Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Apologizes for Truffleus Interruptus

I've been quite pleased with my rate of posting the last week or two - smug even. A post nearly every day? Suck it, NaBloPoMo! And then . . . came then.

We took on a new client late last week and they needed some stuff done fast. We promised we could deliver pure internet GOLD (and we are) but it means that we're working into the wee hours and getting up again before the wee hours are fully grown. We haven't cleaned the kitchen since Sunday, the dog keeps making sad, lonely noises and most importantly (and perhaps shockingly), we HAVEN'T HAD TRUFFLES IN DAYS.

That's right - I haven't been holding out on you. We have not had the time to savour our wedding truffles since Sunday.

We're getting a little punchy.

I feel like I'm back in university, studying for finals or finishing an overdue paper, awash with coffee, trying to keep a lid on the heartburn, wondering who's humming that annoying song and then realizing it's ME. Oh, and speaking of songs - have you ever had it happen where you really enjoy listening to a song but the singer is a little muffled or has an accent and so you only catch a few of the lyrics and it's not until you've heard it 12 or 15 times in three days that you look it up online and realize the slightly mournful song you've been enjoying is actually about some poor woman getting terrorized then murdered by a prowler at night?  Yeah. Me too.

On the plus side, the stuff we're working on is about Halloween costumes. Fun! And a lot of them look like this:

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaah!! That's right. Shiver me timbers! I hope I don't get a rash.

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 and Dog Share Another Magic Thursday

Okay, okay. Three dog posts in a row. But that's IT, I swear.

The pants of our condo building are fancy. But the surrounding neighbourhood is a little sketchalicious. Buildings are boarded up. Folks sleep in the parks. Everyone seems to have their own shopping cart. There's a lot of free buttcrack. Regular crack, though - not free. Well - maybe your first time.

Walking the dog for a couple of hours a day means that we get to meet alot of the people in our neighbourhood, just like on Sesame Street. Sometimes, the dog and I accidentally stumble into people's homes, many of which are under trees. Emmy Lou is a big hit with the park people, because she likes to sniff them but resists being stroked. They respect her aloofness, I think. Also, how could they help but love her? She is a cute noodle.

After an incident yesterday morning when Emmy widdled on some cranky man's shopping cart, she and I decided to eschew our usual afternoon park promenade and sample the delights of the Keefer Place parkette, which is in a slightly fancier area and which features lots of beautiful trees and shrubbery and private little nooks. There is a lovely stream-like fountain meandering down the hill. There are grassy slopes and lots of places to sit. We were pretty excited to check it out.

It may surprise you to learn that I don't see a lot of penis in my day to day doings. But yesterday, Emmy and I were both treated to some free wang with some bonus hairy ass on the side, all with the soothing sound of flowing water in the background. I have to say that if I wanted to smoke crack or wave my cock around outdoors, I'd do it in the bucolic setting of the Keefer Place parkette too. Pretty much everywhere we went, people were enjoying a recreational pharmaceutical experience or whizzing against a tree. Emmy joined in enthusiastically.

As we reached the other end of the park, we ran into the people we thought we'd see in this area. They were huddled together in fear of the riff-raff - slim ladies with their pugs on extenda-leashes in one hand and Starbucks coffee drinks in the other. It was at the feet of one of these ladies that Emmy decided it was time to crap heavily. Shockingly, we made no friends in that part of the park.

Emmy passed out when we got home and I was glad, for it was time for me to try leaving her alone again, which I haven't done since last Thursday when I locked myself out of the house. As usual, I'd left an application until the last minute and I had to dash for the post-office in order to get it in on time. Emmy barely raised her head when I left and I congratulated myself on bringing my keys this time.

I got up to the post office only to discover that I had missed the driver and could no longer send an envelope over night. FOILED!! Furious with myself, I swore all the way home while trying to decide the best course of action. Should I hike all the way to the FedEx place downtown? Should I just give it up and try not to be such a procrastinating dork next time? How long had the dog been alone? What did that guy with the shopping cart just say about my shoes?

