Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff's So Vain, She Probably Thinks This Post is About Her

Note: This post is mainly about fat girl shopping. I'm not going to make assumptions about who among you will or will not be interested in fat girl shopping - you'll know who you are. Also, it's my birthday! Woooo!

It's my birthday! I'm 33 this year and since my birthday is 03/03, I feel that it's going to be an EXTRA awesome year. That's right - no pressure, but you'd better not SUCK, 33!

I've spent much of adult life looking forward to 32. I'm not sure why - 32 just seemed to resonate with me and I'm pleased to report that it was indeed a banner year. But because of my fixation on 32, I never gave much thought as to what would come AFTER 32. Turns out it's 33. So, you know - rad.

I spent much of the last few weeks of 32 bitching about two things:

1. The sad state of my hair. It's true - every hairdresser I've seen for the last year wouldn't cut my hair as short as I wanted because they felt I should "grow it out" for the big gay wedding. The result? A layered near-mullet that I've been wearing in a ponytail since last May.

2. How I had "nothing to wear". Thirty Helens agree that I often don't take good enough care of my clothes. This is fine when I spend whole days working in my house and walking the dog, but can cause problems when I'm going out for dinner with a friend and my "good jeans" are nearly worn through from dog walking and my "good casual shirt" is pilled from being washed with my jeans and also too fucking short because I accidentally put in the dryer.

Thanks to my high school pal and local hero Kajo, I found a real hairdresser here in Vancouver with whom I immediately fell in love. Why? Because the first thing she said when she sat me in the chair was "Oh, Roro. TELL me you haven't been cutting your OWN BANGS. Please... please promise me you won't ever do it again."

She did an excellent job and I happily paid her more than $20 for my sassy new hair. Those who kindly responded to my hair poll will be pleased to note I'm sticking with the gray. I'm really against posting pictures of myself on my blog, but this cross-eyed one is already on Facebook. Descartes would be so turned on...

With regards to #2, I was very excited to visit the United States of America last week, where creampuffs have more fashion choices and where my favourite ginch reside. I didn't actually intend to get anything BUT ginch from Lane Bryant, because I am at the upper limit of size for that store. But I breathed in the general direction of a pair of jeans when I walked in and the sales girl was all over me to try their "Right Fit" jeans. I was skeptical, but allowed her to measure my waist, pick out a pair of Blue 7's and send me off to the dressing room.

That's when I put on the magic pants.

I am a pear-shaped creampuff and I effing love my effing Right Fit jeans from Lane Bryant. I love that they don't gap funny in the back. I love that they're way sturdier than my other jeans but cost the same. I love that the salesgirl said to me when I first put them on: "I'm not going to make you pull your shirt tight and show me if you have a muffin top - but if you don't have a muffin top, then these are your jeans." I love that I don't have a muffin top in these jeans. I love the term "muffin top".

The other thing I realized at the Lane Bryant is that empire-waisted babydoll tops are in. And you know whose pear-shaped figure is very flattered by empire-waisted babydoll tops? MINE. I basically bought four varying degrees of this:

Then Katr and I did some damage at Sephora, 'cause we found our favourite SugarLemon stuff from fresh and had to stock up. We didn't WANT to, gang - we HAD to.

And so, loaded down with cute duds, delicious smells and free of the mullet, we arrived in Monterey. Where I proceeded to spend the entire week PREENING.

Seriously - it was crazy. Every reflective surface was my friend. I spent hour after hour casting coy smiles at myself and anything or anyone who stood still long enough; baristas, Jamba Juice employees, bellmen, sea lions, some guy who tried me sell me a book on the street called Living with God. Guys - I was VAIN. I kept humming that Carly Simon song, pretending it was about me instead of Warren Beatty. Because last week, it WAS.

I'm a little stunned at how much a great haircut, a few nice shirts, good pants and SugarLemon perked me up. I didn't even know I needed to be perked up. I feel like I've been on What Not to Wear. Pros - I didn't have to be humiliated on TV. Cons - I had to pay for it all myself with the magical elf money I hope will appear in my bank account before my credit card bill arrives. But hey - with my kicky new look and a year of 33 before me, can ultimate riches be far behind? History will decide.

Creampuff to Sea Lions: "Quit Looking at My Rack"

It's been a year since my last brilliant sea lion video. Don't lie to me - I know you've all been waiting with bated breath to see another instalment of me yapping away in Monterey while filming what I claim are the majestic creatures of the shallows known as "sea lions" but which appear to be rocks. Not even fuzzy rocks - just rocks.

I have to pat myself on the back, for I feel that my filmmaking technique is vastly improved this year. By which I mean "I stood closer to the sea lions. Because this damn camera only zooms in so far in video mode".

Behold!

After all of your derisive comments last year, I took the precaution of also adding some sea lion photos to back up my claims.

