Creampuff Revolution

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.

Creampuff Shares a Little Too Much About Her Brother on His Birthday

  Not only is today my wonderful brother Jaro's birthday, but I discovered, over at Super Babymama, that it is ALSO Blog For Radical Fun day! Talk about your perfect timing.

Am I a radical . . . anything? Well, I'm a lesbian who's not ashamed to be fat and speaks openly about her donut fetish, so that's a start. My brother Jaro, though, is an actual activist. He organizes, demonstrates, educates and makes a mean tofu curry. So in honour of Jaro's birthday coinciding with Blog For Radical Fun day, I thought I would share one of my favourite stories about my radical brother engaging in fun.

Jaro's first form of resistance was nudity. As a young child, like 3 or 4 years old, he found clothing binding, uncomfortable and unnecessary. He would frolic in the buff at every opportunity and played for hours wearing only the thick, horn-rimmed glasses Mom strapped to his head with an elastic.

We lived in a very kid-friendly neighbourhood growing up and Jaro's childhood best friend, Trla, lived across the street, so in the summer months, it was not uncommon to see the two boys streaking about - joyfully, shamelessly - in various states of undress. Not wanting to oppress him, our mom was totally relaxed with the nudity, but she did try and slap a bathing suit on him if Jaro was leaving the house/backyard. Sometimes, however, Jaro was just too quick for her.

And so it came to pass that one fine afternoon, Jaro nudely beetled across the street to play with Trla. This was not the first time my brother had showed up naked at Trla's house, but Trla's mom, Dela, was fun and crazy (in a great way) and didn't care. However, on that particular afternoon, Dela (who, I found out in my adulthood, happens to be the sister of a crazy right-wing shitslice and politician here in Canada - I'm not going to tell you his name, but it RHYMES with Bockwell Bay), was having a few people over for a tea on her back patio.  In the interests of propriety, Dela pleasantly pointed out to Jaro that she was having a tea party and that Jaro was welcome to come back and play if he wanted to go home first and "dress up" for the party. "Okay!" said Jaro excitedly and trotted back across the street to our house.

A few minutes later, Jaro returned to Dela's house . . . wearing one of my sundresses and no ginch. Jaro was kind of a literal child and when Dela told him to dress up, naturally he put on a dress.

"Is that your sister's dress?" Dela asked him.

"Yes!" my brother said brightly, mooning Dela's guests once more as he clambered into the turtle pool with my dress up around his waist.

"Well," said Dela, "it's very nice."

I was reminiscing about this story with my mom awhile back. I was surprised to discover that she had never heard it and had no idea Jaro had worn my dress to Dela's tea party. But she DID remember the day it happened. Jaro came tearing into the house and announced that "I need to wear one of Roro's dresses!" And my mom said, "Which one?" I love that it did not occur to my mom to a) tell my brother that "dresses are for GIRLS" or b) ask him why he wanted to wear a dress. She just helped him pick a dress that brought out the colour of his eyes and sent him back out to play. My mom is a radical too.

It just goes to show - you can never tell which of your children will turn out to be the gay one.

Anyway - happy birthday, Jaro! I hope it's the best ever! And your present is in the works.

Creampuff is Technologically Inept

A couple of days ago, I was having a little trouble with the important "start-up" and "shut down" functions of my laptop. Somehow, in all my angry clicking, bitchy admonissions and insistent key pressing, I managed to convince my laptop that the internet didn't exist.

It's not that the internet "connection" wasn't working - it was that my laptop refused to acknowledge that it had the hardware necessary to even begin to look for an internet connection. Sort of how I've managed to convince Katr that I don't have the hardware necessary to take out the garbage.

I'm not going to lie to you. I had a little cry. Then I briefly considered calling Katr at work, before I remembered that:

a) She's super busy right now; 

b) Nothing stresses her out more than trying to solve my often-self-inflicted computer problems OVER THE PHONE in the middle of the workday; and

c) I want her to continue loving me.

So I put down the phone and gave myself a stern talking to. I'm a smart woman. I've been using computers half my life. I even wrote a "joke" program in sixth grade in Academic Challenge! I have the manuals from when we bought this computer. I can figure this out.

The manuals were real useful. My favourite part was how they kept referring me to the company's website for further information on how to solve my "no internet" problems. Kind of like when phone companies tell you to call for service when your line is dead or when literacy campaigns have big billboards that say "Can't Read?" There was nothing for it. I needed a computer whiz.