As I rounded the corner onto my street, I saw a UPS van. UPS had fucked us Wednesday by not showing up for a pick-up. The package was upstairs, in our condo. I suddenly had a brilliant idea.

Habib the UPS driver didn't really want to wait for me to go upstairs and come back down with the package and THEN wait for me to fill out a waybill for my envelope. But he was a good, kind man. I flew fatly into our building and burst into our apartment, greatly upsetting the dog as I snatched the UPS-bound package and took off again. Minutes later, Habib drove off with my two packages and I congratulated myself on being a FUCKING GENIUS. I strode triumphantly up to the door of our building and pressed the button on my key fob to get in. Then I pressed it again. Then I went to the other door and pressed it. Then I pressed it again.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" said Katr, as I called her at work to tell her that for the second week in a row I had locked myself out and the dog in. "Excuse me for just a sec - I'm going to need to call the Incredulity Hotline."

"It's not my fault!" I said, "it's the fob! The fob's not fucking working! And at least I have my cellphone this time!"

"The Incredulity Hotline's got me on hold. Can you believe it?"

As I settled down to wait for Katr to come home - EARLY - I was subject to alot of suspicious glances from the other residents of our building. None of them looked me in the eye, even the ones I'd seen before. And they were all extremely careful to make sure that they closed the door behind them so that I couldn't follow them inside. At first I didn't think much of it - I can't get up to our floor without the key fob anyway, so merely getting into the lobby was of no use to me. But it slowly began to dawn on me that they were afraid. Afraid that the sweaty, wild-eyed creampuff with the dirty feet and the novelty purse was sitting dangerously close to the door. Afraid that if they let their guard down, I might get in and fill my shopping cart with the contents of their homes.

I was tempted to rush the door, just to see what would happen. But before I could choose the right victim, Katr strolled into view and halted my nefarious plans.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Sooo, uh . . . is this going to be a weekly thing?"

"You like it."

So for the next 5 weeks anyway, it seems our Thursdays will go like this:

• Roro locks herself out of the goddamn apartment
• Emmy tries to eat the pug at dog obedience class
• Katr and I celebrate with take-out from the Trutch St. Swiss Chalet

It's going to be a fabulous summer.

Creampuff's Dog is Not a Crystal Swan

Yes, that's right. Two dog posts in a row. You like it.

We have our first dog obedience class tonight and I can tell by the way Emma's licking herself that she's excited. I think it will be a fitting end to what has already been a VERY confusing day for young Emmy Lou Hairy.

We're trying to get into a routine with her around feeding and walking but for a variety of reasons, that was all shot to hell today and we were wingin' it.

First of all, her foster mom told us that Emma LOVES a ride in the car. Emma has never been in our car before though, and I thought that it might be smart to have a dry run before we try to stuff her in there tonight on the way to class. So Emma and I went down to the parking garage where we spent the better part of a delightful hour getting in and out of the car with the car blanket, without the car blanket, under the car blanket, etc. I think we both had the hang of it by the end. She christened the car by shaking her fur all over it. Katr will be so pleased.

The first dog class is supposed to be dog-free but since we hadn't tried leaving Emma alone too much yet, we asked if we could bring her along. The teacher agreed, hence the practice with the car. But a couple of hours after our fun with the car, I thought I would step outside the apartment for a minute, just to see what the dog did.

She watched me walk over the door and started to follow me as I went through and shut it behind me. I heard her little claws on the tile as she snuffled around the bottom of the door. She didn't bark or whine or paw the door, though, which was great. "Good girl," I thought, encouragingly. After counting to 60, I went to go back in again.

That's when I realized I had locked myself out of our condo.

Ha ha ha. Shitballs.

