Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff is . . . Unwell

Oh my god, you guys. I am sick as a

I didn't want to believe it. At first, I was simply feeling a little dull and uninspired. Then I was a little scratchy throated and had a headache. I hit the ColdFX and hit it hard. I bought some anticipatory Dayquil - you know, just in case things went south. They did. They went south like an eager lover. I am now out of Dayquil. I just spent the last half hour lying on the bed thinking up country song titles that describe how I'm feeling.

I Feel Like Ten Kinds of Ass

If Only I Could Find The Cat That Shat In My Mouth

Thank the Good Lord for the Sweet Sweet Ice Maker in Our Fridge

Jesus, Take the Wheel and Head to the Drugstore For Me

If I Bring That Up One More Time We'll Have to Vote on It

I Feel Like Twelve Kinds of Ass, 'Cause I Thought of Two More

Oh Chicken Soup, I Wish I Could Taste You Tonight

My Woman Up and Left, Was It My Ricola Breath?

It's true - young Katr left this afternoon for a week-long biznass trip. On the one hand, I miss her tender love. On the other hand, we're not gay married yet and do I really want to let her know the extent of my potential for horkaciousness before we tie the knot? I don't think so either.

I hope you all have wonderful disease-free weekends. And I mean that. Me, I'm looking forward to some fine whine and possibly some easy knitting. Although on second thought, maybe just the whining. One more harsh sneeze while holding knitting needles and I might put out my eye.

**UPDATE** I can't believe I forgot to include "Noseminer's Daughter". Damn.

Creampuff Nears End of Victory Lap

I'm a world class procrastinator. In fact, if there was an Olympic event in procrastination, I wouldn't get around to applying.

Given my procrastinatory tendencies, it's not surprising that I've been avoiding setting an actual end date to my victory lap here in Toronto. But yesterday, I finally booked my ticket back to Vancouver. I was proud! And then, a little sad.

An aside: I have to point out here that it's not like I don't horribly miss my beaverancée. I mean, holy shit. She was just here for two days. I'll be home in 12 days. And yet, I am a sniffling mess. My roommate Deye singing beautiful soaring opera upstairs and this news (via Syd) is not helping.

It's true that deciding to become dope-smoking West Coast hippie freaks last summer was an exciting move for Katr and I. But as you can imagine, it felt like LESS of a big deal to ME because I knew I'd be back here for 16 weeks! Living the playwright-in-residence dream! Eating Swiss Chalet for every meal! Having many coffee dates! Taking my pants off in the homes of strangers . . . AND friends! And it has been so. Of course, I realize now that the promise of the victory lap was in fact just another way of procrastinating - you know, EMOTIONALLY. And I'm rapidly getting back in touch with my deep, deep fear of change. Feels good.

Whenever I fear change, I always employ the ingenious reverse psychology move my mother used to get me to leave kindergarten: Would I rather that we hadn't left Toronto at all? Well, no. We were ready for adventure! And a hypothetical dog! Would I like to move back to Toronto now? What? And give up our balconies and hypothetical dog? No! Did you already finish that giant bag of Bridge Mix you bought on Monday? Well . . . yes, but there were circumstances. And so on.

My other (less healthy) strategy for avoiding full-on meltdown in the face of change is to offer myself a pile of delicious procrastinatory nuggets to chew over when the fear is at its most acute. I like a good mix of practical and fantasy nuggets. A sample:

• "Well, it's not OFFICIAL official until I change my Toronto cellphone number!"
• "We're getting gay married in Toronto in November! I'll see everyone then!"
• "Maybe some theatre company here will produce my lesbonic historical fiction play! To great acclaim! And then Gina Torres will call me!"
• "Katr comes to Toronto on business all the time! Maybe someone will ask ME to speak at a conference! A pantslessness conference! Yeah!"
• "Maybe someone will open a Swiss Chalet in Vancouver that delivers!"

I know, I know - we all have dreams. But hey - whatever gets you through, right? So anyway - the point is that the countdown has begun. And I will greatly, GREATLY miss all of my wonderful Toronto friends and countless other things about Toronto, but I will strive not be downhearted! I have a beaverancée to snuggle up to in 12 days! And a hypothetical dog to think about! And a pantslessness conference to plan! Oh, ha ha, and a wedding! And I have to practice not screaming when Gina Torres calls! And let's not forget my Olympic training! Which I am totally starting tomorrow.

Creampuff Welt

Hey. Other creampuffs. We need to get organized. Because we're all victims of a massive (with a capital ASS) conspiracy.

I'm talking about an attack on our pocketbooks, an undermining of our ability to leave the house with confidence and a ravaging of the delicate, sensitive skin of our inner thighs. I'm talking about the planned obsolescence of our pants.

