Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff is Technologically Inept

A couple of days ago, I was having a little trouble with the important "start-up" and "shut down" functions of my laptop. Somehow, in all my angry clicking, bitchy admonissions and insistent key pressing, I managed to convince my laptop that the internet didn't exist.

It's not that the internet "connection" wasn't working - it was that my laptop refused to acknowledge that it had the hardware necessary to even begin to look for an internet connection. Sort of how I've managed to convince Katr that I don't have the hardware necessary to take out the garbage.

I'm not going to lie to you. I had a little cry. Then I briefly considered calling Katr at work, before I remembered that:

a) She's super busy right now; 

b) Nothing stresses her out more than trying to solve my often-self-inflicted computer problems OVER THE PHONE in the middle of the workday; and

c) I want her to continue loving me.

So I put down the phone and gave myself a stern talking to. I'm a smart woman. I've been using computers half my life. I even wrote a "joke" program in sixth grade in Academic Challenge! I have the manuals from when we bought this computer. I can figure this out.

The manuals were real useful. My favourite part was how they kept referring me to the company's website for further information on how to solve my "no internet" problems. Kind of like when phone companies tell you to call for service when your line is dead or when literacy campaigns have big billboards that say "Can't Read?" There was nothing for it. I needed a computer whiz.

Before I shacked up with Katr, I considered my brother Jaro my computer whiz. He took a course and stuff and several subsequent computer whiz activities convinced me of his technical aptitude.

For one thing, Jaro was the first to show me the miracle of "wallpaper" for your desktop. I was still working in WordPerfect 5.1 (DOS, you guys - DOS) and was ignorant to the possibilities of wallpaper. I didn't know, for instance, that you could take almost any image off the internet (including production stills of Mary Stuart Masterson) and have it grace your desktop. Jaro likes to make a splash with his technical discussions, so for this first wallpaper demo, we went to a gay porn site called "Boys of Summer" (I'd link, but it doesn't appear to exist any more. Sorry, Drew). There we located a photo of a young man called "Darryl", who was nude, reclining, and gripping his business like he was trying to get a sound out of it. Score! 

Jaro worked his magic and all of a sudden, the computer's desktop was tiled with Darryl and his schlong. We laughed delightedly at the wonder of technology. Then, since we were using our parents' computer, Jaro showed me another vital tool - deleting the history on your browser, so that no one knew how much time you were spending at Boys of Summer or Beaver Palace or what have you. Sibling assistance at its finest, people. Jaro and I puttered around on the information superhighway some more and then toddled off to bed.

We awoke to our mother's startled shrieks the next morning. It seems she'd turned on her computer and instead of her cool blue goddess imagery, she was greeted by ol' Darryl and his man-meat. Jaro rocketed into the room to remove the offending wallpaper and explain to my mom that it was him and not a marauding porn virus who had transformed her desktop from Soothing Sanctuary to Reggie's Cock Emporium. She had a good laugh . . . and then changed all her passwords.

I decided, based largely on the enjoyable Boys of Summer reminiscing, that Jaro was the guy who could help me solve my internet problem - or at least look stuff up on the website for me. He lives in California and I have a mental block about his phone number. But no worries, I thought, I have his number . . . in my e-mail.  Oh, goddamn it. FOILED!!

In the end, of course, I waited until Katr got home. And then I told her a long, rambling story about what had gone on with my computer, including what I had for breakfast, what the fish had for breakfast, what epithets I had spewed at the laptop and how I really didn't want to bother her with it, especially at work and I really made an effort to figure it out for myself. She listened patiently to my gripping, tangential narrative and resisted just grabbing me by the collar and saying "What HAPPENED? Did you spill your breakfast on it? Did you stick a knife into the keyboard? Did you drop it in the fish tank? WHAT??"

And then she fixed it. Because she is my computer whiz. And that, I sighed blissfully, as I restored my Mary Stuart Masterson wallpaper, is LOVE.

Creampuff Contemplates Caulk

When Katr and I moved into our condo, we hired a friend of Sahi's to paint our place. Brka is the kind of house painter who is also "in a band", so while his painting technique was excellent and his hourly rate was more than reasonable, his hours were somewhat erratic. Often, he would come in around 2:00 p.m. or so and would still be there when we got home from work, painting away while CNN blared in the background. After the first week of coming home to Brka in his paint spattered overalls, I started to feel like Murphy Brown.