I double checked my pockets for the things I had been carrying in there earlier in the day that would have been helpful at this juncture: keys, $12, my cellphone. All I had in there was a wadded up paper towel left over from a failed attempt to clean the dog's ears this morning and a half a pork-flavoured DentaStix (no ear cleaning, no treat). Fortunately, I also had one other thing up my sleeve. Katr's number at work, which I miraculously had memorized. Hurray! Hurray for my brain!

Katr's a very patient lass, especially, as it turns out, when it comes to me and this dog. As the Feminist Mafia said of her pooch Nora in the last comments, this dog is kind of kicking my ass and in my attempts to tire her out, I'm tiring myself out and also forgetting to eat and then getting upset and bawling because I'm so hungry and tired and annoyed about how when we're out on the leash, the dog keeps testing me to see who's in charge and it's exhausting (sounds of quiet weeping). Ah ah ah, ladies, hold yourselves back - I'm taken.

I'm sure it was a real treat for Katr to be on the other end of the call I made from the building caretaker's office informing her that I had locked myself out and the dog in. She was very good and hopped on the Skytrain to bring me her keys so that I could rescue the dog I had abandoned. We sat on the platform at the Skytrain for awhile, as I geared myself up to return to our possibly frantic pooch. I wondered what I might find when I opened the door.  Continuous barking? Claw marks of the door? The dog is a defecational prodigy - would she have offered a demonstration on the rug?

The answer, of course, is none of the above. I got back up to our floor and heard some piteous whining coming from behind our door. When I let myself in, Emma greeted me with more whining and some attempted jumping up, but all in all, it was quite civilized. And minutes later, it was as if nothing had ever happened.

So it turns out melle was right. The dog is not a crystal swan. Mistakes have been made, but so far nothing's broken and we'll get this all figured out.

And we'll never go out without the keys again, will we Emma? Will we? Hmm? Will we, girl? No, we won't, will we?

Good dog.

Bucolic Creampuff

As everyone knows, I love being outside. And by "love", I mean "LOVE". And by "outside", I mean "indoors".

So it was a big surprise to me when we moved to Vancouver and I suddenly started to enjoy being in Nature. Not "prefer", mind you. I'm not some hippy freak. But "enjoy".

In the hopes of furthering that enjoyment (and getting more out of our second balcony, the door to which we generally keep closed so that dust doesn't blow in and fucker up our glorious t.v.), I got it into my head that I'd like to do some balcony gardening. My parents had a beautiful garden in the backyard while I was growing up and at the time, I fought like hell to avoid leaving the cool refuge of the basement. But now, in my dotage, I remember these pots and plants with great fondness. So while they were here visiting last weekend, I took my parents to Home Depot and they gots me some plants. And then I PUT MY HANDS IN DIRT. I really felt Gaia's power as I plunged my hands deep into the potting soil. Then I smelled Gaia. I'm not going to lie to you. She was a little ripe.

Beautiful faux-cotta pots. Jealous?

Shhh . . . the periwinkle is sleeping.

I'm taking your "part sun, part shade" handle seriously here, bougainvillea. Don't screw me.

It was raining when I started my gardening efforts but when it ended, the sun came out to reward me! I took some photos of the finished faux-cotta with the evening sunshine bright upon me.

As a first time gardener, I am nervous about my new vegetation and have been watching the pots quite closely over the last few days. So you can imagine my distress when I came home and saw this out my window.

"Oh my GOD," I thought, "my plants turning gray and dying RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!!" I rushed out onto the balcony to inspect the pot and was momentarily startled by a dangling rope being slowly drawn up the building past our balcony. Clearly, the window washers had been. And they left me a little gift.

Dear Birds:

I can only hope you weren't actually hanging out in this nest when the window washers knocked it from its perch onto our balcony. If you would like your nest returned, please visit the eastern-most faux-cotta to retrieve it. Know that I am tempted to simply throw it away, but I don't want to touch it in case you have bird flu and Katr won't let me use the BBQ tongs.