Before I shacked up with Katr, I considered my brother Jaro my computer whiz. He took a course and stuff and several subsequent computer whiz activities convinced me of his technical aptitude.

For one thing, Jaro was the first to show me the miracle of "wallpaper" for your desktop. I was still working in WordPerfect 5.1 (DOS, you guys - DOS) and was ignorant to the possibilities of wallpaper. I didn't know, for instance, that you could take almost any image off the internet (including production stills of Mary Stuart Masterson) and have it grace your desktop. Jaro likes to make a splash with his technical discussions, so for this first wallpaper demo, we went to a gay porn site called "Boys of Summer" (I'd link, but it doesn't appear to exist any more. Sorry, Drew). There we located a photo of a young man called "Darryl", who was nude, reclining, and gripping his business like he was trying to get a sound out of it. Score! 

Jaro worked his magic and all of a sudden, the computer's desktop was tiled with Darryl and his schlong. We laughed delightedly at the wonder of technology. Then, since we were using our parents' computer, Jaro showed me another vital tool - deleting the history on your browser, so that no one knew how much time you were spending at Boys of Summer or Beaver Palace or what have you. Sibling assistance at its finest, people. Jaro and I puttered around on the information superhighway some more and then toddled off to bed.

We awoke to our mother's startled shrieks the next morning. It seems she'd turned on her computer and instead of her cool blue goddess imagery, she was greeted by ol' Darryl and his man-meat. Jaro rocketed into the room to remove the offending wallpaper and explain to my mom that it was him and not a marauding porn virus who had transformed her desktop from Soothing Sanctuary to Reggie's Cock Emporium. She had a good laugh . . . and then changed all her passwords.

I decided, based largely on the enjoyable Boys of Summer reminiscing, that Jaro was the guy who could help me solve my internet problem - or at least look stuff up on the website for me. He lives in California and I have a mental block about his phone number. But no worries, I thought, I have his number . . . in my e-mail.  Oh, goddamn it. FOILED!!

In the end, of course, I waited until Katr got home. And then I told her a long, rambling story about what had gone on with my computer, including what I had for breakfast, what the fish had for breakfast, what epithets I had spewed at the laptop and how I really didn't want to bother her with it, especially at work and I really made an effort to figure it out for myself. She listened patiently to my gripping, tangential narrative and resisted just grabbing me by the collar and saying "What HAPPENED? Did you spill your breakfast on it? Did you stick a knife into the keyboard? Did you drop it in the fish tank? WHAT??"

And then she fixed it. Because she is my computer whiz. And that, I sighed blissfully, as I restored my Mary Stuart Masterson wallpaper, is LOVE.

Creampuff Misses Her Own Damn Blogoversary

Okay, folks, you can all exhale.  Katr and I finally tried the $10 "1848" chocolate bar and I want you to know that we considered all of your helpful comments and suggestions (except "leaving it on Melissa's desk" - nice try, Melissa - and the "ageing it further" idea of Julian's - as Katr said, this chocolate's been around since 1848. It has had its time).  We tried it on a Sunday afternoon, in case it was laced with drugs. There was red wine nearby (for the antioxidants, you understand). We had took our pants off, in case it was JUST THAT GOOD. We bit into it gingerly, in case it had gold nuggets in it. We closed our eyes and prepared for fireworks.

Meh. It was alright. As Marni commented, despite being from the Fresh Mart, not so fresh (even with our pants off). Also, it was a good thing that Katr had (mostly) forgiven me for flirting with that babe I've had a 12 year crush on (the babe in question also gave me her card, which I now sleep with under my pillow - shhhhh . . .) 'cause the $10 bar of chocolate had the heft of a brick and those hazelnut chunks were sharp.  They could CUT you, man. I think you know what I'm saying.

Other notable things accomplished since the chocolate bar purchase include:

1. Seeing my first inflatable lawn Easter Bunnies. Like I said before with the giant inflatable Thanksgiving lawn turkeys, it's shit like this that makes America great.  We went down to Pennsylvania this last weekend to visit Katr's cute and ailing grandmother in the hospital and saw several variations of the giant inflatable lawn Easter Bunny. My absolute favourite was a giant inflatable yellow chick DRESSED IN A BUNNY OUTFIT. When we go down again in a couple of weeks for Easter, I hope to get a photo. Stay tuned.