Sea lion #1: Ungh.

Sea lion #2: I feel you.

Sea lion #3: Do you guys smell me? I think I smell myself.

Sea lion #4: Clyde - don't make me club you.

Sea lion #1: Ungh.

Sea lion #2: For real.

Clyde: Whoa! Check out that chick's rack!

Sea lion #4: I totally have that shirt.

Sea lion #5: Silent, he balances on the surface of the water, surveying the landscape. He spies her, splayed regally on the rock, her dark brown pelt glistening in the sun's rays. As he prepares to make his move, he can't help chuckling to himself. She'll never see it coming...

Sea lion #6: Angelo - I can hear you narrating.

Sea lion #7: Ohhh, yeah, baby. You know what time it is.

Sea lion #7: It's BUSINESS TIME.

Look at that wink! That sea lion was totally coming on to me. Nice try, Smoove. I'm TAKEN.

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.

Creampuffs at High Altitude

It was the call you hope you'll never have to make. Even as the phone was ringing, I kept thinking to myself "Surely I am mistaken. Surely I have simply failed to search the room properly. Surely by the time they pick up the phone, I'll have found . . ."

My faux-soothing thoughts were interrupted by "Hello, this is Marina at Royal Service, how may I help you today, Ms. Tr . . . Tr . . . [sounds of brain exploding as Marina tries to figure out how to pronounce Katr's vowel-deprived Croatian last name]."

"Well, Marina," I said, "it's like this. I've lost my . . . bear."

The Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel is a pretty fancy place. It looks like this:

and they take the whole castle thing pretty seriously. Some of the staff wear kilts. A bagpiper announces certain hours of the day. It's so fancy, the bellmen and porters DO NOT ACCEPT TIPS.

The Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel is not the kind of place where you want to admit you travel with stuffed animals. And it's especially not the kind of place where you want to call "Royal Service" to report that Atiqtaq, your Petro-Canada WinterGas-promoting polar bear has gone AWOL. You CAN, because the staff are extremely helpful and friendly. But you don't WANT to.

"She's white," I said, into the Royal Service silence, "a polar bear, with a blue ribbon around her neck. I think she probably just got tangled up in the linens and escaped when housekeeping removed them."

"So the bear was . . . in your bedsheets?"

"Yeah."

More silence. I hoped she was taking notes. I held myself back from crying out "Yes, alright, yes!! We sleep with a bear! A bear and a moose, if you must know! We are nerds, Royal Service!! Nerds!!" 

"She IS a bear," I said, "so in this mountain setting, it's not surprising that she'd make a break for it. Ha ha."

Marina laughed weakly.

The truth is, Atiqtaq's always shown a propensity for exploring. She regularly disappears into various corners of our bedroom at home. And when we take her on trips, it's often a struggle to find her when we're getting ready to leave. She'll show up under the bed or in the minibar trying to get at the Coke. But this was the first time she'd actually escaped.

Katr was at a conference, so I was on my own. As Marina consulted with Housekeeping, I decided to go out and have a look for Atiqtaq myself.

Nothing outside. I thought that it would only be right for me to search the spa next - I mean, she could have been in the coldest of the mineral plunge pools or enjoying the eucalyptus inhalation room. Sure, the $60 spa fee wouldn't look great on our room bill, but I knew Katr would understand. I headed back up to the room to retrieve my investigative bathing suit and the phone rang. It was Jessie, from Housekeeping. And she had found the bear.

About twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door and I beetled over to it to find what looked like the longest-suffering member of the Banff Springs Hotel's housekeeping staff. This man was not in the mood for bear return. He had Atiqtaq gingerly by the foot and he averted his eyes as he held her out to me, like he was handing me my lost foot-long, eight-speed, disco-lit, Donna Summer-playing neon pink vibrator with suction cup base and rotating attachments. "Okayherehaveagoodnight," he muttered and stalked off before I had a chance to thank him. "What was his problem?" laughed Katr, who'd seen the whole thing. I looked down at Atiqtaq. She looked up at me mutely. Keeping her own counsel, as bears do.

We tucked her into our suitcase the next morning for the long drive home, as we couldn't risk her making another bid for freedom in Sicamous or Revelstoke. And when we let her out at home, we told her that she'd better behave if she wanted to accompany us on our next trip to through the mountains in October.

Until then, she'll have to hang out on our balcony. Gazing out towards the distant peaks. Yearning to join her bear brethren.

Things Creampuff Will Tell You She Did On Her Vacation . . .

but which actually happened only in my mind.

My beaverancée works very hard. When she is not working, she is often thinking about working. She thinks about it at night when I'm trying to get laid when we're trying to go to sleep. She thinks about it early in the morning. Real early. I've been coaxed gently and lovingly awake more times than I care to recall, only to hear her croon the following sweet nothings:

"I've got a client calling at six this morning. Want me to close the door?"