Regards,

Roro

I was so incensed by the random unloading of crap onto our balcony by the window washers that I retaliated the only way I knew how. During a pause in the rope removal procedure, I reached out and stuck the gum I'd been chewing onto the passing rope. Because one gift deserves another. And few things register gift dissatisfaction more efficaciously than used Hubba Bubba.

Oh, hey, speaking of gifts, Katr, intrepid online marketer that she is, posted a challenge the other night to Sears' campaign to have customers vote on the cover for their annual Christmas wish book. In a nutshell, Katr thought their campaign blew (that's marketing jargon, so don't be alarmed if you don't really understand it) and she thought she'd start her own Wishbook Cover campaign! You know, to show Sears how it could have been done. So if you've got a photo that YOU think should grace the front of Sears' holiday catelogue (but never will), head on over to Flickr and upload your photo to the faux-Wishbook group. Here's mine:

Lookin' good, Darth Tater. Lookin' good.

Creampuff Addendum

Things I will NOT be missing about Toronto:

• Having to be evacuated off a Toronto Transit Commission streetcar because someone took AN EPIC SHIT under the seat in the back. Choice.

 

Creampuff Forgets About That Birthday Podcast She'd Planned And Offers a Disjointed Post Instead

That's right - today, March 3rd, is the day of my birth and with it comes the grand tradition of the "It's my birthday! Why are you drinking coffee on my birthday?" story.

You know those stories that are either

a) only funny to you; or
b) only funny when you tell them in person?

Well, I thought it might be fun to tell the "Why are you drinking coffee on my birthday" story ON my birthday, in podcast form, so that you could all experience the joy. And then I started to think that perhaps the "Why are you drinking coffee on my birthday?" story actually falls into the first "only funny to me category". And then I got caught up watching 9 episodes of Battlestar Galactica last night and eating a loaf of meat at Dapo and Jebr's and the whole thing went down the Colonial Fleet crapper.

What's the point? The point is, it's my birthday! I started it off a little early yesterday, when Padu presented me with the long coveted Big Girl Knits book and (ha ha ha) a bridal magazine. Those models in the knitting book - HOT. Like . . . HOT. And the sweaters aren't bad either! Thanks, Padu!

Then, at midnight, when my brithday officially started, I had a call with my girlfriend, for whom I am pining a little extra today. I don't usually make a big thing about birthdays, but only because I'm too shy to; so I am finding it's just a little harder being apart from her today than other days. Of course, I'm finding that everyone's sympathy on this subject fades, and rightly so, when I mention that:

a) she's been sending me lovely treats in the mail all February; and
b) she's taking me with her to California next Tuesday to drink lattes and watch seals sunning themselves in Monterey Bay while she goes to the TED Conference. SEALS!

One half of my parents, the dad half, awoke me this morning with a phone call, which was a wonderful start to my day, especially when he reminded me that I had a card to open from them that I'd been saving. Score! Then, because it is also my friend Jeba's birthday today, we took each other out for brunch. I told her the "Why are you drinking coffee on my birthday" story.  She laughed, but she might just have been humouring me, because it is my birthday. Then again, she doesn't have to humour me - it's HER birthday too! Good thing we're good at sharing.

We also talked about how she and I and her friend Jepe went to see the play adaptation of The Polished Hoe at the Harbourfront Theatre Wednesday night. We all had different ideas about what the show would be about - I was hoping for a musical, but was sadly foiled. Jeba too was disappointed. As we were leaving, Jeba said "So . . . I kind of thought that the play was going to be about a really accomplished hooker. And I kept waiting for the hooker part to start. And it just didn't." And then we laughed even harder. Oh, good times.

So all in all, it's been a pretty good start to 32. And the day ain't over yet! I am one lucky creampuff.

Speaking of lucky, I never remember when my blogaversary is, but it's in March, like my birthaversary, so I'd like to share some birthday love with all of you and thank you so much for enriching my life with your comments and blogs and occasional mail and dirty, dirty links. I hope that you're all near some cake. Get your face in there!

