Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Not Ready for a New Year

It's frikkin' New Year's Eve already and I do not feel prepared.  I generally try to avoid writing "A Year In Review" type posts, because as Edna says in The Incredibles, "I never look back, darling.  It distracts from the NOW."  I must say, though, that I DO enjoy a little Year in Preview. 

My resolutions this year include the mandatory "spend more time at the gym" and "flossing".  I am adding "kick my Neopet addiction" to this year's list and after my hilariously unsuccessful attempt earlier to drop off a grant application at 4:00 p.m. on a day that is both a Saturday AND New Year's Eve (the thing is due January 1st - why?  WHY?), I am also adding "be more organized."  I hope to achieve great things this year by cultivating a "virtuous cycle" of good habits.  "Virtuous cycle" (as in, the opposite of a "vicious cycle") is a phrase I learned on the CBC one morning and I find it very appealing.  I think that if Mrs. Parker had been part of the Virtuous Cycle instead of the Vicious Circle, she might not have been such a boozehound.

Katr got us off to a great start for the new year by single-handedly rearranging our entire study (desk, futon, filing cabinets, bookshelf, fishtank!) this afternoon.  Yes, while I was engaged in the back-breaking work of having a delightful lunch with friends, being locked out of a building wherein I hoped to leave my grant application and enduring minutes - MINUTES, I tell you! - of deep ire at the grocery store as the mouth-breathing clerk held up the line of irate shoppers with override error after override error, my girlfriend was actually MAKING OUR LIVES BETTER.  I was so impressed and grateful when I got home, I nearly dropped the New Year's Pie. 

Heroine though she is, Katr was probably wise to rearrange the study without my "help".  Katr and I do many things well together but moving large objects around a room is not one of them.  It really comes down to communication and how when spacial relations is involved, we just cannot handle it. We get in each other's way - we look at each other quizzically - when we speak to each other, our tones suggest that each comment should be followed by "dumbass", as in "I don't think the drawer should be facing the wall, dumbass."

Though Katr would never say this, the REAL reason we can't rearrange rooms together is that when Katr rearranges a room, she organizes, plans and executes in a logical way.  When I rearrange a room, I should be wearing a helmet.  And the room should be padded.  And if Katr has to watch, she should probably be sedated.  When it comes to rearranging rooms, Katr and I are like Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman in the opening credits in the '80's TV classic, Beauty & the Beast - "[when it comes to rearranging rooms] although we cannot be together, we will never, ever be apart."  I'm the hairy, sewer-dwelling one.  In case you were wondering.

In any case, I wish you all a very Happy New Year and all the best in 2006!  "More frequent posting" is definitely on my list - right after "knit cozy for helmet".

Creampuff Sees Her Future

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Creampuff Solstice!

I know it's not until tomorrow, but I thought I'd take this opportunity to wish you all a Happy Solstice!!  Katr and I are very excited to be spending ours in Victoria, B.C., with my family.  We have our own Solstice rituals when we're in Edmonton and last year in Toronto, we participated in the Kensington area Solstice parade, but this year in Victoria, we may have to improvise.  Victoria apparently has a strong pagan community, but we found meagre results in our online search for Solstice activities.  We do like a little touchy-feely-crunchy-granola-unbleached-tampon-wassail-drinking-poetry-reading feel to our Winter Solstice celebration but ads for Solstice activities which read: "Feeling alone and misunderstood?  Come be our sister!" ah . . . don't really capture the spirit.  You know . . . for us.

So clearly, we'll have to create our own Solstice adventure.  As the place we're staying has a late check-in time, we may start the party early, as my dad suggested.  Paint the rented van, grow our hair long, get baked and start a band.  Look out for a guerilla performance by hot new blues/bodily emissions fusion group Dr. K and the Repeaters.  I will be the one on trombone.

Despite the fact that my parents have a condo there and my brother spent four years at university there, I have not actually been to Victoria since my ninth grade band trip fifteen years ago. I didn't play the trombone in band, by the way.  In Grade 7, when we got assigned our instruments, I was physically unable to buzz and I couldn't make a noise on the flute, so I got the clarinet.  But I did switch to tenor sax in 8th grade, so you know . . . that was cool.