Specifically the crotchal area.

The disintegration of the crotchal area of my pants has been a constant irritation, so much so that I often, given the choice, don't wear pants at ALL. The other day, however, I had to go see our real estate lawyer. And I don't have to tell you that lawyers like it when you wear pants.

I swear I have not worn these particular pants that often. Moreover, I actually inspected the crotch of the pants before I went out, just to make sure I wouldn't be breaking on through to the other side. I was about 15 minutes into my walk to the subway when I felt it. A sudden give. A windy-ness. And then . . .  came then.

When I actually felt my pants disintegrate, I thought I was hallucinating. It went something like: "Surely . . . surely my pants did not just disintegrate. Surely the combination of anti-histamines, caffeine and moving-related muscle ache is causing me to imagine that my thighs are on the loose. Surely no one will notice if I discreetly waggle my hand near my crotch to check if my . . . [gasp] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

And so it was. One minute I'm a sophisticated gal about town, kickin' it to the subway and the next, I'm the lead singer in a band called the Chafetains.

I didn't have time to go back and change into uncompromised pants. I was forced instead to mince my way downtown to the lawyer's office, surreptitiously yanking my right pant-leg up every few paces to minimize the formation of angry, fucked-up-pants welts. Am I turning you on? And then afterwards, instead of my coffee shop/library plans, I had to haul ass to the DUFFERIN MALL to spend $60 that I don't have on emergency pants. And then I was so worn out and tender from my ordeal that I gave up on the rest of my day, went home and iced my crotch.

I know that I am not the only person who has suffered in this way. I also know that Worn Out Pants Crotch Syndrome is not confined to creampuffs - it just hits us earlier and oftener. And what I want to know is why is it that we can put a man on the moon but we can't make my fucking jeans last longer than two months?

I could feed you all kinds of facts about the plus-sized clothing industry and their global conspiracy to chafe me, but then I'd have to find some kind of source for these facts and that would take away from my leftover Hallowe'en candy eating time. My point is that I understand that it is not in the best interests of the clothing manufacturers to make pants that last. That's why it's up to us to deal with our pants.

What we need are some scientifically-inclined creampuffs with some spare time and an aversion to thigh welts.  Together, these creampuffs could create a new creampuff pant crotch fabric - I'm thinking some kind of titanium/denim polymer. Would it be expensive? Possibly. Would it be worth it? DEFINITELY. If I'm already spending $360/year on jeans - that's almost a dollar a day, people! I could sponsor a child for that kind of money! - and not getting handjobs, then spending $250 for a pair of pants that last until I decided not to wear them anymore would be a DEAL. How 'bout it, Science?

Until this fabric miracle comes to pass, I think I'll be saying "no" to pants. Instead, you'll be seeing me about town in this little number.

Jealous?

The Chafetains. Heh heh.

Creampuff May Need to Have Some Kind of Mental Evaluation

When last I checked, my friend Jesk had a white winter coat. So for her birthday this September, I was planning on knitting her a warm fuzzy something that would match her white coat. I had some very nice yarn for the main body of the project but needed a little zaz for the trim. And that's when I found the ball of gorgeous, pure white angora at Three Bags Full. It was a little pricey, but come on - it's ANGORA! And yes, it will shed, but it's white! And Jesk's coat is white! White on white!

I didn't even ask for a handjob at the till.

It was after I got the angora home that I started to have suspicions of the "sneaking" variety about this particular knitting project. Hadn't Jesk told me a story involving her winter coat on the phone this spring? Hadn't something unfortunate befallen the coat? Hadn't Jesk's sister dirtied the coat and then put the coat in the washing machine? And wasn't the coat a down coat? And hadn't Jesk's sister killed Jesk's white winter coat?

An e-mail was dispatched to the birthday girl to confirm.

In the meantime, of course, I couldn't leave the damn angora alone and was dying to see its sweet fuzziness in action. But where to start? Aha!

I taught Katr to knit in March, as she expressed an interest and also a jealousy around my t.v. watching industriousness. Being a genius, she picked it up quickly and actually knitted 3/4 of an attractive pink cellphone cosy before she completely lost interest. She'd repeatedly hinted that if I wanted, I could finish her cosy. And if I finished the cosy, I could trim it with my new fuzzy friend. Score! I couldn't wait to see how it looked!

Well, "darn cute" is how it looked (I'll try and get a photo of it later). But I noticed while I was knitting the three rows of fuzzy white trim that, for the first time in Vancouver, I was feeling . . . scratchy throated. Also, tickle-y.  I sneezed violently once and rubbed my eyes. They immediately started watering. I also noticed that my fingers were very red and a little blotchy. Perplexed and on the verge of another life-threatening sneeze, I looked at the yarn label again. And that's when it hit me.