I sometimes joke to Katr that she lured me into this relationship by appearing to enjoy taking time off. She then replies that I lured HER in by appearing to enjoy being gainfully employed. Touché.

In between kinzin launching and my new contract beginning in May, we had a little window of possible holiday time and I decided Katr was ripe for her first non-family/non-work-related vacation in 3 years. So I called my parents and asked if we could stay at their empty place in Victoria for a few days.

Katr and I both had big plans for the 3 days we were going to be "unplugged". These plans included taking photos of all the adventures we'd be having about town. Here are some of things we had in mind.

Visiting the Free Range Bunnies at UVic

My brother told us that the grounds of the University of Victoria are overrun with cute, cute bunnies. All the time. In fact, when you're down and out and feeling just too existential to go to another class, these cute bunnies have been known to warm your heart while they chew on your socks.

We hoped to feed carrots to these bunnies. Large, cartoonish carrots, like you'd draw in Microsoft Paint, because you don't have Photoshop. Shut up.

I was also hoping to shoot a bunny video for my ongoing nature series, partly for artistic reasons, but mainly to answer the seal video showboating my cousin and his girlfriend posted on THEIR blog.

Hold Hands in the Beautiful Butchart Gardens

I first went to the Butchart Gardens on a band trip in March of 1989. It was beautiful then and spring hadn't really hit. "Just wait!" the locals said, "in the spring, it's amazing!" Coming from Edmonton, where a classmate of ours had lost a small part of her ear in the freezing fuckin' cold the week before, the fact that ANYTHING was green seemed like a miracle to us.

I was eager to see the gardens in full bloom this time and so was Katr. This is the scene I imagined:

"Oh my god. Isn't that fountain gorgeous? No one's looking - quick, take off your shirt!"

We love to be natural in Nature. Katr's the redhead.

Take a Horse-Drawn Carriage Ride

When you're at my parents condo, every now and then a horse goes by and it's like you're back in the early 20th century, but with better plumbing. Katr and I thought it might be fun to be part of the action - feel the clip-clop of hooves, listen to the sonsy driver, watch the horses crap into a bag. Romantic!

 

What We Actually Did

• Stayed inside (it was raining, shut up)
• Slept
• Read books
• Slept
• Ate
• Slept
• Made some of these:

• Listened to Bob Marley

Also - and this may be the brownies talking - but I think we spent a morning at the Willowstream Spa at the Empress Hotel being rubbed for money. All I know is that there's nail polish on my toes where there was none before and we suddenly have a bag of new, expensive-looking grooming products. The kind you buy when you're blissed out and defenseless and your hands are too moisturized to grip your credit card properly. And you're humming Bob Marley. 

Sadly, our short respite is over and we're getting on a plane at the crack of dawn's ass tomorrow morning for a business trip. Not only will there be no brownies, but we will also be wearing dress pants for three days straight!! I don't want to alarm you all . . . but I may have to shoot the sheriff.

Creampuff Moves to Vancouver, Part Deux - Electric Boogaleux

It occurred to me early Monday morning, as I sat on the john, hurling into a garbage can, that this was not the best way to be spending my last hours in Toronto. What the fuck is with me and the sudden, violent, simultaneous expulsions this year?? GAH. I had originally planned quite a vigorous day of activity for Monday, but as I barfed and otherwise eliminated all nutrients and available water from my system, my priorities shrank to two key items:

1. Make it to (and through) my own effing play reading Monday afternoon ; and

2. Make sure UPS picked up the two boxes I needed to ship to Vancouver Monday night.

Fortunately, the reading was a very informal "cool chicks sittin' around the table reading the thing so I could hear the results of 16 weeks of government funding out loud" kind of deal, so if I needed to sprint to the ladies shitter at any time, I could. As it turns out, the box of Immodium I took before the reading precluded any wild, inappropriate defecation. Three days later, it's still working. Thanks, Immodium. You can let go now.

Then Monday night, UPS was scheduled to come pick up my two boxes between 5:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. When I got home at 4:00 p.m. I sealed the boxes up and nearly passed out hauling them upstairs. It took me nearly an hour. I then installed myself on the couch with my Gatorade and a book about dog behaviour. I had to skip a lot of the questions in the book, because they involved dogs eating cat shit and then licking you and I didn't want to puke again. Even when I did read a chapter, I absorbed no information whatsoever, because I was checking the door for the UPS guy every two minutes. I did, however, absorb some much-needed sodium and potassium.

3 hours passed. The lovely roommates came home and began preparations for dinner. Everyone was there. Except UPS. I finally called them at 8:30 p.m. and asked what had happened. "Oh," the customer service representative said, "well, the driver was running behind."

"Oh - so he'll be here later?"

"Well, no. He didn't make it by the deadline, so . . ."

