Creampuff Revolution

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.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Sixth

In which Creampuff remembers that before her birthday and her grandfather knockin' on heaven's door and the knitting . . . oh, the knitting . . . she was in the middle of something. Back - to IRELAND!!

Belfast! At last! Fresh from our train ride with the champion ballroom dancers, Jeba and I found our way, with relative ease, to the hostel. Jecr, the blushing bride, had been kind enough to make reservations for Jeba and I at a place called "Arnie's", which was quite comfortable, full of hounds (I mean actual dogs, not jerks) and was a cash-only institution.  This caused a minor financial crisis for Jeba, who had limited cash and also didn't know the PIN number of her credit card. Her dramatic note, scrawled in the margin of my journal entry for that day read "I was doing okay until we got here and I got fucked. By Arnie."

Having settled into our room, I hastily called the bride. The wedding was, after all, a mere day and a half away. Surely there must be drama to get embroiled in. Intrigue! Tears! It was my first time as bridesmaid and I was ready to support.

Me: Hi! We're here! And we're READY FOR ANTHING.  Crazy relatives to be managed? Last minute flower emergency? Cold feet?? We can handle it, Jecr! Just point us in the right direction!

Jecr:  Lovely. Well . . . why don't I pop 'round and pick you up and then we can go back to my place for a little visit.

I hesitated. Was this code for something? Clearly it was - she just couldn't talk about it over the phone. Poor Jecr.

Me: (sympathetically) Suuuuuuuuuure. You pop on 'round. We'll be here.

Jeba jostled my elbow.

Jeba: (stage whisper) Ask her about laundry! I'm starting to smell myself!

Me: Oh, Jecr, we wanted to do some laundry sometime tomorrow - before the rehearsal, of course! What time is that going to be?

Jecr: Rehearsal? Ha ha. Are you doing a show?

Me: Ha ha ha. Your wedding rehearsal, silly.

Silence.

Me: You . . . ARE having a wedding rehearsal . . . aren't you?

Jecr:  Pffft.

To this day, Jecr remains the most laid-back bride I have ever had the pleasure of bridesmaiding for.  Any more laid-back and she'd've been in a coma. And guys, I don't think she was secretly panicking and putting on a brave exterior; she was clearly very pleased to be marrying Roch, but seemed genuinely unruffled by the whole bride experience. I was more ruffled than Jecr. And all I had to do was show up.

In the absence of the anticipated chaos, we hooked up with Caho, the other Canadian bridesmaid and had some leisurely tea with Jecr and her wry and humourous mother Frcr, while we helped to open, catologue, covet and, it must be said, occasionally mock the wedding gifts. We unpacked our bridesmaid's dresses to shake the wrinkles out and tried to figure out how to keep the cats from chewing through them before the big day. And then Jecr gave us our wings.

They were simple, the wings. Just some white nylon stretched over wire with silver sparkles as "feathers" and long silver cords hanging off each wing with a tinkly bell at the end. They were very light.

We strapped 'em on.  The wings, I mean.  They bobbed when we walked (still the wings) and the bells tinkled a little.  "Cool," said Jecr and nodded approvingly.

As we all got ready to leave for the evening, we asked a few more questions about the actual wedding, which was taking place the day after next.  The answers were alarmingly vague. We knew the wedding was at Belfast City Hall at 2 p.m. the day after next. We knew we were wearing wings. We knew that Roch's sister Cach would be the third bridesmaid. That was about it.

"Well," we said, as we prepared to leave, "is there anything we should do . . . tomorrow?"

"Well, the two families are having dinner and then we're all gathering at this pub. We should be there around 8, so you should meet us there."

Jeba and Caho's boyfriend Barty brightened when they heard about the pub.

"Oh, by the way," Jecr said to me on our way out, "Roro, you are chief bridesmaid. So you must sit at the head table and be in charge of the wedding rings and make a speech. Okay, see you tomorrow then!"

Oh my god. YEEEEEEEEEEEAH! That's right! My first bridesmaiding gig and I totally make "chief"! I was pumped. Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!

Wait a minute. Speech?

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Fifth

In which Jeba and I take a frantic train trip, meet former U.S. champion ballroom dancers and - finally - get to Belfast.