You were all ahead of me on this, weren't you? And you probably all figured out WAAAAAY before I did, didn't you? You probably all remember that angora comes not from sheep, but from RABBITS, don't you? And who's allergic to rabbits the same way she's allergic to cats? Holy shit. ME.

Sweet fuzzy Christ.

So there I was, with my tiny brain thinking I was knitting with a soft and extremely fuzzy version of this:

while instead, I was knitting with this:

which means that I might as well have been rubbing myself all over with these:

I am itchy just thinking about it.

So it turns out Jesk's new winter coat is forest green and my project idea is totally out the window. Which is fine, because clearly I need to take sometime to knit myself a brain. In other news, I'll be back in Toronto next week, for anyone's who interested in swapping me something for a ball of $13, pure white angora. Slightly used.

Edited to include sexy photos: Here is the cell phone cosy. Makes Katr's phone look a little racy, I think. Now if only she'd get that "If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right" ringtone, the package would be complete . . .

An Open Letter to Creampuff's Grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

First of all, I can't BELIEVE you DIED on my BIRTHDAY this year.  I think that Katr and I were watching Pride and Predjudice when you slipped away, the old-school, 6-hour version with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. You would have dug it for sure.

I guess I'm reading some bible passages (I don't recall you being all hot for the Lord, but I do know you loved you some tradition) and my uncle is doing the eulogy at your funeral Wednesday. But I wanted to write down what I thought were some cool things about you.

I love how, when we were talking about watching the Oscars tonight, I told Katr that I always thought you kinda looked like Humphrey Bogart and that when I said that, she gave me this dubious look that said "Really?" And then she actually said "Really?" But I think you did. And I remember that you tried to hide that you were a little tickled when I told you that you looked like Humphrey Bogart a long time ago. I know you were a fan.

I love that even though you broke your hip three weeks ago and the doctors weren't keen to operate, 'cause you were nearly 94 and not feelin' so hot to begin with, you just weren't keen to die.  I love that you managed to get the most out of socialized medicine, including a new hip, before you decided to blow this popsicle stand. Ha!

I love that when I brought my girlfriend to your house for the first time, you had no idea who she was or why she was there and you probably didn't want to know - but you brought her into the front room and showed her all your medals and awards and certificates anyway, because you had a lot of them and what is the fucking POINT of awards if you don't show them, multiple times, to everyone who comes to your house, every TIME they come to your house.

I love that you were really proud of my dad and showed me his graduation picture a lot, even though my dad was rockin' the Jesus look at the time.

I love that in your lawyerly prime there were few who dared incur your wrath, for you were a formidable opponent.  I also love that most people haven't seen that picture of you in a fluffy tutu performing in a revue at Hart House. Great gams, Grandpa.

I love that the last two times you came to my shows, you proudly told everyone in line, at the ticket table, next to you in the audience, that I was your eldest granddaughter. I love that I was really nervous, because both those shows had a lot of cursing and lesbonic content and I love that I needn't have worried, because it was dark in the theatre and you'd gotten a little deaf in your old age, and you totally slept through them both.

I love how an e-mail from my uncle to my father about bible passages to be read at your funeral contained the following quote: "I have reviewed the passages and attach the King James version (I recall Dad not being pleased when the new revised version came in)." I love that you thought the "new revised version" of the bible blew.

I love your hands.  You had the best hands, Grandpa.

I have so much more to say . . . but if you taught me anything with that endless story about England and the church and the bell and the book you liked to tell over and over again, it's that sometimes, brevity really IS the soul of wit. If I have any regrets about our time together, it is this: that I waited too long to learn to knit and did not get a chance to make you a glorious, ridiculous scarf.

With much love from your eldest granddaughter,

Roro

p.s. Uh . . . I'm a lesbian. Okay, you rest in peace now.

Creampuff Rejection

I have some earth-shattering news for all of you:  "la rejection", or, as we say in English, "rejection"? BLOWS.  It BLOWS. 

My usual strategy, when I am rejected (personally or, in the most recent two cases, professionally), is to:

a) have a good cry;

b) hide;

c) eat my weight in ice cream; and

d) tell everyone who'll listen about how the rejectors have crabs.

They say that when you don't get something you apply for (a grant, a job, a grant/job combo etc.), you should take the opportunity to follow up with the interviewer or selection committee, you know, to get some "feedback" on why you didn't get the grant/job.  Personally, I feel that "we're not giving you the grant/job" is the feedback and my follow-up would go something like "Fuck you!  HA ha!" (sound of me keying their car).  I have never acted on this follow-up tactic, partly because I was too sluggish due to ice cream, partly because of the hiding and partly because I don't like to receive feedback in subpoena form.