2. Assuring Katr's cute and ailing grandma that Katr and I are "just good friends". The woman is cute and nearly 90 and was in the hospital. She doesn't need to know that Katr and Roro, her "roommate and good friend who regularly attends family functions and occasionally grabs Katr's ass when she thinks no one's looking" do more than vacuum the rug in our shared living arrangement. The awesome part is that we're pretty sure Grandma's very sweet and lovely roommate in the hospital, whose name rhymes with "Beona", clocked us lesbians mere minutes into our visit. Beona watches Will & Grace. Beona knew.

3. Finishing my dad's birthday silk and tweed scarf, as well as a baby hat for my cousin, then forgetting to photograph them before mailing. FOILED!  By MYSELF! Dagnabbit. Fortunately, my mother informed me that she got my dad a digital camera for his birthday, so I'm hoping he'll take pictures and send them to me as soon as he figures out how to use it. No pressure, Dad.

4. Pumping gas for the first time. Shut up.

5. Finishing a big collaborative grant application which I dropped off today and then made the guy at the desk date-stamp in front of me because I am paranoid and refuse to have a possible 5 months of income, working on a project I love, compromised by a clerical mishap.

I was so pleased with having finished this grant application that, when I went to pick up some stuff at the Body Shop after, I accidently squirted Strawberry flavoured lotion on my hands instead of the slightly classier "Olive". I then had to walk all the way home, which included stopping at the butcher, the Baskin Robbins and the beer store, smelling like Strawberry Shortcake had shat on my hands. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the screaming. I think it was me.

6. Missing my own damn blogoversary. I knew it was sometime in March and I was right! It was the 13th! I wasn't planning on doing any kind of retrospective or anything, but I did want to mark it somehow. You know, like, with a post maybe. Since, as it turns out, I've only posted 105 times in 365 days. I know, I know - WEAK. Clearly, I need to step up my game. Fortunately, my previous 105 posts have been PURE INTERNET GOLD. HA ha!! So, you know - I can build on that.

And so I use this occasion of my belated blogoversary to wish all of you kind readers, commenters, lurkers, occasional visitors, critics and stumblers upon my blog due to key word combos like "fish tank tits", peace. And love. And cheap, delicious chocolate. The kind you need to take your pants off for.

Creampuff Birthday

Well, folks, I woke up this morning and was no longer 30. Which is cool, because now that I'm 31, it means I'm one year closer to 32.  I've always felt that 32 was going to be a strangely magical year. I'm not sure why - I don't remember being 2 and being 12 and 22 both kinda blew . . . but something about 32 feels good, guys. I'll let you know how it plays out.

In honour of my birthday (and because I'm really hungry. 'cause I'm waiting for Jeba, whose birthday is also today, to call and tell me where we're having co-birthday brunch), I thought I'd spend a little time reminiscing. About the great cakes I have known.

The Flower Cake:  My mom made me a cake in the shape of a flower. It looked like one of those '70's cartoon flower power flowers with a round centre and big fat petals.  I believe the icing was green and yellow and I loved it.  Not only was it delicious, but the fact that it was a CAKE? In the shape of a FLOWER? BLEW MY FUCKING MIND. I was five.

The Graffiti Cake:  I think this was actually my friend Juwi's birthday in junior high. Her mom baked a cake in a large rectangular pan, iced it with vanilla icing and then gave us all a bunch of different coloured icings and cake decorating apparatus and told us to go nuts.  We did. That cake was a mess - slanderous "J + A = 4ever" type messages, sheep, stick drawings of people we hated (it WAS junior high, after all).  It was awesome.  And then, instead of cutting pieces of the take, we each took a fork and dug in.  We all agreed later that it was "a very primal experience".

The Garrison Keillor Quote Cake: In my teenage attempt to buck trends, I informed my parents that I did not want "Happy Birthday, Roro" on my 17th birthday ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. They were cool with it. "How about 'Eat Me, Bob'?" my dad suggested. I was instantly taken with it. As the cake orderer, however, my mother was unwilling to call the nice Korean lady at the Dairy Queen and tell her to put "Eat Me, Bob" on a birthday cake. "What ELSE would you like on your cake?" she asked me. I had just finished reading WLT: A Radio Romance and chose the first quote from the book that came to mind.  WLT was pretty funny - but it did not in any way match the enjoyment I got from listening to my mother explain to the nice Korean lady at Dairy Queen that her daughter wanted a cake that said "Smells Like Death on a Bun." 

The 18th Birthday Cake:  For my 18th birthday, my cake said "Eat Me, Bob".