Our band took a bus to Victoria from Edmonton and it was a long trip.  I remember being very bitter at Chezza (Trumpet), who spent the majority of the bus trip in the back of the bus, flirting with Percussion, whereas I nearly had to have an arm amputated after being slept on for nearly the full 16 hours by Bass Clarinet.  I remember that Victoria in March was lovely and green and blooming and I remember that the highlight, the really CRAZY thing my friends and I did on the Grade 9 band trip was go to a mall and watch Jecr (Euphonium) get her ears pierced - AGAINST HER MOTHER'S WISHES!!!  We LIED and said she was 16!!! But she was only 14!!  HA HA!!!  GOD, we were wild!!! 

Nowadays, I bet kids get nipple piercings done on band trips. 

Another thing I remember about the band trip is how good the other band was.  Like, we thought we were a good band - compared to other Grade 9 bands in Edmonton at the time, we really were the shit.  But this Victoria band - they were the BIG shit.  I'd experienced feelings of inferiority on a personal level, but never before had I questioned the supremacy of our band.  It was an uncomfortable feeling, rather how one feels when one discovers that Furtles give one gas. 

The point is that I am really looking forward to seeing Victoria through adult eyes (which now include glasses) and breathing the ocean air through an adult mouth (which no longer contains braces).  I hope you all have a fabulous Solstice and/or any other religious holidays you choose to observe.  I'll do my best to keep you posted on our activities and who knows?  Perhaps this time next year, you'll be able to buy a Dr. K and The Repeaters - Window Crackin' Christmas CD for your loved ones!  Watch this space for further updates.

Creampuff Bares her Belly

I stumbled onto some weight loss blogs recently and it was like I’d triggered my own special kind of post-traumatic stress / recovered self-hating fat girl disorder.  Some people were writing about how they cried after getting on the scale for their post-holiday weigh-in.  Other people were religiously recording how many calories or carb or fat grams or “points” they’d consumed.  But the worst part, the most distressing part about some of these weight loss bloggers was the deep, deep self-loathing that permeated each and every post.  Reading about how wretched and unworthy and disgusting they felt because they were fat made it difficult for me to breathe. 

I remember hating myself that much. I remember starving the hate off; I remember stuffing the hate down with lots of pie and I remember cutting the hate out with exacto knives, so that at the age of 26, there was barely a place on my body that wasn’t stretch-marked or scarred. 

I’ve accomplished some pretty cool things in my life, but none can hold a candle to this: I decided to stop.  Hating.  Myself.

Okay, so it took nearly two years, some incredible friends and, you know, therapy, but holy fucking shit – what a relief!  Looking at those weight loss blogs, I realized that I would chew my own foot off before I allowed myself to think those shitty, shitty things about myself (or count carb grams) ever again.  Health at any size, man.  Sing it.

Ye olde weight loss blogs got me thinking about that whole, you know, life-changing process.  Even after I decided that there wasn't any part of my body that wasn't strong or sexy or beautiful, I still had some work to do on how to present that to the world.  I started to think about my body and about the way that I dressed; I did an inventory of my body parts and decided that really, the only part of my body that I was REALLY uncomfortable with, and about, was my stomach. 

Check it.  My stomach is big.  It's big and it's cuddly and it STICKS OUT.  I used to wear only long, voluminous shirts and not just to cover my ass - 'cause, as my friend Jeba says, you can't hide an ass that big. And really, why would you want to?  It's glorious!  My clothing choices were generally based on camouflaging my stomach.  My stomach was shy. . . or so I thought!  I was looking at myself and my tummy in the mirror one night and I suddenly realized there was a reason my stomach refused to stay hidden, refused to be pulled in or masked or ignored - SHE NEEDED MORE ATTENTION.

I know, I know - why didn't I think of that BEFORE?  So the next day at work, I went up to my friend Sahi and I said "So I decided last night that the reason my stomach sticks out so far is that it needs more attention." And my friend Sahi said "Ooooooo . . ." and she reached out and she TOUCHED MY STOMACH.  I’m not going to lie to you - my tummy was a little tense. Seriously, I was constipated for a couple of days and I'm pretty sure it was the unfamiliar tummy contact.  But my tummy soon adjusted.  And then I asked Rela and Mowy and Capr and Empa and Geto and Subr and Jugr and Reol and Erar and Romo and Maja and Padu and Paba and Paha and Chpa and Jeba and Deye and Meha and Sabo and Sura and Mipa.  And they all touched or rubbed or laid hands on or poked or massaged or grabbed or cuddled or, in one case, cyber-hugged my belly and my belly LOVED the attention.  She BASKED in it.  I worried for awhile that my belly was becoming a real 'ho - but then I decided that she had actually just invented a new kind of interactive fat girl performance art.  I highly recommend it to anyone whose stomach needs to see and be seen.  Tummy touching – it’s the new black.