The day after our Riverdancing drunk old ladies experience, Jeba and I had been planning to catch a lift from Galway to Belfast with Jecr’s future brother-in-law, Anch.  When we called to confirm our plans, Anch, a jovial fellow with a dislike of schedules, let us know that he'd decided not to leave until a day later and thus would not be arriving until the day before the wedding.  At an unspecified time. Or possibly the day OF the wedding.  He wasn't sure - but we were still welcome to catch a ride! Probably.

Since this was my first time as a bridesmaid, I assumed that I should be somewhere near the bride for at least two days before the wedding, to help deal with any wedding-related disasters.  I don't know what I thought might happen - that Jecr's cats might leave decorative turds on the cake or perhaps that Jecr and her mother Frcr might get into such a huge brawl that Caho and I would be left, at the eleventh hour, to figure out the bride's complicated, restrictive underwear. Regardless, I thought that showing up would be a good start to the bridesmaiding experience, so we told Anch we'd make our own arrangements.

Wary of Jeba and the bladder damage another cross-country bus trip might cause, Jeba and I bought tickets on the next best route, which involved taking the train across Ireland from Galway to Dublin, hoofing it across Dublin to from one train station to another to switch train lines and then heading north by train to Belfast. Unfortunately, the day we chose to do travel marked the beginning of a 10-week rail strike in the south of the country. We were giddy to learn that the train lines we'd booked on were unaffected but the agent at the train station warned us to get there early. Because with most of the train lines not running, EVERYONE IN IRELAND would be taking the same train. 

I don't know about you guys, but I . . . am a window seat person. In fact, when I do not get a window seat, I feel nauseated and claustrophobic and panicky.  The exception to this rule is if I am on a plane and have the aisle seat AND the middle seat empty. This, as you may imagine, rarely happens.

Travelling with Jeba generally worked out, because she is an aisle seat person. While I rush onto the conveyance at the first opportunity and jam myself triumphantly into a window seat, Jeba takes her time, preferring to board the vehicle at the last possible moment. Once seated, she often proceeds to mock my cramped posture, for chances are I've been sitting in my window seat for a good half hour before she gets on.  Jeba has never been able to fully grasp my panic at the idea of not getting a window seat - and I still feel that, clearly, her method of travel is insane.

We left Galway very early, got to Dublin no problem and managed to arrive at the other train station in Dublin nearly two hours before our train to Belfast was leaving.  We located the gate where our train would be boarding and I got all excited at being close to first in line - window seat for SURE! - when Jeba said: "Great! We have time for lunch!" And then she went and SAT DOWN to eat lunch!! At a table!! On a day when the trains in the south were on strike!! The line for our train was ALREADY FORMING! SWEET LAVENDER LORD!!

I really could not get a grip on the idea that Jeba preferred to have a leisurely lunch and read a magazine while sitting down instead of standing in line with me and four hundred of my closest friends for two hours.  She could not have shocked me more if she had informed me that there was a roving band of gypsies behind me and they wanted me to be their queen.  Fortunately I wanted to stand in line for two hours, so it all worked out.  And my early line standing paid off with a lovely four-seater with a table. Jeba congratulated my on the spoils of my sacrifice and I gazed at some sheep out the window.

We knew that we wouldn’t have the four seater to ourselves and I'd seen some of the yahoos in line.  I heartily wished for someone inoffensive to join us.  And that’s when we met Ken and Sheila.

Ken and Sheila were straight out of Strictly Ballroom.  Ken was a gregarious American with a Tanfastic membership and Sheila was a dignified Brit in a wide-brimmed hat and bright red lipstick. They were probably in their late fifties. And within minutes of meeting us, Ken and Sheila revealed that they were former U.S. Ballroom Dance champions. CHAMPIONS, people! They were a little stand-offish at first, particularly when they found out that Jeba is an economist, but they blossomed like giant, feather-trimmed chiffon skirts when they heard I was a "fellow artist" and began to discuss capital "A" Art with me enthsiastically. They told tales of travel and competitive triumph and the crazy fox-trotting world of ballroom dance. They spoke to Jeba the economist sternly about the need for more Arts funding. I could not look away as Ken waved Sheila’s hand away from opening her Perrier.  At first I thought he was just being macho but then it became clear that his main concern was that she might BREAK HER NAIL.  I loved these people.