"So he didn't come at ALL?"

"Well, I can have him come by tomorrow!" she said brightly.

"Yeah. I'm leaving for the airport at 10 a.m." I told her, "can he come before that?"

"Oh dear. Well, it seems like we're in quite a pickle!"

Mmm . . . pickles.

My roommates generously offered to deal with the pickup. I got off the phone, then turned off the porch light in despair. Minutes later, there was a knock at the door. My heart leapt. Could it be . . . UPS?? It was! And sure, he was late and didn't have a waybill and didn't leave me a tracking number, but at least the boxes were away! I sucked hungrily at my Gatorade bottle and headed into the kitchen to relay my tale of shipping triumph to Grmi.

"Are you sure he was from UPS?" Grmi joked as he shaped ground beef into patties.

"Heh heh . . . oh. Huh."

In that moment, I realized I hadn't seen the van. I didn't fill out a waybill. I had no tracking number and I had paid by cheque. In all probability, this guy was actually from UPS. But there was also the possibility that, in my weakened state, I had just given our good linens, some small household appliances and several hundred dollars worth of books, yarn and DVDs to some random guy in a brown toque.

As you might imagine, I spent much of my last hour in Toronto on Tuesday phoning UPS. And I have to hand to them - those people rolled into ACTION. By the time I got home to my beloved, I'd gotten both the tracking numbers AND a separate call apologizing for the inconvenience AND, even though I paid for standard shipping, they switched it to "express" and I got my boxes first thing yesterday morning. So thank you, UPS! Thank you for not making off with Padu's future sweater and my Joss Whedon collection. Thank you for showing me what brown can do. You are good kind people.

As Jeba pointed out in her comment on the last post, I neglected to display the beautiful knitting needle carrier she gave me for our birthday! Because UPS rocks, I can show it to you now! And you may gaze in awe and envy. DO IT!

Ah. So fetching. Thanks, Jeba! It's particularly ideal for travelling, as you can stuff notions or a small project in its pouch. Or you can keep your weed in there. That sock looks like it's trying to make a break for it. Not long now, little sock.

While I'm at it, I ALSO did not take photos of the lovely knitting tote that Deye and Grmi gave me for my birthday. As you can see, it is very fine and the mix of tropical print and Anne of Green Gables-esque gingham suits me to a T. Plus, it has a pocket at the front. Where you can keep your weed.

Yes, those are VHS copies of Bring It On and Centre Stage on the shelf behind the bag. Shut it.

So I'm back in Vancouver! Reunited with my beaverancée! Ready for the next adventure! Right after I take this nap. And watch some Buffy.

Creampuff Does Not Even Know Where to Start

Ha ha - hey! What's the what? I guess with all the "moving to Vancouver" and "Fringe touring" stuff, I've gotten a little behind on the ol' blog. I have a lengthy list of topics to write about and hope to get to them all one day. But today, I'm thinking I'll list them in point form and then get to the knitty gritty. HA ha - see what I did there? Jealous?

Things That Roro Would Like to Address in Detail on Her Blog Sometime in the Near Future

• How our friends, whether they sent nice notes or came to our farewell open house to help us get rid of stuff or found homes for our beloved fish or gave us the gift of iTunes or offered their contact info to Katr if she needed any help in my absence, are incredibly kind and unbelievably generous people;
• How, at different points in the moving/packing process Padu, Deuce, Drew, Chgi, Ers, Jusm and Mipa all (mostly willingly) became our bitches and we couldn't have done it without them;
• How our real estate agent ROCKS and if you are buying or selling in the GTA, you should hire this man;
• How I was reminded, over the course of our 5-day journey from Toronto to Saskatoon, that my ass responds to a nice bathroom like it's Pavlov's dogs; and
• How Katr's in Vancouver and I'm in Saskatoon and we are sappy, sappy lesbians who miss each other terribly. Sniff.

Things That Roro Will Be Addressing in This Post

• Knitting

As we were leaving Toronto, Chgi and I stopped at a yarn store, as you do. I promised Chgi that I would be quick - I just needed to load up on yarn for a cross-country mystery knitting project. Also, Chgi was going to pick out some yarn for me to make him a scarf, as it was his birthday that day. And no one's birthday should go by without a visit to the yarn store, am I right?

I was worried that I might hold us up in the yarn store, what with my need to touch everything, but I soon relaxed when I saw that the delights of yarn store had Chgi completely in thrall. HA ha! I browsed in peace for many minutes while he exclaimed passionately over the range of colours and textures before settling on what I thought were three skeins of Takhi Donegal Tweed - one teal, one gold and one brown, all with little flecks of colour throughout. I checked the label on one of them, noted that I had the right needle size already, bought Chgi's yarn AND my mystery project yarn and a new $13-highway-robbery-no-handjob circular needle and we were on our way. Woooo!