Part of what was taking so long was that Brka was assiduously applying caulk to all the gaps between the newly re-attached baseboards and the walls. Finally, only our room was left and in an effort to speed things up a bit, we asked Brka not to bother with caulking the baseboards in the bedroom. "Caulk" - who pronounces the "L" in "caulk" unless they work at a hardware store? Not me. So when I spoke to him about it, what I actually said to Brka came out sounding like "Oh, hey Brka - we don't want any cock in the bedroom." 

Before I fully grasped that I had once again neglected that wiley "L", Brka nodded wisely and said "That's okay. I don't much care for cock in the bedroom either."

Brka was cool.

I was reminded of this incident by an hilarious caulk story on Syd's blog and now, weeks later and in light of recent events, I have been considering "no caulk" on a deeper, philosophical level. See, gender inclusivity has been a hot topic of discussion lately, firstly in the case of the BlogHerNorth (working title) conference that's in the works and secondly in case of the lovely Stitch n' Bitch group or rather "Knizzles" - "Stitch n' Bitch" is so old school - that I giddily attended a couple of weeks ago.

On the conference side, a few folks have questioned or are debating the value of a seemingly gender exclusive conference like BlogHer. Is it necessary? Well, yes. Hasn't feminism's raging success rendered this kind of thing pointless yet? Sadly, noooo. If we're not getting the exposure, the opportunities and the invitations into whatever "club" we want, don't we have only ourselves to blame?  Well, sure, occasionally. 

It's important to note that people of any and all genders are invited to attend the BlogHer conference (apparently, nearly 20% of last year's BlogHer attendees were dudes). But since the primary goals of the conference are to showcase successful female bloggers and to create much-needed opportunities for women bloggers to gain speaking and presentation experience on a global stage, it makes sense to me that only self-identified women will be speaking, presenting and facilitating, etc.

Will guys come to a "women's" event like BlogHerNorth? Well, some won't and fair enough. I often choose not to go to "men's" events, otherwise known as "events". And that's fine.

[An aside: Then there are guys like my brother and my dad, who left my mom and I at home and went off to Lilith Fair one year. Curious, I asked my brother why he would go to a chick thing like Lilith Fair, he replied, without irony, that he "went for the music". I waited for him to follow up with something classy like "Well, I WENT for the music, but I STAYED for the squirrel." but no. Because my brother is cool. I probably would have said the thing about the squirrel. And then Jaro would have patted me on the head, then returned to his room to listen to Tori Amos while finishing his paper on Cesar Chavez.]

The second gender inclusivity question in recent days came from what I (unimaginatively) considered an unusual source: Knizzles (see "Stitch n' Bitch is so old school" above). I was at the last knitfest and had a great time meeting some very cool, funny chicks, drinking tea, eating cookies, picking up tips. Oh, and knitting! Good times, good times.

One of the knizzlers has begun a joint project with her male partner and asked the group what the deal was regarding male attendance, as apparently it had never been discussed. Is Knizzles a "girls only" group? If not, should it be? If her partner attends, should other knitting men known to the knizzlers be invited as well?

For a brief moment, I experienced what members of gentlemen-only clubs must have experienced when women expressed an interest in smoking cigars in large leather armchairs: utter bewilderment. It's not that I don't WANT to sit next to dudes at Knizzles - I am an equal opportunity knitter - it's just that it honestly never occurred to me that any guy would wish to come. Which is kind of ridiculous of me, really. And which I think says something uncomplimentary about my own preconceived notions about caulk, in the bedroom and otherwise. Hmmm.

In the end, of course, I say all who wish to knit should be invited. Just so long as the guys don't spend the whole night talking about their PERIODS. Gah.

I'm glad we had this talk. Now that I've had my say, I'm going to spend the last, precious minutes of my workday watching the "Fans Only" version of Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" video over and over. Don't fight it.

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 is Preoccupied

We got back from our Easter trip to Pennsylvania last night. So much to tell! Inflatable lawn rabbits! Country club assholes! Chocolate - oooh, the chocolate. Horseradish cheese! Marauding bears! Copious bug-on-windshield suicide! Shopping spree at Bath & Body Works! But we arrived home and found that our essential personal toiletry and food stores are sadly depleted, crazy deadlines are approaching and where - WHERE the fuck is all our ginch???