I was, naturally, sad to see Ken and Sheila go when we reached Belfast.  They gave me their card, for their dance studio in California and exhorted me to visit. I never have - but I do still have the card. And one day, maybe I'll get out to Glendale, California and say "Hey, Ken and Sheila - you were really neat." And they will have NO IDEA WHO I AM.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Fourth

In which Jeba and her enormous coffee get their comeuppance (sort of), Roro finds the perfect Irish sweater (sort of) and then they meet some really cool old ladies in a pub.  Also, pictures of the beautiful scarf Roro made for Maja (see left).

If you've been following along, you may recall that when we last left . . . us, my travelling companion Jeba had consumed a gallon of coffee before getting on an hours-long toilet-less bus trip from Cork to Galway.  I told Jeba, when she asked in a tight voice an hour and a half into the trip, that the bus would be making one stop halfway through the trip, in Limerick. By the time we made the stop, she was white-knuckling the armrest in an attempt to not whiz everywhere.  As we pulled in, Jeba pushed old ladies out of the way and rocketed off the bus in search of facilities. I remained aboard to make sure we didn’t leave without her – because I know that nothing good happens when we are Left Behind.   

I was reading my book when I heard Jeba reboard the bus. "It cost 20 pence," she said as she sat back down next to me, her voice awash with relief, "I had to break a punt at the snack stand, I didn’t have any change."  "What didja get?" I asked, looking up from my book to see Jeba take a long pull from another enormous coffee. "Oh, relax," she said, clocking the disbelief on my haggard, dehydrated face, "It’s only another few hours to Galway."

As we travelled the glorious green countryside (it was this kind of green, actually, a tweedy green, 70% wool, 30% silk, the kind you might get from The Wool Mill at Danforth and Woodbine), I felt Jeba's smooth-ridin' coffee-drinkin' posture transition, yet again, from relaxed to rigid. There was leg bouncing. There was tuneless "pleeleeleeeleeleeleeleese don't let me peeyeeeyeeeyeeee in my pants" humming.  There was desperate scrutiny of road signs. When we finally arrived in the city, I was left to retrieve our bags solo while Jeba, knees clamped tightly together but feet flying, narrowly missed kicking the elderly bus driver's junk as she beetled off to find another loo.  I shook my head smugly as I gathered up our luggage and then nearly passed out from dehydration.

Our hostel in Galway was like a fancy YMCA and a real step up from our previous hostel, where everything smelled like sperm and lager. Jeba and I somehow ended up in different rooms and I found myself sharing with a group of very young, sweet, friendly Americans. They were so friendly, in fact, that I barely begrudged them the Canadian flags they all had stitched to their backpacks.

After we had said our hello's to each other and they'd watched me root around in MY Canadian flag- stitched backpack, one of the girls asked me, in a tone of awe, if I was from Ireland. You know, guys - because of that Irish accent I have.  I thought briefly about saying yes, but I knew I would eventually blow my cover. After a few choice phrases like “top of the marnin’ to yeh,” or “I’d like to smash yeh in the face with my shelale,” my "Irish" accent would descend into the same muddle as my other “accents” and I’d end up sounding "Cajun", but with a head injury and a hare lip.

Reluctantly, I told her I was from Canada. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you had an accent up there in Canada!” “I like YOUR accent," I said to her, "Where are you from?” “South Carolina,” she drawled, in the kind of accent that makes "ice" sound like "ass", “Oh, but I don’t have an accent.” And then she told me a story about her youth pastor. Later, when she was in the bathroom, I clipped the maple leaf off her backpack.

It was in a mall in Galway where I finally found my ideal Irish sweater. Most of the other sweaters in the shop were well out of my price range, but one of them was on sale for cheap. Real cheap. Hmmm. I put it on. It was a nice fit, the yarn a lovely brown/grey/cream. It was a cardigan and the buttons were those kind of faux leather grandpa buttons, except these were REALLY faux, like plastic buttons made to LOOK like faux leather. I couldn’t figure out why it was so cheap. No big holes. Mostly symetrical. I decided not to look a gift sheep in the mouth. I bought the sweater, donned it and left the store, stuffing my hands jauntily into the pockets. And that’s when the cheapo sweater mystery was solved.