Our first night in Sudbury, I wound all the skeins of tweed into balls and I started Chgi's scarf on the way to Wawa. He wanted a simple pattern - a big chunk of brown, a smaller chunk of gold, a small chunk of blue, then gold, then brown again. I was happy to oblige and cast on with the brown as we sped down the Trans Canada. A few rows in, I noticed two things:

a) the brown was very nice, but . . . thicker than I expected; and

b) the first few rows were real, real tight. Like I was knitting a dense, cushy tweed bathmat.

Because I have the tightest cast-on in the Western Hemisphere, I didn't let it bother me initially - in fact, we even took a photo of the brown section in front of a lake while bikers mocked our truck, then nodded respectfully at Chris's mustache:

A few more inches in, that brown was getting tighter and tighter. I was perplexed. I had checked the label. I was using the right size needle size. I continued to rationalize - maybe it's SUPPOSED to knit up like this. It's from Ireland, after all - perhaps the cops there wore bullet-proof vests made of this tweed during The Troubles. Finally, doubt overcame me in Sault Ste. Marie and I checked the label again. And that's when I realized that I had bought TWO DIFFERENT KINDS OF TWEED and that, unlike the teal and gold tweed, the brown tweed I was currently knitting on 5mm needles required a minimum needle size of 6.5 mm. FOILED!

Shitbag. So then I had to make a choice. Would I:

a) frog the whole six inches of scarf and start again on bigger needles - REALLY big needles, 'cause the only thing I have bigger that the 6mm are my 8mm; or

b) tell myself and Chgi that it would all work out, uh, once I "blocked" it (non-knitters are impressed with fancy knitting terms).

It was hot and I was tired and our truck is not air-conditioned. Don't judge me. Anyway, here's the scarf so far, alongside some very fetching mystery knitting.

That's not the $13-highway-robbery-no-handjob circular needle, by the way - I managed to somehow kick that unopened piece of knitting equipment out onto the road somewhere near Brandon, Manitoba and had to buy a new needle in Saskatoon. Cost? $3.00! No more fancy needles for me. And I can handle my own handjobs.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Ninth

In which Creampuff's friend actually says "I do". I think.

I was skeptical when Jecr told us that she and Roch would be married at Belfast City Hall. This is because I grew up in Edmonton. We have a new city hall in Edmonton now, but the city hall of my youth was, let’s face it, ugly. If memory serves, Edmonton's old city hall looked like the '70's had taken a shit downtown and then someone nailed doors on it. Thus, to my hick mind, a "city hall" wedding was something to be avoided and I thought it odd that Jecr would have chosen such a place for her nuptials. What I realized, as we hopped out of that almost-not-paid for cab and beetled into the building minutes before the wedding was to begin, is that BELFAST City Hall - is HOT. I mean, just look at it. It’s like a frikkin’ palace. Of COURSE non-denominational history buffs Jecr and Roch would want to be married here! It was a GORGEOUS building.

We entered the palace of municipal affairs and I nearly tripped over my dress, then bashed into Caho as I stared up at the marble columns, the plush red carpets and the shiny brass items that twinkled in the entry way. My clumsiness wasn't the only thing that attracted attention as we made our way through the main lobby. School children on a class trip gazed at our shiny dresses and flapping wings with open mouths and even the desk clerk got in on the action.

“Where are YOU from?” he called out to us as we passed by.

“Canada!”, we replied.

He gestured to our wings.  “Yeh couldn’t jest take a plane?”   

By this time, the rest of the folks had caught up to us and Jeba, much to my relief, handed me the ring I was supposed to be in charge of. Having nowhere to put it, and deciding that no one wanted to see me root around in my cleavage to retrieve it at the crucial moment, (that kind of shenanigan could wait until the reception) I decided to wear Roch's wedding ring. It promptly got stuck on my thumb, which was swollen to twice its usual size in all the excitement. I subtly worried at the ring as we entered the Justice of the Peace's ready room to receive our intructions.

The JP was a spritely, bearded fellow whose twinkling eyes and gentle manner would have put anyone at ease. He greeted the party warmly and outlined each person's part in the ceremony, telling us when we would enter, where we would all stand, who would do what when, the exchange of rings, the signing of the register and so on. Unfortunately, he told us all of this in a melodic voice so low and thickly accented that I couldn’t understand a single thing he was saying. The only part I really caught was that both the stereo playing the processional and the door to the chamber worked with a remote control (fancy!), so when the JP hit the remote, the door would swing open and that was our cue.  Though I AM a hick, I hate looking like one, so I hoped that everyone else knew what the hell the JP was talking about.