My tummy is pretty monogamous these days; I shacked up with another gorgeous fat girl and generally, my belly needs are met.  But every now and then, my stomach needs a little extra . . . somethin’.  In those moments, I track down my girlfriend (usually by following the sound of rapid typing), raise my shirt above my navel and inform her that: “My belly is available for rubbing, if you are interested.”

She is always thrilled to comply.  And that, my friends, is love.

Creampuff Sees Fuzz, Eats Weed

Katr and I were at our neighbourhood Second Cup again this morning, enjoying a holiday latté and eavesdropping on the cops at the next table. 

Unfortunately, the Mild Mannered Dark Haired Girl had the Michael Bublé CD cranked so high I couldn’t hear shit (or rather, shit BESIDES the ambient shit of Michael Bublé – as Melissa would say, I shake my fist at you, Bublé!!) but the cop’s presence reminded me of that urge I get to make “bomb” jokes at the airport or “how many DVD’s do you think can I fit into my purse” comments next to the holiday security guard at the HMV.  Everyone enjoys a little kafuffle now and then.  With the Second Cup cop this morning, I wanted to lean over and say “Hey, fuzz – are you going to be here long?  I got a business deal going down here at noon and . . . what are you doing with those handcuffs?”

Pretty much any time I see a police officer, I turn to whoever I’m with and hiss “It’s the fuzz!  EAT THE WEED!”, which I believe is from a Gene Hackman Gabe Kaplan film, possibly Hoosiers Fast Break (Thanks, Dad! I can always trust you to remember the movies where the guys eat the weed.) While the phrase in itself is pretty funny, its nostalgia value is also high (ha ha!  HIGH!  Get it?  Because we were talking about . . . okay, I can see by your face that you got it) due to an incident that occurred at the Edmonton Fringe Festival in the mid-‘90’s.

I haven’t been to the Edmonton Fringe in several years but for a while there, the Fringe ran a green room for the hundreds of local, national and international artists who perform at what I believe is still North America’s largest Fringe Festival.  The green room was the coolest – the beer was cheaper, the food was delicious and also cheaper and there were couches.  There were two parts to the green room – the couchy ante-chamber and then a main space that was full of tables and chairs and lit up like a Much Music Video Dance Party.  Cool musicians would jam in the main space and there would be much carousing and dancing and smoking.  And the smoking – mostly, but not always, cigarettes.

One magical night when Padu and I and the rest of our cast were hanging out in the couch-filled part of the green room, some of Alberta’s finest came in, wearing full cop regalia.  Padu and I exchanged excited, slightly drunken glances and hissed in unison “It’s the fuzz.  EAT THE WEED!” and we LAUGHED and laughed.

A couple of minutes later, the fuzz emerged from the main green room space with a fellow in handcuffs who looked like a scruffier Kiefer Sutherland and who was loudly protesting that as an American, they had no right to arrest him.  We heard him should “It’s medicinal!” as they took him out the door. 

Clearly, someone had tipped the fuzz off to the presence of the weed, which is weird enough as it is, but the REAL mystery was how this particular guy got caught.  The main area of the green room was an enormous, dimly lit warehouse.  It would be hard to pick a pot smoker out of the haze. 

Later, our friend Trsc, a witness to the event, filled us in.  Apparently, the officers entered the main space and their attention was immediately drawn to the perp, who, when he saw the cops, raised a loud n’ jaunty toast to them with his beer.  He then proceeded, in full view of the officers, to prepare a joint.  As the cops headed towards him, he licked the edge of the rolling paper with a flourish, pinched the ends of the joint carefully, grinned at the cops, drew out his lighter and sparked it. The officers reached the suspect before he inhaled.

What makes this whole thing even more ridiculous was that our witness, Trsc, said that he sensed the cops weren’t actually interested in making an arrest that night.  Someone had complained, they were looking in to it in a perfunctory sort of way, end of story.  If this guy hadn’t been so darn obvious in his flouting of the law, nothing would have happened.  But such blatant baiting of the boys in blue – alliterative AND disrespectful.  They didn’t WANT to arrest Reefer Sutherland - they HAD to.