It hadn't occurred to me to really look at the pockets in the shop. I mean - they're pockets. I proceeded to check them out. Each of the pockets had a big, goofy-looking ram on it. A flocked brown ram. Like a poodle on a poodle skirt. Only a ram. On my sweater. With googly eyes and yellow horns and no visible way from removing it from the sweater without completely destroying the pockets. I checked my receipt. All sales were final. Godammit. "Oh well," I thought, as I wandered back into the hostel, "I didn't notice it in the shop - maybe no one else will either! Yeah!" I stopped to chat with Katherine, the desk clerk. She saw my new sweater and said "Oh! Well, isn't that a lovely - (pause as she clocked the pockets) oh. That's a bit of a 'mammy' sweater, innit?" I nodded. "Ah, well," she said, "perhaps they won't care about that over in Canada, so."

Jeba kindly did not mock the sweater - much.  She reminded me that the best way to get over a bad sweater purchase is to get under a guy with an accordion while drinking, so we went out on the town.  We were thrilled to finally find some somewhat traditional Irish music at a pub called An Pucan.  It was clearly a tourist destination, because we were surrounded by faux Canadians, but Tom Flaherty, his drum machine and his Accordion Guy with the Roving Eye did not disappoint. 

At some point in the night, four wee white-haired old ladies tottered into the pub and were plied with liquor by the elderly gentlemen with them. It turns out that two of the ladies were 75 year old twins. One of them was a NUN. And it was their birthday.  We all sang Happy Birthday for them, we clapped for them, we marvelled at them as they drank big men under the table. We could not look away from these women. And then, during a lively reel, these spry ancient ones rose to their feet and performed together what was surely one of the more challenging sections of Riverdance (sans leather pants and avec orthopedic shoes).  They pranced. They leapt. They twirled. They stomped. They held us in thrall. Surely they would get tired! Surely they would fall and break a hip! Never. They defied us all and danced faster and more furiously and always in unison until the song ended and their eyes flashed triumphantly around the room while we leapt to our feet, hollered ourselves hoarse and clapped our hands numb.

It was a good, good night.

Creampuff Runs Out of Time

You know how you're going on a trip? For, like, a week? And you think "Hey! I got lots of time! Time to pack! Time to prepare the fish for our absence! Time to do laundry! And lots of time to finish this scarf for Maja! So much time! Who cares if I'm knitting at, like, an inch an hour? So what if her birthday is tonight? It's like I've got time coming out my ears here! Feels good!"

Why do I lie to myself, people?  WHY??

I did finish the tweedy green scarf yesterday (pictures later - type now) and it looks divine.  Aside from a teeny tiny square of green action I knit on Christmas Day, it is my first "finished object" (soon, I will have a whole gallery!)  I nearly passed out with anticipation as Maja removed it from the gift bag. Keen that she should show proper appreciation, her gf Reol yelled from across the table "Roro knitted that!!" I blushed with pride as Maja oooh-ed and aaah-ed and put in on and admired its softness and tiny stitches. "I love a short scarf," enthused Maja as she draped it round her neck, "plus, it covers this whipped cream stain on my shirt from when the waiter tilted my head back and squeezed aerosol chocolate and regular whipped cream into my mouth right from the cans!" I resisted telling her that the scarf would have been longer if I'd taken the step of knitting in the ladies shitter, which I briefly considered doing. I quietly sipped my French Kiss martini instead. It was a good night.

In other hilarious news, my mom called to tell me that a letter addressed to me had arrived from Red Deer College, in Red Deer, Alberta (I'm from Edmonton, about 1.5 hours north of Red Deer). I asked her to open it, assuming that it was some kind of newsletter. It turned out to be a request from a Theatre Arts student there for the rights to produce one of my plays as part of their year-end one-act festival.  This is awesome for two reasons:

• The play was actually published as part of an anthology 6 years ago, but since then no one has ever actually produced it (besides me) and;

• The play is about a LESBIAN NUN.  College students in Red Deer want to do a LESBIAN NUN play for their graduating project.  Now, Alberta is not all about rednecks and cowboys shopping. Brokeback Mountain was filmed there, after all, and there are deep and delightful pockets of liberalism throughout the province. But I must confess, I teared up a little at the thought of college students in Red Deer groovin' on the lesbian nun play. Girl on girl action. A lot of cursing. Glow-in-the-dark-Pieta. Sniff. You go, college students. Rock on.

On that note, my better half was playing with a new flickr toy and made this. I have made it my new wallpaper. I suggest you do the same.