Caho, Roch's gorgeously coiffed sister Kach (the third winged bridesmaid), Jecr, her father and I gathered outside the door to the chamber, forming and reforming our line (we knew that Jecr and her dad, Dacr, should go last, but that was it) and adjusting our wings. Jecr looked radiant. The ring was still stuck on my thumb. Suddenly, the doors swung open as if by magic! Momentarily forgetting that Jecr’s father was there with us, in his “giving away the bride” capacity, I said in a stage whisper: “Let’s fly this bitch!”  “Indeed,” said Jecr's father and motioned that I should go ahead. I managed not to bash into the door and actually made it into the room. Walking in to Prokofiev, I heard Caho stifling a laugh behind me as my wings bobbed gently back and forth, the bells tinkling gaily.

Much of the actual ceremony is a blur. I remember we all made it in without incident. I remember the groom was beaming and the bride was glowing. I remember Caho, Kach and I all shed a subtle tear or two. I remember I stepped on the mother of the bride's foot. I remember that I managed to pop Roch's ring off my thumb just before it was time for Jecr to give it to him. I remember that when the JP asked Roch's best man Anch for Jecr's ring, Anch confidently pulled a box of Kodak film out of his pocket and looked at it in terror. Before anyone’s pants could fill completely with craps of fear, he reached quickly into the OTHER pocket and pulled out the ring. Smooth.

Then it was time to sign the register. As chief bridesmaid, I got to be a witness. When it was my turn to sign my name, the JP handed me a fountain pen, which is NOT THE SAME AS A REGULAR PEN.  There is a trick to a fountain pen. I do not know the trick.  I started to sign the book and the ink just wouldn’t come.  I shook it gently. I tried holding it at a different angle. Nothing. I looked at the nib, like that’s going to help. EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT ME. Of course, this is completely untrue – most people were looking at the happy, glowing couple – but all the same, a deep blush formed on my chest, neck and cheeks before I gave up being a delicate flower and basically gouged my name into the register, transferring the impression of my signature several pages deep.  If people who got married in the weeks after Jecr were to rub a pencil lightly over their marriage license, there my name would be. Roro.  The third, ghost-like fountain-pen-tard witness to their love.

And then Jecr and Roch were married! There was kissing! There were bubbles, because confetti was not allowed! There was classical music to exit to and pictures taken in the Belfast City Hall! At my urging, Jeba managed to snap a photo of Jecr's new sister-in-law, Kach, before she whipped off her bridesmaid wings and refused to put them back on. She was a very sweet girl, but the young lady had had her hair done professionally.  She was waaaay to cool for long term wings. As for me - I wasn't sure I'd ever take mine off.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Eighth

In which Creampuff DOES actually get to the day of the wedding. I know, I know. FINALLY.

The day of Jecr's wedding dawned a pearly grey. Jeba and I congratulated each other on not being too hung over (I'm sure it was the Snickers) and on not barfing in our drunken state the night before, although my voice was still gravelly thanks to my brush with death, Snickers-style. After our morning showers, we had a brief debate over when we were supposed to meet up at Jecr's, as the arrangements had been made several pints and shots of Baileys into the night. I thought noon, two hours before the wedding, was the absolute latest we should be there. Jeba felt strongly that Jecr had said 1:00 p.m. As I was chief bridesmaid and Jeba was "carrier of Roro's purse", I overruled her. Then one of the hostel owners dogs came bounding in, licked all up and down my right leg and bounded back out. I took another shower.

We arrived at Jecr's a little early, again prepared to help with any last minute disaster. Again, there was none, barring the fact that one of the cats had chewed a little on the puffy crinoline of my dress.

"Where is Cach [the groom's sister and the third of the bridesmaid trifecta] this morning?" Caho and I asked curiously as we messed around with some flower arrangements, still thrown by the lack of zero hour panic.

"Oh, she's off having her hair and makeup done," replied Jecr. I felt a little defensive, as obviously I had not done anything fancy like that.

"Well," I said, "I shaved my armpits."

"Plus you washed all that dog saliva off your leg," Jeba supplied helpfully.

"Well done," said Jecr.

"But now that you mention it," I said, "isn't hair and makeup something the bride should be doing too?"

"Pffft," replied Jecr, "who has time? I need all my energy to get into my dress. Now, shall we go get a sandwich?"

After walking to the neighbourhood Spar for sandwiches (mine was "Turkey and Stuffing" and even though it was from a convenience store, it remains fixed in my memory as one of the best sandwiches I have EVER eaten), it was time to get ready. Jecr disappeared with her mother while Caho and I began our minimalist toilette in the living room (I think we basically just put on some lipstick). Jecr had been kind enough to allow us to bring our own dresses; Caho's was a long, shiny, slim-fitting green and mine a long, shiny, slightly pouffy lavendar. Both looked stunning with the wings. Jeanne had given each of us bridesmaid types a gorgeous silver necklace in the shape of the triple Newgrange spiral (see above and to the right), so we carefully put those on as well. My lavendar-painted toenails and Nike Air rubber sandals completed the look.