Ten years later, that incident still makes me grin whenever I see a cop.  My theory, looking back, is that Reefer was engaging in some kind of performance art.  It WAS the Fringe after all.  And now, whenever I see a police officer, I want to do it too!  Yeah!!!  Stick it to the man!!!

Maybe after my latté.

Creampuff Ruins a Perfectly Good Cup of Coffee

I'd just like to take a second here to go off on products that purport to taste like the "real" thing but, in reality, suck. 

I learned this harsh lesson last year, when I bought a bag of sugar-free, carob Furtles, in an effort to lighten my holiday sugar consumption.  I was not only grossed out by their nasty taste, but I also spent a number of hours dealing with their unadvertised "laxative" effect.  In fact, these little turds of Satan caused me to rush to the bathroom with such speed and urgency that I renamed them "Hurtles".

Clearly, the Hurtles of 2004 didn't stop me from sinning again, this time by trying to replace my ordinary egg nog with So Nice Noël Nog Flavoured Soy Beverage.

Why do I always forget that soy milk (unless it's in a chai latté, where cloves mask everything) tastes like wooden popsicle sticks?  Why did I think that soy NOG would be any different?  And what, WHAT possessed me to pour a liberal amount of this faux nog into my incredibly delicious Alternative Grounds fair trade organic coffee?

Now my coffee tastes like wooden popsicle sticks.  And a little nutmeg. 

I am returning the Tofurkey RIGHT NOW.

Creampuff at the Shower

I went to a baby shower this weekend for my friend Rela.  This is Rela's first child and Rela's sister Sala was throwing the shower, so I knew it would be okay.  Sala, Katr and I went on a fat girl shopping spree in Buffalo a couple of summers ago.  We have a bond.

The *idea* of gift showers generally chaps my ass, partly because I still associate them with het privilege (although really, here in Canada, it's all: "Wedding/baby showers - they're not just for hets anymore!") and partly because . . . no, that was probably it.  In the past, I passive-aggressively registered my disgruntlement by giving extraordinarily cheap "gifts" at showers.  I'll shell out for a wedding but a shower too?  You're getting a clubpack of PopTarts and you're gonna like it.

The first ever wedding shower I was invited to was for a university friend of mine, Lama.  She was marrying a man who was training to be a High Lutheran minister.  He signed all his love notes "Yours (as long as the Lord sees fit), Joku."  The theme was "Recipes" and you were supposed to buy Lama a kitchen implement of some kind and provide a recipe that involved that implement.  I stole a spoon from Atkinson cafeteria, bought a packet of lemon jell-o and a packet of lime jell-o and provided a very detailed, two-page recipe for "Roro's Lemon-Lime Jell-o". Surprisingly, I did not receive a thank-you card.

I attended another hideously awkward wedding shower (which, I believe, was organized by the same woman who did Lama's shower) where the main event was blindfolding the bride-to-be, handing her a baseball bat and then letting her loose on a pinãta shaped like a penis.  The vim with which the bride whacked the penisãta did not bode well for her groom.  I believe that my gift, on that occasion, was a 2lb bag of M&M's.

So wedding/baby showers - they aren't my favourite thing. But I must say that all the ones I've been to lately have turned out to be highly enjoyable.  I suspect this is because most of my friends who are getting hitched or reproducing are very cool (often queer) people.  They hold showers that are low-key and either heavy with irony or have a folksy community feel.  Rela's shower was both ironic and folksy and therefore, good times.  Also, there was cheese.  Also, cake.  Also, we didn't have to play ANY variation of the "Dirty Diaper" games that our friend Jusm got me all concerned about the night before the shower.  I kinda thought she was kidding, but I found this "game" and many like it online:

Surprise Baby Diaper- You need as many diapers as there are guests.  Take only one diaper and create a "poop mess" inside (using chocolate).  Either tape diapers underneath chairs or place diapers in some sort of basket and pass out to guests, having them choose their diaper.  Have guests open the diapers at the same time.  The one with the "surprise" diaper wins!!!

Wins WHAT?  A chance to vomit on the hostess?  The opportunity to make your own "poop mess" on her rug?  Jesus Christ!

One of the games we did play (for there WERE games), was the "advice" game, where everyone writes down a piece of parenting advice and the mom-to-be has to guess who gave the advice.  Rela picked my gem of wisdom out immediately, probably because it was the only one that contained the word "tits", but my co-gifter, Mipa, and I also filled our gift card with our own (childless) parenting tips.  I know that Rela found them useful.  I hope you will too. 