So I am spending this day trying to meet deadlines, shopping for bumwad and rounding up, washing and folding the long-forsaken laundry. BUT I somehow did manage to find just a little time to take pictures. Of my knitting. And of this cool, knitting-related gift. That's right - MORE KNITTING. Brace yourselves, it'll be over soon.

Cool Knitting-Related Gift

Sahi made me a needle carrier for my birthday!! Gaze upon it enviously! She made it out of a sheet and it has shamrocks on it, to remind me of my Irish heritage. It has spaces for the longer needles (above) AND spaces for little double points (below). I filled it with all the needles I own (clearly, I must go shopping) and have thus confirmed that somewhere between leaving my house and arriving at last week's Stitch n' Bitch (more on that glorious gathering later), I lost the pair of 5mm I had borrowed from Sahi. It's like Bridget Jones losing the tuna.  Where ARE they??

Hat #2 - Electric Boogaloo

Katr was so taken with the hat I made for Jeba that she wanted one for herself. I had bought this fun yarn for Katr to learn to knit with, but it comes apart easily and sticks to itself, so is very shitty for beginners. I have been coveting it since she pronounced it unfit for her first project and leapt at the chance to turn it into a hat. This hat is being modelled by a pumpkin we got in the organic food box some time ago. This is the pumpkin's first modelling gig.

I was a little worried that the "rainbow"- like colours might make the pumpkin, and subsequently Katr, look a little - you know - GAY. We ARE gay, as it turns out, but no one wants to walk around like they're looking for the Pride Parade all winter. Fortunately, the pattern steers clear of gayness and passes right into "jaunty". Also, the top is a little "pointy", but I have reminded Katr that a point head is a sign of intelligence. Back me up on this, guys. Guys?

Okay, enough with the knitting. The dryer just finished, the phone keeps ringing and no one at Shoppers Drug Mart wants to see me without pants on.

Creampuff Doesn't Care That "Hat Weather" is Over

Warning: This post contains photos of my knitting and discusses knitting related things about which you may not give a shit. Thank you.

For our shared birth-day this year, my pal Jeba and I decided to meet for coffee. Since Jeba likes meeting times to be "flexible" and I wanted to blow my birthday cash on yarn, we decided to meet at the yarn store. Jeba's not a knitter but when she showed up at the yarn store, she became smitten with a hat knit of green Silky Tweed, the same green I used to knit Maja's birthday scarf. I include a photo for your reference and also to gloat over my fine, fine stitches.

The hat Jeba was enamoured of was a fairly simple shape with some very nice celtic-looking cables. "Could you knit me a hat like that?" she asked. "Well," I said, "I COULD. But I don't think I'm ready for those fancy cable things." "Would you be able to have it done before hat weather is over?" Jeba inquired. Could she BE any more demanding? "Well," I paused, struggling with whether to be heroic or honest, "no. Probably not. But hey - I'll be bound to finish it SOMEtime! Pick some yarn!"

Unfortunately, I had other projects in the cue and I did not finish Jeba's hat until this morning. We bought the yarn March 3rd. Today is April 12th. Tomorrow, it will be 20C outside and I believe that "hat weather" is officially over. But WHO CARES? The hat is finished! My first grown up hat!

Katr's TED2006 dog is modelling this fine hat for us today. For those who care, it's made of Silky Tweed (black with tiny flecks of dark orange and purple) and the pink stripes are some kind of Debbie Bliss cotton. I kind of extrapolated the pattern from my Stitch n' Bitch book, which was a little nerve wracking for a beginner like me. I learned some valuable lessons about stripes and how to make them look seamless (you know, for next time) and also some valuable lessons about repeating your mistakes throughout so that it looks like you MEANT for it to look like that. I also learned that accidentally slipping half the stitches off the needle is no call to immediately shit twice and die; with patience, it can be fixed. I cast on 104 stitches, knit the hat on 5mm needles and panicked throughout over whether it would be too big and, later, if it would be big enough. But it sure fits this dog nice and also, me. Hopefully, it will fit Jeba as well.

In other knitting news, as she promised in an earlier comment, Sahi has invited me to her Stitch n' Bitch group tonight, where, unlike my knitting lessons, "no one is a asshole"!! I'm very excited to hang out with knitters of superior skill, which I hope to absorb just by sitting next to them. Also, I know it's not good manners for beginners to badger busy Stitch n' Bitchers for knitting assistance, but I AM hoping someone can explain what the whole "knitting with two strands of yarn held together throughout" business is all about. Because I don't think I get it. Any assistance in this area is very welcome. Thank you.