Creampuff Thrilled by Return of Roommates

As most of you know, there is little that thrills me more than having the house to myself. Not only because it means I can prance about pantless and have crackers for dinner, but  . . . no, that's mainly it. Regardless, I was excited when my roommates, Deye, Grmi and their 2 year old son Emmi, took off for a week and left me in charge of their house.

The first thing I noticed, once they'd left, is that things weren't that different. Oh sure, I spent more time upstairs in pyjamas, ordered in more often and went through all their drawers. But the only two major deviations from my normal routine were that:

a) There was no 3 hour nightly Toddler Feeding, Bathing and Bedding ritual; and

b) I was absolutely, heart-poundingly certain that someone would break in and kill me in the night.

I have lived here for nearly a month and the sounds of the house settling in between blasts of the furnace have become as familiar to me as my own tuneless humming on the streetcar when I'm trying to discourage people from sitting next to me. As for the neighbourhood, it's not Beverly Hills, but I have yet to sniff out the local crack house. There's a lock on the front door and it's not like the Hope Diamond is just sitting out on the coffee table. I know that statistically it's unlikely that HOLY CHRIST, FUCK STATISTICS, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT??

I knew going in that this might happen. For days leading up to Deye and Grmi's departure, I made sure not to watch crime drama (because we all know no good can come from that) and I also made sure not to eat or drink anything that might keep me awake. It didn't help that whenever I mentioned this irrational fear of midnight marauders to anyone, they came back with a story about how their friend/cousin/work colleague was robbed while they were sleeping. Yeah. Thanks, you guys. You know who you are.

I also made the mistake of borrowing the seventh season of Buffy from my friend Cafa. I don't fear the vampyre, so Buffy generally doesn't freak me out like CSI does ('cause Buffy is a fantasy but CSI - SO REAL). And I must say that the first six episodes Season 7 are generally pretty quirky and hilarious. As for the rest, let me give you a tip - don't watch "Conversations With Dead People" when you're home alone in the night. Not even three episodes of Northern Exposure and a stuffed giraffe can help you settle down after that. But hearing scratching noises and regularly having your system flood with adrenaline, then staying awake until the sun comes up and finally falling asleep while cradling Emma Thompson's Sense & Sensibility Diaries and mumbling "I greatly esteem you, Emma" - yeah, that works.

Also, fortuitously, my writer's block dissolved partway through the week and I was catapulted into the most depressing, co-dependent lesbian part of the play. So when I wasn't vibrating like a tuning fork at every night time auditory experience, I was writing wank, missing my girlfriend and sniffling pathetically. Am I turning you on? Not even Swiss Chalet could console me, although I did keep the rock-hard roll that came with my meal by my bed, in case I needed to wing it at some great evil (or at the rocking chair in the corner - it was looking shifty).

It was a long week, people, and this creampuff was TIRED. So you can imagine my joy when I came home last night and saw my roommates had returned and left the porch light on for me. I started yawning immediately and I slept like a baby.

I don't know why I feel safer with Deye, Grmi and Emmi in the house. Maybe because when they're here, I sometimes come home to scenes like this:

That's Giraffe (or "Dirty Giraffe", as Katr and I call her, as she's constantly spread-eagled and likes to proposition the other animals). It seems that one night after his bath, young Emmi dressed Giraffe up in his best hockey pyjamas. I asked Deye why Giraffe got the good pyjamas and she said "Well, I think that Emmi is aware that Giraffe is a guest. And guests get the good pyjamas." The best part was when I took the pyjamas off and found this:

I don't think I'll ever look at Dirty Giraffe in the same way again.

Gay Wedding Bells for Creampuff

Ladies - gentlemen - get your frilly seafoam green outfits primed. Katr and Roro are getting married!!

And now for the Creampuffs Are Getting Gay Married FAQ:

FAQ: Roro? Getting gay married? I thought you always said that the great thing about being gay is that you weren't expected to get married. And that even if you COULD get gay married you wouldn't! Because queer people should be creating their own rituals and striking down oppressive social mores!

