhelm me, I considered getting off the elevator but realized that I couldn't. Our new building has a crazy fob system which allows you to get to your own floor, the lobby and your parking level but not any other. I pushed buttons in vain for a few seconds before I was faced with a new horror.

Sunday was the day of the condo Holiday Party, which, as the elevator newsletter informed me, Dave, Nick, Diane, Linda and Peggy all helped organize. The newsletter promised the most spectacular tree the lobby had ever seen! The party was BYOB, but not BYO Stench That Might End Lives. The party was meant to start in just a few minutes. Sweet Fancy Fruitcake - was this how I was going to meet my neighbours?

The floors ticked by so slowly that I seriously wondered my olfactory crime had caused the elevator to slip into a rift in the space/time continuum. Each time I perceived a slight pause in the elevator's movement, I imagined the doors opening and the building's residents piling in, laden down with macaroons and fruitcake. I imagined they would smile at me welcomingly until they realized what I had BYOF'd. Then the smiles would fade. Perhaps the elderly might black out entirely. And then, once the elevator doors opened on the main floor and we could all breathe free once more, the strong would help the weak to a lobby couch and the po po would be called. And no one would offer me fruitcake. NO FRUITCAKE FOR CREAMPUFF!!

I was startled out of my flight of nightmarish fancy by the elevator stopping. "Don't get on!" I cried out as the doors opened, "SAVE YOURSELVES!!" No one was there. I had made it to the lobby. As the air wooshed in and my head cleared, I exited the scene of the crime as fast as as my trembling legs would carry me and made my way down to the garbage room. Which was empty.

HA ha! I christen thee, Garbage Room!

Creampuff Enjoys Matters Historical

I'm a sucker for things historical. Slap an historical-sounding word front of it and I will be there. Historic Fort York? That's me with a musket. Lady Whosits Antique Spittoon and Nail Clipper exhibit? I'm first in line. Ye Olde Deepe Fried Mars Barre? Don't mind if I do!

I am locked in an eternal romance with the past; the romance part means that I can choose not to think about how people had a disturbing and constant level of b.o. and crapped in pots they kept under their beds. Actual history interests me too but sometimes I prefer to make shit up rather than rely on "facts". Facts are for the weak.

So when Katr and I were on our jaunt to the yarn store last weekend and zipped past Vancouver's historic Gastown on the bus, I knew I would have to visit. So yesterday I borrowed Katr's camera and walked down there to suss things out.

The first thing I noticed as I wandered towards the edge of Gastown is that historic Gastown is nuzzled right up against historic Cracktown. As Katr and I happened to spend some quality time at the epicentre of Cracktown waiting for a bus last Sunday, I wasn't worried. In fact, I was contemplating how extremely stoned people are probably the only people I can outrun when an older lady walking in front of me clutched her map, stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk, loudly exclaimed "Judy - this is the BAD AREA!" to her quilted jacket companion and then looked around fearfully. I heard Judy's sharp intake of breath as her friend pointed out a single drug addict quietly loping along on the other side of the street. "Get over it," I thought, "it's not like he's licking you."

And still savouring that smug feeling of touristic superiority, I took this picture:

I know, I know - even with a great camera, I'm still kind of a crappy photographer. This is one of those cool wedge-shaped buildings that invite you to poke your head into the alley behind them and discover magic shops and musty bookstores. I poked my head around and found a guy whizzing against a dumpster. I did not photograph the event.

But I did take a picture of the shop front on the first floor of the wedge-shaped building:

That's right - an ANTIQUE store. I hung out in there like a bad smell. Just trying to evoke the period.

My second stop was at the historic Gastown Steam Clock. The clock is supposed to run off steam from the city's underground pipes, which is cool and it was designed in 1875, which is also cool but it was actually built in 1977 and now runs on an electric motor, emitting steam just for show. 1977?? ELECTRIC MOTOR?? We're lining up to take pictures of something that's the same age as my BROTHER and doesn't even run on STEAM?? Naturally, I took a photo:

You can see the steam coming out of the clock. Jealous? While I was there, I took a photo of the historic Starbucks across the street:

My Olde Tyme Pumpkin Spice Latte was just like Great-great Grandma used to make. Also, it perked me up before the inevitable trip to:

That's what Canada is all about, people - hockey, maple syrup and salmon. I think the Starbucks may also have had a gift shop but my batteries were low. But not too low to get a shot of this:

Turns out Gastown is not an ideal place to take photos of the ocean or mountains, so this fish fountain is as close as I got. I'm hoping Katr and I can get one for our foyer!