1. Babies can be real jerks.
2. Keep your liquor cabinet locked.  Babies dig whiskey and will soil your couch.
3. Feeding babies cake all the time is not good for their digestive systems.  Be sure to alternate cake and pie.
4. Hide your car keys.  Babies think they are great drivers, but they are wrong.
5. It is never too early to teach your baby how to do the dishes.
6. Babies - too young for nose rings.  There will be time for nose rings later on.  Like after the dishes are done.

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's Holiday Diet Tips

  Every "women's" magazine out right now has "Holiday Diet Tips" on their covers and I like to check in every year to see if the tips have gotten any more innovative:

"Before going to a party, strap your dog's electric shock collar to your wrist and cover it with a festive bangle!  Give the remote control to your husband and make sure he knows the limits you've set for yourself.  When you reach for that 4th cookie, he'll know to zap you - and you'll know how much he cares about helping you keep your girlish figure!"

That's where I imagine the Woman's World Weekly tip would end; the Cosmo version would probably also include how, as a reward for staying slim and sexy, you can go home and use the shock collar on your husband's junk to give him "a night he'll never forget!"

Sadly, it seems that the holiday diet tips for this year are pretty much the same as they are every year:

1. Fill up on healthy veggies before a party to curb your appetite!
2. No time to get to the gym?  Try personal trainer Jim Skidnicky's Turkey Squats!  20lb turkey x 3 sets of 12 reps= a firm, toned behind.
3. 4 words:  "Is this eggnog fat-free?"

Fat-free eggnog?  Light eggnog is one thing, but FAT-FREE?  Eating carrots - actually, scratch that, carrots are full of carbs - celery instead of shortbread cookies shaped like moose?  Why not just hit yourself in the face with a board?

I will be the first to acknowledge that the holidays are less fun when you feel like barfing fruitcake all the time. But I feel that the magazine diet tips really discourage you from capitalizing on the JOY of the season, which, for me, involves indulging in those fleeting, holiday-only treats, like fruitcake.  And that, my friends, is cold, wet and wrong.

My gay friend Brle (a junior creampuff) and I used to make an action plan that enabled us to enjoy ourselves and yet avoid getting even fatter over the holidays - he and I would coordinate so that we got home to Edmonton at the same time every December.  The deal was that we could eat anything we wanted while at home, but at 6:00 a.m. every day, Brle would pick me up at my parents' house and we would go to the gym and work out.  This practice actually worked for the first 2 years, but I started noticing in year 3 that Brle's workouts were getting . . . shorter.  At first, he would do weights and then the recumbent bike and then stretching.  Then he decided that weights were unnecessary and that he would just do the bike and stretching.  Then he decided that stretching was as good as a cardio workout "if you do it right" and then one day, once I hit the main gym, I didn't see him at all.  I eventually found him having a milkshake in the cafeteria, watching the men's swim team work out in the pool below.  "Their speedos - they're so TIGHT.  Pass me that gingerbread man."

Even in the face of Brle's defection, I've tried to keep up the tradition of gym attendance over the holidays, mainly because I find exercising allows me to put away more light eggnog.  Strength training also creates a need for more protein, a need I like to meet with my latest holiday treat love, Life Brand "Pecan Clusters" from Shoppers Drug Mart.  They are essentially fake Turtles.  Which I why I call them "Furtles".

Mmmm.  I love Furtles.  I especially love that they're $3.00 cheaper than brand name Turtles.  Also, they have pecans in them.  What do nuts have?  Protein and fibre, people.  I can practically hear my muscles building.

So I guess that really sums up my holiday health philosophy.  Hit the gym and make sure you get helpings from each of the four holiday food groups:  fruitcake, furtles, eggnog and turkey n' stuffing sandwiches.  Because this shit only comes by once a year!  And dieting over the holidays makes the Baby Jesus cry.

Creampuff Coffee Break

There is a blonde girl who works at my neighbourhood Second Cup.  She is very disgruntled.  She is quite young – possibly even a teen – and looks like she’s on the lamb from the National Ballet School, yet she appears to be a senior member of the staff.  I was there this morning, thinking about life in outer space, and was privy to a series of inarticulate diatribes about the new “holiday” staff.  The jist of these diatribes regarding holiday staff is this: she HATES them.