Thus ready for action, we fiddled with our little corsage-type bouquets, listening to Jecr's cries of "No, Mother! Don't snap the restrictive underwear!" followed by the sounds of elastic snapping and Frcr's gleeful laugh from the bedroom upstairs. Shortly after that, Jecr came downstairs in her dress.  And Jecr . . . looked HOT, people.

Her dress was this gorgeous, off-white, off the shoulder, tight bodiced, full-skirted number. She wore a silver and garnet torq round her neck and a flowered wreath in her hair, and to break up all the off-white action, she wore with a shimmery blue wrap that brought out her eyes. She looked calm, serene, happy, radiant and like she might be having trouble breathing all the way in in the dress. I tried really hard not to stare at her boobs because her mom was there and I'm not going to say anything else about them, because her mom sometimes reads my blog. I hoped I was being subtle about it, but that illusion was shattered when Jeba leaned over to me and said "Oh my god, Roro. Stare at my boobs for awhile and give Jecr's a rest." Classy.

At this time, it occurred to us at we should probably be leaving soon, you know, for the wedding. Earlier, Jecr had told us that cabs had been booked to convey us to City Hall. The time for the wedding was drawing nigh. The cabs, however, were not nigh. There were no cabs.

"What time is the wedding again?" Jeba asked.

"Two o'clock," I said.

"At what time is it now?"

"1:40 p.m. Ha ha - OH. Hey, Jecr - who was supposed to book the cabs?” 

“Anch [her soon-to-be-brother-in-law],” Jecr replied. 

“And when did you charge him with this important assignment?”

“Oh, you know. Last night.”

“Last night?  Last night at the pub last night? Last night when he was three sheets to the wind and tried to take my dog purse outside to take a crap last night?  Oh my god! There are no cabs, Jecr!  No cabs!”

HA! I knew it - a panic-free wedding is like a night without stars. Like many in the UK, Jecr had the "incoming calls only" phone plan and no cell phone, so we couldn’t actually call a cab. Also, it was starting to rain. Thus Frcr, the ever-intrepid mother of the bride, went huffing down to the taxi stand at the end of the road to round up some last minute wedding transport.  It seemed like she was gone a long time. It seemed like we might barf. Suddenly, a cab comes round the bend and everyone starts to breathe again. As the cab pulls up, we make an executive decision that Jecr, Caho and myself would go first, as we were the bride and bridal party and therefore essential staff.  Frcr, Jeba and Barty would come in a second cab.  We three piled our big dresses and two sets of wings into the first cab and roared off. 

“Oh,” said Jecr, partway there, “I haven’t my bag. I gave it to my mother.”

“I gave mine to Jeba,” I said and Caho goes “Barty has mine,” and that’s when we realized that we had no money for this cab ride.  Jecr turned to the cabbie. 

“As you have no doubt surmised,” she said, “it is my wedding day.  Any chance of a free ride?”

“Congratulations, love,” said the cabbie jauntily, “and . . . no.” 

As we pulled up to city hall, Jecr spotted a friend hovering near the entrance. She stuck her beflowered head out the window of the moving cab and shouted “Have you got 2£?” 

“What? I don’t know!” her friend yelled back as she dug frantically through her purse, “I haven’t been paid yet this week!”  Fortunately, her kind friend did have the required cash and Jecr paid off the cabbie. The clock ticking down, we hoofed it into the building, wings a-flappin’. That's when I remembered that not only did Jeba have my purse, but she also had the ring. Heh heh.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Seventh

In which Creampuff might actually get to the part where there's a WEDDING. She might.

As the bride Jecr eschewed a wedding rehearsal (so as not to "ruin the intrigue", according to her comments on the last installment), Jeba and I and Caho and Barty were rather at loose ends the day before the wedding. Jeba and I spent the morning pretending to be Queens University students in order to do our laundry in the campus laundromat. Between the summer-ish weather and the heat of the washing wachines, it was more of a laundromat/sauna combo. If we could smell ourselves BEFORE, well . . . now so could everyone else. After a certain point, we stopped fighting it and surrendered to the sweating. Other students gave us a wide berth. It was oddly freeing.

Our laundry done and impurities purged (partly by the sauna and partly by the shower we took back at the hostel, where I trod in a pile of dog hair and had to shampoo my foot), we met Caho and her swain Barty in a nearby park.  We proceeded to sit on the grass and discuss girly things like dresses and strapless bras and how the wings would go over at the City Hall and, finally, bridesmaiding duties. Mainly the part about the speech.

"Hey, how's that speech coming, Roro?" asked Barty.

"Ha ha. Well, about that - I thought that we all of us do the speech together, you know?  You know, as chief bridesmaid, I think my job is mainly to coordinate the speech. So maybe we could jot down some ideas and go from there."