I thoroughly enjoyed my stroll through Gastown's touristy cobblestone streets, reading historical plaques and even saw some non-tourist looking places. No yarn stores though. FOILED. Next time I promise ocean and mountains. In the meantime, I'd better get started on this Ye Olde Deepe Fried Mars Barre. 'Cause gang, it's not gonna eat itself.

Creampuff Cleans, Rewards Self with Disgusting Beverage

I haven't used a vacuum cleaner since 1996, when I borrowed the Winters College vacuum from the 3rd floor don to hoover my residence room before going home for the summer. I don't know who screamed more, the Hoover or me. I remember returning it to the don, who seemed perplexed.

Me: Here!

The Don: Umm . . . Ruth? (Ruth is not my name. The don had not bothered to learn my name, even though she was the DON and was SUPPOSED to know everyone's name AND even though we'd met several times in the hallway when I would emerge, furious, from my residence room in the wee hours to holler "Shut up, dons!" in the direction of her hard-partying room)

Me: YES?

The Don: Why is it . . . smoking?

Pause.

Me: It was like that when I got it.

Since then I've either lived in carpet-less homes or with roommates who didn't mind doing the vacuuming. I hate vacuuming. It's loud, the machine is heavy, the cord gets in your way.  Half the time the machine is so stopped up that you're not actually cleaning but are instead simply rubbing the carpet with a Bissell - it chaps my ass. I prefer cleaning toilets to vacuuming. But today, people - today I, Roro, new resident of Vancouver, Canada and horribly behind blogger, girded up my loins and plugged the vacuum in.

I'm telling you, I was like Donna Reed. But fatter and with more swearing.

The furnished apartment Katr and I are renting for now is very cute and in a trendy area but . . . wee. So wee that we have a double bed instead of a queen. Not a hardship for the svelte couple but for the creampuffs? Cozy. And yes, it's a little sexy to be right on top of each other - for about 12 seconds, which is when Katr was on the receiving end of my first accidental elbow to the schnozz, which she followed up by inadvertently clawing a section of skin off my leg with her marsupial-like toe claws. HOT.

The apartment is also largely carpeted. I was planning to ignore the carpet until civilization began to sprout up. And then I planned to beg Katr to vacuum. But today, when Katr made noises about the nasty state of the bathroom and Chgi offered me the option of a day light on Fringe stuff and heavy on whatever I wanted to do, my path was clear. I would clean the apartment. And as part of that cleaning, I would  . . . gah . . . vacuum.

In preparation for this task, I stopped at the local Shoppers Drug Mart, where I purchased this:

I suppose that the Fringe tour has caused me to miss all sorts of developments in the cola wars, but I was shocked that no one had seen fit to alert me to Diet Pepsi Jazz Strawberries n' Cream. As soon as I saw the label, I knew I was in for a craptastic beverage experience. And I COULDN'T WAIT.

I saved the vacuuming until last; even the toilet was meticulously scrubbed for several minutes as I avoided the inevitable. But eventually there was nothing else to do but crank the Eurythmics and haul out the Bissell.

I plugged it in. And then I spent about 20 minutes trying to remember how to get the upright vacuum to lean back instead of standing straight up (hint: there's a pedal). Then I spent a further 20 minutes trying to find the "ON" switch (hint: it's next to the leany backy pedal).

The machine roared to life and I proceeded to vigorously . . . rub the carpet with it. This thing picked up carpet detritus like I pick up chicks (i.e. not since 2003). The headlight on the front of it mocked me as it pointed out the same crumb again and again until I gave up and just picked the fucking thing up by hand. I knew that the dust bag was probably stuffed full, but I just got over my summer allergies and didn't want to experience them all over again by emptying the bag.

We all make choices, people. And today, my choice ended up being that I Swiffered the carpet. And it looks FABULOUS.

Vacuuming finished, I sat down to blog and enjoy my Diet Pepsi Jazz Strawberries n' Cream. As expected, it's totally gross and yet . . . oddly compelling. Will I buy it again?  WILL I VACUUM AGAIN? History will decide.