So, given my usual modus operandi in the face of rejection, I am quite pleased with my reaction to this latest crapfest.  This time, I am trying a different tack.  This time, I'm TOTALLY following up, in a non-swearing, no-keying-car-or-more-likely-bicycle way.  This time, I actually PHONED (not e-mailed - this is a big deal for me, as I fear phoning pizza parlors, let alone rejectors) one of these folks and set up a meeting for the new year.  And I just fired off an e-mail to Rejector Deux (I'm only brave enough for one of these calls a day), and will hopefully set up a meeting with them.  Because, as I learned by watching this jerk I dislike become more and more successful based solely on his ability to kiss ass and be all up in people's faces, sometimes you have to be more aggressive to get what you want.  And hey - I can do that.

So . . . that's my action plan.  The crying, I believe, may still play a part, and I do have ice cream on hand, but, uh . . . none of this "hiding" bullshit.  And I'm going to hold back on the public accusation of crabs. 

For now.

Creampuff Ruminates on Evacuation

The “leaving your home and all worldly possessions” kind of evacuation, not the “dump so big you have to take a nap afterwards” kind. I’ll save THAT discussion for a different post.

My ex-roommate Jesk and I were discussing the notion of evacuation the other day and how, if you’ve made a home somewhere, it would be difficult to take the whole idea of just leaving it seriously. Of course, it would also depend on who was advising you to evacuate in the first place. If former Toronto mayor and complete yahoo Mel Lastman told us all to evacuate, we’d remember that he called the army in to deal with a snow storm and that during the SARS crisis, he referred to the World Health Organization as “WHO? Who is this WHO everyone is talking about?” on CNN. If Mel Lastman told us to evacuate, we’d probably just tell him to “shut it". Having heard New Orleans mayor Ray Nagin on the radio recently, however, I’m pretty sure I would’ve gotten my ass out of town on HIS say so. But then again, maybe not.

Apparently, the people on the Gulf Coast are advised to evacuate due to inclement weather at least once a year and after a while, even if you do have the means to evacuate and somewhere safe to go, you’d probably start to think “Dude - really? How bad can it be?” One New Orleans resident compared it to the “Boy Who Cried Wolf", but it reminds me of the “Jerks Who Used to Pull the Fire Alarm” at my high school. That bell went off at least once a week and never, not ONCE in three years, did anyone make a move to leave the building. Except for that one time when the fire bell started clanging, stopped abruptly, then came back on again, accompanied by the vice principal’s voice over the intercom, saying “HEED THE ALARM". Still thinking it was a drill, our math teacher told us, in his 50’s instructional film voice, to “walk briskly, but don’t run". So we walked briskly outside into -25C weather without our coats on and huddled together as the fire trucks came to put out the fire in our school. They wouldn’t let us back into the school, so we all piled into Chkw’s tiny little car, took our bus pass money and went to Pharoah’s Pizza. And then the next day, when we all had to evacuate due to a chemical spill caused by the fire, we did the same thing all over again. Good times.

Anyway - one of the online personal questions I discussed in a previous post is “Name five things you can’t live without.” So let’s say you have to leave your home with, like, a backpack and after you’ve filled it with necessities like ID, extra underwear, eyeglasses, survival knitting supplies, etc. you have room for five objects of personal signifiance. What would you take with you? A cherished stuffed animal? Granny’s hatpin collection? Sex toys, in case you end up in Texas, where they’re hard to come (heh heh) by?

I think my five things would have to be:

*My laptop, which contains all my early correspondence with Katr, not to mention 14 years of work

*My grandmother’s engagement ring, ‘cause I feel like that’s important

*The journal my parents gave me that covers the year where I finally figured everything out

*The cool spiral necklace Katr got me for Christmas

*A tie: My Eco-Challenge Borneo tapes (because those fuckers will probably never release it on DVD) OR an econo-size jar of Nutella. For when things look bleak, nothing comforts like chocolate hazelnut spread. Or watching someone try to pull a leech out of his urethra. Do you see why it’s a tie?

Comments:

1. Never did I expect to hear the words leech and urethra in the same sentence. I will never be the same. Nor will I swim in anything that isn’t well stocked with chlorine.

   Comment by Tony — Thursday, September 8, 2005 @ 4:54 pm

2. Man, I hear ya. The guy it happened too sounded pretty calm, but I think that’s only because he probably hadn’t slept for several days. GOD, I love the Eco-Challenge!