The Cheese Cake: On my 26th birthday, I was heavily into the protein diet. You're not really allowed sugar on this diet. I was, in fact, on such a roll with it that I informed my roommate Jesk that I did not want a cake for my birthday, as it might throw me off my insane diet plan. Jesk is a respectful lass, but does not believe in fucking with tradition. She decided that I must have a cake. And when I got home that day, she had put together a cake - out of cheese. By which I mean she had bought brie, gouda, cheddar and that foil-wrapped cow cheese, arranged it into a cake shape and stuck some sparklers in it.  I laughed at this cake until tears ran down my cheeks. And then I ate a lot of cheese.

The Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake is my cake o' choice these days. Dense - delicious - delightful. I have a feeling I may be experiencing one later this evening, when a certain girlfriend comes home from work. I don't want to put any pressure on you, Katr - but a cake with a Brokeback Valley theme would certainly make an impression. 'Cause nothing gets this birthday girl going like soft mounds. Uh . . . of ice cream.

Creampuff Does Some Monday Fish Blogging

Okay.  I've had the same Ben Harper song on repeat all ding dong day and I think it's time I took a break and did some Monday fish blogging.

If I had cute and/or self-loving cats like Winter and New York Ex, I would gladly join the Friday cat blogging movement.  But Katr and I have fish and we all know that cats and fish get along like me and Janeane Garofalo.  Cats (me) LOVE fish (Janeane), maybe a little TOO much.  Fish fear cats, and with good reason. (Pssst, Janeane - call me!)

We recently moved our two gigantic goldfish from a much-too-small tank to this palatial, 20 gallon hexagonal tank.  Note the classy ruins and bubbling pagoda; we do not discriminate against kitsch from any nation.  Once again, however, Katr vetoed my request to have a saxophone-playing skeleton as the bubble element.

Me:  But you LOVE jazz!

Katr:  No.

Me:  We could call him "Bones"!

Katr: NO.

I grudgingly admit that she was probably right.  These fish sure seem to love that pagoda.  I have yet to see them do a scene from Antigone near the Greek ruins but I swear I caught them in front of the pagoda performing a series of tableaux vivants from Intrigues in the Qing Imperial Court.  This is a vast improvement over their former pastimes in the small tank, which were basically: 

• Waiting for me to feed them;
• Eating;
• Diligently sucking on all the rocks for any food they might have missed; and
• Attempting to eat anything else floating around in the tank, including the products of digestion.

Sparkle (the lithe, bigger fish) and Oscar (the pudgy, waggly fish) are cute and sometimes, like right now, they kiss!  But they are not what you would call "learning robots" and I must say, their attempted crap-eating shenanigans provided endless entertainment.  You could actually see the single gear turning in their little fish heads over and over again: "Heeeeey! Food!  Right on!  I'm gonna snag a little bite of THIS yumminess and aaaaaaa!  AAAAAAAAAH!!  Ptui! Ptui!  I ate crap!  I ate crahahahahaaaaaap!  EWWWWwww . . . GOD, that was so disGUS - heeey!  Food! FanTAStic!  Let me just sidle up to this delicious morsel and AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Ah, silly, crap-eating fish.  Good times. 

You know when you're having nostalgia for those crap-eating fish times, you've been listening to Ben Harper for a little too long.  Clearly, it's time for Shawn Colvin.

Creampuff Cleanse

As part of our vow to make healthier choices in 2006, Katr and I briefly considered starting out the year with a fast.  You know, a cleansing sort of fast.  A lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup kind of fast, you know, to really purify ourselves.  I remember a friend of mine, Garo, being on this fast several years ago and he swore by it.  I also remember going shopping with Garo at West Edmonton Mall while he was on the fast and wanting to punch his lights out because he was so tired and whiny.  Looking back, Garo's whining wasn't just the fast talking but still - it wasn't pretty.

My own experience with fasting (barring a strange starvation "diet" I imposed on myself in Grade 7 for about two weeks) has been minimal; I have, in fact, only sincerely attempted fasting once.

Back when I used to obsess about my weight in order to avoid actually living my life (oh, to have that time back, people), I was on the Protein Power diet, which is similar to Atkins - lots of protein, very low carb.  I was pretty successful on the Protein Power plan, unless you count the times I would freak out and spend the weekend eating my weight in pie (which happened about every three weeks).  After a rare period of pie-free activity, however, I found that my progress had "stalled" and someone on the Protein Power message boards suggested I might break on through to the other side by trying the Atkins "fat fast".