Q: Well, I changed my mind, for a variety of reasons that I'll no doubt elaborate on in later posts. But yes, on the one hand, as a queer person, I DO find it problematic to be participating in and perpetuating a heteronormative ritual which has historically cast women as chattel BLAH BLAH BLAH look at our RINGS!!

Katr's Ring:

My Ring:

Q: Roro . . . is that a plaid flannel pillow case underneath your ring?

A: Actually no, that's my wedding outfit. HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA! No, seriously, it is.

Q: Soooo . . . who proposed?

A: Officially? I did. And since we'd already gotten our rings, I proposed via a new video iPod instead! And I had it engraved. It says "Marry Me!!" on it.  More an imperative than a request, but I wasn't taking any chances.

A: You proposed with an iPOD?? Isn't that kind of . . . impersonal?

Q: Well, she's been DYING for one and she LOVES gadgets and it was the first time I really surprised her with anything and she totally cried. HA ha! So I feel like it worked out okay.

Q: Soooo . . . if you proposed, does that make you the man?

A: Yes. Yes it does. I am the man.

Q: Have you told your parents yet?

A: Yes - because there's nothing like finding out your kid's getting hitched because you READ IT ON HER BLOG.

Q: What'd they say?

A: Well, they think that Katr is the Second Coming (and hey, sometimes she is! If you know what I mean. And I think that you do) so they were totally thrilled. We're seeing them for Christmas this weekend, at which time my father plans to have The Talk with Katr - the same talk that my mother's dad had with him when my parents were getting married. You know, about her roles and responsibilities as my spouse. Plus - and he would never say this - my dad is itching to get rid of these dowry goats he's been keeping for me. Num-Num keeps chewing on his files.

Q: Did your mom immediately call her 4 sisters, 2 brothers and her parents to tell them the news?

A: Since I've always gotten the news of my cousins' (I have 16 first cousins, 14 on one side, 2 on the other - Dad's family is not so Catholic) weddings secondhand, I assumed that the aunts disseminated the news. I learned on Sunday that, in fact, it is de rigueur for the person who's getting married to call everyone. And so that's how I, Roro, Phone Phobic, spent all of Sunday evening on the phone telling all my mostly-Western-Canada-living, church-going aunts, uncles and grandparents that I was getting gay married. My dad's family? One phone call. My mom's? Seven. You'd better believe I called my lesbian aunt first. But of course, they're all totally coming. Because they're effin' AWESOME.

Q: Why do you keep saying you're getting "gay married"? Isn't "gay married" and "straight married" the same in Canada?

A: Yes, yes it is. But saying "gay married" is funny. So zip it.

Creampuff Field of Dreams

My lovely friend Mami and her equally lovely husband Cech invited Katr and I and another lovely couple, Li(no last name) and An(also no last name), to their home for a vegan dinner party Thursday night! It was my first dinner party in Vancouver and it couldn't have been more delightful.

I admit I was a little apprehensive beforehand. Despite the awesome, hilarious vegans I actually know, I always worry that vegans are without humour about their veganism and are judging my meat-acious, leather chair-having lifestyle the same way I usually judge their notoriously dry and crumbly "baked goods". As comedienne Dawn Whitwell says, "Vegans, here's a tip - just because it's SHAPED like a cookie . . . doesn't make it a cookie."

Also, when I am invited for a dinner party, my usual modus operandi is to offer to bring dessert, because then I can whip up a batch of my famous "things I bought at Safeway". In view of vegan dietary restrictions, however, Mami wisely suggested I bring a salad or vegetable. I was seized with panic and then mirth in the produce aisle Thursday afternoon when I drew a blank on how to make a salad. IT'S BEEN THAT LONG. What goes in it? Do vegans eat live hydroponic butter lettuce? Is there beef tallow in the dressing or worse - HONEY? A grocery store employee asked me if I was okay and I asked him "Does this misshapen carrot look . . . like rabbit to you?"