I deliberately chose this Second Cup (Yonge & Wood, for you locals) because:

a)      There’s always a seat;

b)      There are a couple of places to plug your laptop in; and

c)      They charge money for wireless internet access, which BLOWS and which then encourages me to eschew the information superhighway and actually get some work done.  For those of you interested in FREE wireless access in the GTA, by the by, check out www.wirelesstoronto.ca

I got a good hour and a half into my work before I started to really listen in on the drama by the espresso machine.  It all started when the disgruntled blonde girl angrily slammed the door to a cupboard and said "GOD!" so loudly I almost called the police.  I was riveted.

Disgruntled Blonde Girl:  Rory threw the cloths out!  What am I supposed to wipe the steamer spout with, my bare HANDS?  GOD.

Mild Mannered Dark Haired Girl:  There’s more cloths under the bean grinder.

DBG:  (will not be comforted) That’s not the point.  The point is that then he wrapped the shortbread wrong.

(This is true.  The holiday shortbread rolls look like ass.  I feel some kinship with Rory, as I too am challenged with it comes to wrapping gifts.  No matter how much time and care I take to do things up nice, my presents always come out looking like blind children from Ecuador wrapped them with their feet.)

MMDHG:  Well . . .

DBG:  Michelle came in and said “What happened to the shortbread rolls?”, like I was supposed to do something about them and I’m like “It’s not my fault you guys hired a retard.”

MMDHG:  Did you SAY that?

DBG:  Duh, no.  She was all “Did you supervise?” and I was like “MiCHELLE.  It was busy in here and I was the only one who could work the machine ‘cause Rory burned his hand on it ‘cause he threw out the good cloths.  GOD.  I mean, you know?

Mild Mannered Dark Haired Girl did know.

MMDHG:  Do you want me to fix the shortbread?

DBG:  No.  They hired the retard, they can live with the retard consequences.

She laughs uproariously.  Mild Mannered Dark Haired Girl giggles nervously and shoots me a look that says “Call the police.”

"Ooo," I think to myself.  “'Retard Consequences'.  That’s a good name for my band."

A few customers come in and I get back to work.  In the next lull:

MMDHG:  Hassi seems nice.

DBG:  Hassi is a retard.

MMDHG:  Oh.  Well, I haven’t worked with him that often, so . . .

DBG:  Did I tell you what he did the other day?

MMDHG:  (cautiously) Noooo . . .

DBG:  This lady came into buy some ground beans, right?  And she’s all “Do you have any Christmas blend?” and he’s like [DBG imitates Hassi's accent saying “Christmas Blend?”] and then she asks if we have Emperor’s Blend instead and he opens EVERY DRAWER instead of just LOOKING AT THE LABEL ON THE FRONT OF THE DRAWER and then he tells her that we don’t have it, even though we TOTALLY do, in the back, so she asks for something else, which we totally have in one of the drawers and he’s all “Ooo, I don’t know, maybe we have some in the back!” and he leaves and she goes to me “Isn’t that it right there?” and it totally is . . .

It’s at this point in the story that I realize she is talking about me.  I was the bean-buying lady the other day.  Suddenly excited to be included in the drama, I strain to hear more over the roar of the steamer and, of course, the roar of the Gypsy Kings.  Will she talk about how patient I was? Will she describe the slight eye-rolling I remember doing when Hassi went to the back for the third time because he forgot that I’d asked for?  Will I come off as a righteously indignant customer or merely another pitiful victim of Michelle’s poor holiday hiring practices?  As it turns out, none of the above.

DBG:  Anyway, after, he left the BAG OUT.  Just out on the counter!  I’m like “Hassi, you have to put that away.” And he’s all [she imitates his accent again, saying “I forgot”].  GOD.  Right?  RIGHT?  GOD.

MMDHG:  Heh heh.  Yeah.

Sigh. Clearly my brief part in the story was over.  Also, someone with terrible b.o. sat down near me.  Also, my time was up and I had to go.  As I packed up my stuff, Hassi reported in for work.  As I left, Mild Mannered Dark Haired Girl smiled at me again, as if to say “Seriously – I see you have a cellphone.  CALL THE POLICE.”  I felt a little sorry for her, trying to stay cute and mild mannered in the face of such disgruntled negativity.  Maybe I’ll go back later and bring her some fudge.  Or a gun.