Creampuff Sport Nostalgia

Not a lot of people know this, but I was almost solely responsible for the Edmonton Oilers winning the Stanley Cup in 1985.

I was 10 years old and had been reading a book about spells and witchcraft during the playoffs. So when it came time for the deciding game between the Edmonton Oilers and the Philadelphia Flyers, I knew that all it would take to put the Oilers over the edge was a good defensive line and some wicked hexing.

I had obtained a mini-puck bearing the Flyers logo from a Happy Meal and it formed a central part of my hexing set up. The other ingredients of my ritual were:

• Herbs (from an herbal tea bag I had ripped open)
• A small flashlight (as a pyrophobic, I didn't mess with matches)
• Sugar-free Lime Kool-Aid (to immerse the mini-puck)
• Sugar-free Grape Kool-Aid (for my refreshment)

When the game started, I made sure I was in the living room, where a Stanley Cup final-watching party was in progress. I let the Flyers skate around the ice for awhile, unsuspecting. I wanted them to get a little cocky before I took them down. A few minutes into the first period, I slipped away to begin.

First, I lowered the vinyl black-out blind in my room. Then I turned off my light. Then I turned my light on again, because I couldn't find my flashlight. Then I turned my light back off and turned on the flashlight. I carefully sprinkled the "herbs" into the Kool-Aid, all the while chanting "Mmm-mmm-OIL-ers, mmm-mmm-OIL-ers" in a deep, pagan voice. And then I slowly lowered the Flyers mini-puck into the herbed Lime Kool-Aid. I heard it sizzle as it dropped into my "potion" and I pushed it down with my fingers. As the Flyers logo disappeared beneath the dirty Kool-Aid, I changed my chant to the following:

You are blind, you cannot see
You will lose, because of me.

You are blind, you cannot see
You will lose to Wayne Gretz-ky.

I kept this up for several minutes. Occasionally, I would waggle the flashlight into the water, to further disorient the hapless Philadelphia Flyers. Soon, the Flyer logo began to peel and I slowly stripped the gummy sticker bits off the puck with my fingernails, a little at a time. I didn't want to go too fast; I knew the importance of an exciting game.

Every now and then, I would wipe my wrinkly, Lime Kool-Aid fingers off on my pants and pop out to the living room to see if my hard hex work was paying off. Also, the living room was where the cheeseballs were and I could never stay away from cheeseballs for long. After a particularly rigorous bout of hexing, I emerged to find the Oilers had scored a goal! The others pumped their fists in the air and cheered - I merely nodded sagely and mainlined cheeseballs. I would need my strength for the third period.

My tongue was purple and my hands were green by the time the game ended. But the Oilers had won!! And it was pretty clear why. I considered writing them a letter to let them know how I'd clinched the Stanley Cup for them in only 5 games, but then decided that to do so would be to out myself as a witch. And outing yourself . . .that can be a big commitment. So I settled for remarking to my dad "It's a good thing the Oilers had a little witch looking for them, huh?" And my dad said "What's all that green stuff on your carpet, honey?"

I've never been a big hockey fan. I'm just not that kind of lesbian. And while the IDEA of women playing hockey is awesome, really, in the end, it's just hockey - with chicks. And sure, our orange and blue dining room and our orange and blue kitchen tile COULD be construed as an homage to the Oiler logo, though that certainly wasn't our intent.

But when I see how excited the fans in my hometown are over the Oilers making it to the Stanley Cup final . . . when I hear them belt out The Star-Spangled Banner as a show of support and hospitality to the visiting 'Canes . . . when I reflect on how at least they didn't loot my dad's office on Whyte Ave after the most recent victory . . . when 'Canes fan Ron shares HIS delicious pre-game rituals . . .it makes me want to hit the Fresh Mart for some Lime Kool-Aid and a flashlight. Because even if I don't actually live there any more, the Edmonton Oilers are my home team. And because win or lose - I support the home team.

Also, if the Oilers win, it'll really piss off Calgary. HA ha!!

In completely unrelated to hockey news, Chgi and I have started our daily posting over on the 87% True: The Lies that Bind blog. Scintillating car insurance tales, lines left on the cutting room floor, photos of our promo buttons and, of course, the running Slurpee count; killing time on a Monday just got easier.