 Fortunately I managed to pull it together eventually (although I did leave out the butter lettuce) and Katr and I set out. Turns out I worried for naught. Dinner was really, really good (including the baking) and our hosts and the vegans were awesome and hilarious, like all the other vegans I know. And Mami and Cech's daughter is adorable (which, of course, we already knew).

I've known Mami since elementary school and we've stayed sporadically in touch over the years. My childhood memories of her mainly involve the summer she and I were the only girls at the Jewish Community Centre's Leader In Training camp when we were 12. The boys in the LIT were jerks, really mean jerks and Mami and I, who went to school with nice, respectful, funny boys, were totally shocked and bonded over it. Also, once (possibly the same summer) she and I went to Klondike Days (Edmonton's yearly carnie-fest and exhibition, which now has a different and stupid name) and beforehand, we met at her dad's bar (her DAD! Had a BAR!) which I thought was the coolest.

As reminiscing kicked in Thursday night, however, it was more sports-based than I had anticipated. Mami was telling me that when she ran into my parents at Chma's wedding last year, all the talk was of how she and I played soccer together in our youth. That's right. Me. I played SOCCER.

In fact, I believe I played community league soccer for 6 or 7 years and I seem to have blocked most of it out, though I do remember the one or two years my dad was the coach. He must have been a good coach, 'cause we didn't make fun of him, like we did our teammate Kaha's middle-finger pointing dad.

I remember that I played defence (less running) and was the GREATEST THROWER-INNER of ALL TIME, which Mami corroborated by re-enacting my legendary throwing-in skillz, complete with Bionic Woman sound effects. I remember I once scored a goal on a throw-in, when the ball bounced off the goalie. I remember taking a kick-off to the face from a hard-assed girl named Kyle, who seemed impressed when I didn't cry or bleed. I remember having a very confusing crush on the red-headed goalie named Karen. "Ooooh yeah," said Mami, "she was inTENSE."

All this soccer talk suddenly brought back some vivid memories of my first year playing soccer when I was six years old. I'm going to have to check on some of this with my parents, but I seem to remember my first year of soccer that our coach was this crazy rich mom from Quesnel whose daughter was on the team. She had big streaked '80's hair, wore lipstick and velour track suits and a lot of rings and had a GOLDEN WHISTLE. For half-time at our first game, instead of the traditional quartered oranges and water, she brought these weird marshmallow mini ice cream cone confections that really hit the spot, if "the spot" was your pancreas and "hitting it" meant "a severe over-production of insulin". By the end of the game, half the team was running about manically and the other half had collapsed due to dehydration. She was, obviously, kind of clueless. But hey - we were six! Bring on the marshmallow treats!

I remember my first year of soccer was lots of fun but we did not, as they say, have a good season. In fact, I believe our team scored one goal the entire season and it was on our own net. But our coach wasn't daunted and at the end of the season, the team went out to the Old Spaghetti Factory to celebrate and she gave us each ENGRAVED BRACELETS with the year and team name on it. Again - we were SIX. Even as a six year old who loved jewellry and spaghetti, I thought it was a little weird. Who WAS that woman?

Anyway, back to the soccer glory days. Mami says we made it to the city finals in 1984! I have only vague recollections of this, but she had the hilarious team photo to prove it and whipped it out on Thursday night over Dutch Girl chocolates and tea. It took me a little while to identify myself in the photo. Ah, yes, that was me. The tallest girl on the team. I'd like to think my hair was in a ponytail but I suspect what I'm seeing there is the Grade 4 Mullet.

I handed the photo to Katr, who wanted to see if she could pick me out. I offered to give her a hint, as it had taken me longer than I thought to find myself, but she waved me off. She pointed me out right away, without hesitation and I was stunned. "How did you KNOW?" I asked, truly mystified. "Silly," she said to me, "I would know you anywhere."

And then I blushed.