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, September 8, 2005 @ 5:10 pm

3. Yeah, you know, I’d take that Nutella. Mmm. Nutella.
   Oh, the memories of those fine days in HACHS history…remember how the fire alarm started, was turned off, the usual announcement to teachers to “check the hallways” (presumably for the rapscallion who set it off in the first place) came on, and some kid had to run from the lab that was on fire into the office and say “hey, no, there IS a FIRE!” before they turned it back on? and the pizza, with its choking-hazard mounds of mozza…remember how the second day, when they told us once again that they weren’t kidding and we really needed to evacuate, how we all went to our lockers first to get our coats and some slurpee money? Never let it be said that we were unable to learn from our mistakes. Danke schon for the memories.

   I have a lot to say about New Orleans but I’ve been saying most of it to my lovely parents, who begin or end most conversations with “we’re so glad you don’t live there anymore.” (Me too.) (All my friends who DO still live there evacuated. No word on whether they still have jobs, homes or stuff.) As to why people didn’t leave…well, the poverty rate is 3 times the national average and the percentage of disabled people is considerably higher than the national average, and there are many people who live there without cars who aren’t dirt poor, so figure about 1/3 of the people probably didn’t have the vehicles, or the gas money to leave, and there was no public transportation out of town. Which is dumb. And then, if you’d made it through the hurricane, and then the flooding, and, like, a week later some out-of-town National Guardsman came a-knockin’ saying “um, it’s not safe, time to go” you’d probably be like, “ok, but no, because the hurricane? happened a WHILE ago, man. and the floods? are RECEDING now. Since I made it this far, I think I’ll stick it out.” Unless you were me, in which case you’d look at the big gun and say “ok, sure, whatever.” But I’d be taking that Nutella with me.

   Comment by Chezza — Thursday, September 8, 2005 @ 6:43 pm

4. How crazy is it that there was no public transport out of town? It’s like “Get out - you know, if you can make your own arrangements.” Like your parents, Chezza, I too am glad you don’t live there anymore. But I’m glad that you USED to, ‘cause otherwise I never would have seen it.

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, September 8, 2005 @ 7:02 pm

5. Hi! I like your blog. What would I take? Hmm…interesting question. I’d probably take, family photos (my parents have passed away), this little wood box I’ve had since childhood that contains items I’ve gotten in every place I’ve ever lived-ex. acorn from tree in Germany, grandmothers engagement ring, autographed Brett Farve jersey, my computer (so I can blog-lol). Anyway thanks for the great comment on my site, it’s nice to know someones reading!

   Comment by Leo — Saturday, September 10, 2005 @ 9:46 pm

Creampuff Didn't See THIS Coming Either

You can’t really see that the title of this book is New Orleans is Sinking.

Padu and I visited Chezza in The Big Easy about 4 years back and when the shit went down last week, I tried to find the photos of my trip. Oddly, I couldn’t. But I DID find the spell candles we bought from Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo, so I lit the one for wellness and sent some healing vibes in the direction of all those poor, poor folks.

If healing vibes seem an insufficient way to send aid or support to the hurricane survivors, Katr’s got some great links, resources and writings on her blog about the aftermath of Katrina. There are some tips on what to do if you want to help and some info on avoiding hurricane relief scams, because some people, ah . . . are jerks with crabs. And should be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And then given more crabs.

As for me - once I’ve chosen a charity to make my donation to, I’m going to set a date with Sahi to begin my survival knitting lessons. If Katr is right and things go all Mad Max down there, I want to be ready.

Comments:

1. Honey Bunny, you have an open invitation for free - free! - knitting lessons. Just say the word….:)

   Comment by Sarah — Friday, September 9, 2005 @ 7:17 pm | Edit This

2. Thanks, man! You’re the best. I’m carding my dandelion fibre wool as we speak.

   Comment by Rose — Friday, September 9, 2005 @ 7:30 pm

Sad Creampuff

Oh, guys. After a down and dirty fight of Herculean proportions, my good friend Reol’s mom died of cancer this afternoon. Kids - call your moms.

Comments:

1. Just happened by here and saw this post and wanted to express my sympathies. I lost my mother when I was 18 and you’re right: folks need to speak with those they care about when they feel it because you never know when you’ll have another chance. True not just about mothers but everyone.

   Comment by Katharine — Tuesday, May 17, 2005 @ 9:26 pm 

2. Hey Not sure how we found your blog but glad we did. It’s a great blog. Sorry about your friends mother.
   we have bookmarked you and will keep checking in. Take care!

   Comment by Misty — Wednesday, May 18, 2005 @ 3:00 pm