"How did YOU get to be the chief bridesmaid?" said Caho.

"Well, clearly," I said smugly, "it is because she likes me best."

"Caho, Jecr put Roro in charge because she probably knows you'd just cry incoherently through your speech, like you did at your sister's wedding," smirked Barty in a way I would not describe as "loving".

"Oh no," I thought, all in a panic, "if I rip his nuts off, I'll miss the wedding!"

"Oh, right. Ha ha. I did cry pretty hard, didn't I?" chuckled Caho.

"I'll say," said Barty and then he made some mocking weeping noises.

My gorgeous friend Caho looked a little stricken and I wanted to RIP BARTY'S FUCKING FACE OFF. Jeba and I exchanged glances. Though he had had us fooled early on, it seemed that perhaps Barty, like some of Caho's previous fellas, could be kind of a dicksmack.

Keeping a close eye on Barty in case of further dicksmackery (mercifully, there was none), we compiled some of our favourite teen memories of Jecr, including her many, many gerbils, her passion for writing long serial stories in which each of her friends hooked up with the hunks of our dreams (mine was MacGyver's Richard Dean Anderson - shut up) and the brilliant essay she wrote about badger discrimination. We clearly did not lack for material and, satisfied that we'd worked out who would say what, Jeba and I wandered off to Marks and Spencer in search of a strapless bra that wouldn't draw blood.  We found a bra - but I still have the marks.

We were to meet up with Jecr, her squeeze Roch and the rest of their friends and wedding party folks at a pub that evening. When we got there, some football team or other was having a very successful night and, in celebration, pints were a mere 1£ each. Barty, Caho and Jeba got right into the cheap pint action. Not me.

When it comes to alcohol, I am . . . oh, what's the word? Oh, that's right - a pussy. One drink and I'm red-faced, sleepy and inarticulate. There is only one drink that I can tolerate any amount of without drooling on myself and trying to put pants on people's cats and that drink . . . is Bailey's Irish Cream. That's right. Sweet, creamy, pussy-skirt-drink Bailey's Irish Cream. Naturally, the pub had Bailey's - we WERE in Ireland after all - but when I ordered a "double" of Baileys on the rocks, the bar man looked at me as if I had crapped in the bowl of pretzels. I decided not to ask for my customary umbrella, but I think the bar man may have added his own special flair to my "drink" by ashing into it.

By the time Jecr, Roch and the wedding entourage arrived, we were all good and tight. Barty was having a heart to heart with Quincy, my dog-shaped purse, Caho was crawling around under the table looking for the lipgloss I knew to be in her pocket and Jeba was enthusiastically hoisting her pint and shouting "Show us your lad!" at the hunky footballers on the tv along with the rest of the ladies in the bar. As all the family and friends got to know each other and the soon-to-be newlyweds bought round after round, things went from tight and polite to wasted and overly familiar. Bawdy songs, rump slapping and Quincy-molesting ensued and I knew, when I leaned over to Jecr, said "You were RIGHT, man. FUCK rehearsals, man. Let the wedding happen ORGANICALLY, man, like, from the heart, you know?" and then to frenched my Bailey's glass to extract the last drops of sweet, sweet liqueur, that it might be time to go home.

Sodden, screeching and staggering back to our hostel, Jeba and I decided that we'd better eat something before we went to sleep, to lessen the effects of the hangover. Something healthy and hydrating. Something with nutritional value.  So we stopped at the Spar for some Snickers.

The Spar is a 24 hour store, like the 7-11, but after regular hours, instead of going to the store, you had to go to a special window and tell the clerk behind the bullet-proof glass what you wanted. Jeba and I bickered over whether to get four or six Snickers (in case you barf up the first two, you know - you might be hungry later.) We decided on four and told the clerk, who then went into the store and got the Snickers. Then we slid him the money, using a special drawer.  Then he slid the Snickers to us in the special drawer.  This whole experience would have been rather sobering, had we been sober.  Since we weren’t, it was just HILARIOUS.  And I believe it was the hilarity that caused me to choke so badly on the Snickers that I almost blacked out. 

I'm telling you - you haven't LIVED until you've sat on a curb in Belfast, wasted on Bailey's, choking on Snickers, seeing stars and watching your life flash before your eyes (holy shit - I wore STIRRUP PANTS?). Jeba gave me a good hard wallop on the back and I turned to gesture to her to hit me again, when I realized that the wallop was actually caused by her passing out on the sidewalk next to me. This, and my imminent choking death, both struck me as SO funny that I managed to cough up the candy bar and finally get some air. 

"Whew," said Jeba, as she came to. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said in a choked, gravelly tone, "yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

"That was close," I said.

"Totally."

And then we unwrapped our second Snickers and crawled back to Arnie's. The wedding was mere hours away - and we were ready.