The fat fast is basically this: you eat 1,000 calories a day, with 75 percent to 90 percent comprised of fat. I KNOW - fantastic, right?  A thousand calories a day! That's hardly a fast at all!

I beetled off to the grocery store and stocked up on the required fat fast food items: macadamia nuts, cream cheese, beef patties, brie and spinach (I added the spinach myself - the all fat all the time idea kinda freaked me out).  Then I set out on my three day odyssey to overcome metabolic resistance.

Day 1:

Breakfast:  Beef patty, spinach, coffee.  So far so good!

2nd breakfast: Ounce macadamia nuts, ounce Brie.  Not hungry at all.  Love the fat fast.

Lunch: Ounce tuna, two tsp mayo served in quarter of avocado.  How delicious and fatterific.

2nd lunch:  Ounce macadamia nuts. Starting to feel faint and dizzy.  Better drink some water. And have another snack.

3rd lunch: Ounce Brie, more water. Still feel a little woozy. Maybe I'll lie down.

4th lunch (about 20 minutes after 3rd lunch): Entire bin of macadamia nuts. Entire brick cream cheese.  Rest of triangle Brie. All remaining avocado. Ounce spinach.

Dinner:  Pie.

Clearly, fasting - not so much for me.  If I can't make it through a day of fat "fasting", no way I'll make it through a week of lemon juice, cayenne pepper and maple syrup.  Fortunately, over the weekend, Katr and I discovered an alternative to the fasting kind of cleanse when we made up a pot of "stew" consisting mainly of cabbage and chick peas.  I'm telling you, if we could feed this stew to all the world leaders, there would be no war.  Because they'd all be in the bathroom 75 to 90 percent of the time.

Creampuff Sees Her Future

Oh, guys.  Victoria, B.C. makes me want to move there, buy a basset hound and a Lay-z-boy couch, open a fancy tea shop/brew pub/batik nook, then spend my days trotting about an oceanview park with the hound and (I must make room for my new love) knitting.  It is NICE there.  The fresh ocean air rid both Katr and I of our tubucular morning hacking (we don't smoke or anything - it's just the dry air and smog combo here in T.O.) and I had the BEST EGGNOG LATTE EVER at the Java & Juice on Douglas Street.  My breathing quickens even now as I think about it - although that might just be my arteries hardening.

I always imagine that the holidays will last much longer than they actually do.  Maybe it's a throw-back to school and university, when we got the better part of a month off and I would spend nearly 3 weeks at home, frolicking with the fam, making anatomically correct gingerbread moose, visiting with friends home from their schools; by the time the 3 weeks were over, I was recharged and ready to return to the grind.  Now that 3 weeks has shrunk to about 6 days.  Being a grown-up blows.

Fortunately, Victoria is one of the nicest places to spend those 6 days (or, really 4.5 days, if you count travel time).  The condo my folks arranged for us all to stay in was ridiculous in its gorgeousness and right near the Inner Harbour and downtown. It was about 10 degrees outside and delightfully fresh the whole time we were there.  My hair may have been frizzy, but my skin felt great.

Despite the relative lack of crunchy pagan activities, we did have a lovely Solstice this year (thanks for all your "Happy Solstices" - hope yours were great too!) Since we're all trying to cut down on "stuff", we decided to give gifts to various charities. My brother donated to a cool theatre group at UC Santa Cruz, my parents donated a whack of food to a village in need and Katr and I bought a family some chickens and vitamin sprinkles for kids through WorldVision Canada.  Katr's brother even got in on the act and donated to women's causes in Katr's and my name. It was good times and I highly recommend it.  Unfortunately, we found the "donation-only" model a bit too strict for us this year, so we ended up exchanging presents as well.  But next year, I tell you, next year . . . nah, we'll probably do the same thing next year.  I like presents.  But at least next year, everyone will probably get something I've "knitted".

Yep.  There were knitting needles, some yarn and copies of Yarn Harlot and Stitch n' Bitch under the makeshift tree this year and I am become a knitter.  Or rather, I WILL become one once I've mastered "purling".  So far, I haven't figured it out.  But when I do, you'll know, because I'll probably post pictures of it.  I also notice that Stitch n' Bitch didn't contain a section on "survival knitting" or any instructions for creating your own yarn from nettles, but I'm hoping to learn that kind of stuff at the knitting class Katr signed me up for later this month.  The class is held in Kensington Market (a hippy enclave, for you out-of-towners).  If anyone can teach me to make garments from plant fibres, it's the fine folks at Lettuce Knit.  Place your orders now.