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 Wants a BlogHer North

Typical. While I've been reminiscing about nearly choking to death on Snickers while drunk on Baileys, my proactive better half Katr has been thinking about cool ways to bring a little more girl on girl action into our lives. Specifically, girl blogger action. The kind of women blogger action that will be taking place this summer in San Jose at the BlogHer '06 conference, but further north. Like, here in Canada! Is it time for a BlogHer North? Moi, je pense que "oui".

A little quote from Katr's blog about the point of it all :

There are a lot of women bloggers out there who are looking for a community to connect with.  Maybe it's tech-tips, maybe it's writing techniques, maybe it's about design.  How to promote your small business, or run your local political campaign, or update the other parents in your daughter's soccer league.  It's not about prominent, sexy, "newsworthy" speakers.  It's about a community coming together to forge relationships.

No, not naked relationships. Well, maybe. But only if you take pictures and blog about it after.

So, blogging (or "thinking about blogging but haven't gotten around to it") ladies, how 'bout it? It'll only happen if we think there's enough interest; to sweeten the deal, I'll tell you right now that if we get this conference off the ground, I will be lobbying for (and probably running) a donut kiosk. Mmm . . . blogging AND donuts. I know, I know . . . it feels so right.

So hey - if you're interested and/or have any comments and suggestions, head on over to MyNameIsKate and leave her a note!! NO NUDE PICTURES, THOUGH, you pervs. Save 'em for the conference.

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 Misses Her Own Damn Blogoversary

Okay, folks, you can all exhale.  Katr and I finally tried the $10 "1848" chocolate bar and I want you to know that we considered all of your helpful comments and suggestions (except "leaving it on Melissa's desk" - nice try, Melissa - and the "ageing it further" idea of Julian's - as Katr said, this chocolate's been around since 1848. It has had its time).  We tried it on a Sunday afternoon, in case it was laced with drugs. There was red wine nearby (for the antioxidants, you understand). We had took our pants off, in case it was JUST THAT GOOD. We bit into it gingerly, in case it had gold nuggets in it. We closed our eyes and prepared for fireworks.

Meh. It was alright. As Marni commented, despite being from the Fresh Mart, not so fresh (even with our pants off). Also, it was a good thing that Katr had (mostly) forgiven me for flirting with that babe I've had a 12 year crush on (the babe in question also gave me her card, which I now sleep with under my pillow - shhhhh . . .) 'cause the $10 bar of chocolate had the heft of a brick and those hazelnut chunks were sharp.  They could CUT you, man. I think you know what I'm saying.

Other notable things accomplished since the chocolate bar purchase include:

1. Seeing my first inflatable lawn Easter Bunnies. Like I said before with the giant inflatable Thanksgiving lawn turkeys, it's shit like this that makes America great.  We went down to Pennsylvania this last weekend to visit Katr's cute and ailing grandmother in the hospital and saw several variations of the giant inflatable lawn Easter Bunny. My absolute favourite was a giant inflatable yellow chick DRESSED IN A BUNNY OUTFIT. When we go down again in a couple of weeks for Easter, I hope to get a photo. Stay tuned.

2. Assuring Katr's cute and ailing grandma that Katr and I are "just good friends". The woman is cute and nearly 90 and was in the hospital. She doesn't need to know that Katr and Roro, her "roommate and good friend who regularly attends family functions and occasionally grabs Katr's ass when she thinks no one's looking" do more than vacuum the rug in our shared living arrangement. The awesome part is that we're pretty sure Grandma's very sweet and lovely roommate in the hospital, whose name rhymes with "Beona", clocked us lesbians mere minutes into our visit. Beona watches Will & Grace. Beona knew.

3. Finishing my dad's birthday silk and tweed scarf, as well as a baby hat for my cousin, then forgetting to photograph them before mailing. FOILED!  By MYSELF! Dagnabbit. Fortunately, my mother informed me that she got my dad a digital camera for his birthday, so I'm hoping he'll take pictures and send them to me as soon as he figures out how to use it. No pressure, Dad.

4. Pumping gas for the first time. Shut up.

5. Finishing a big collaborative grant application which I dropped off today and then made the guy at the desk date-stamp in front of me because I am paranoid and refuse to have a possible 5 months of income, working on a project I love, compromised by a clerical mishap.

I was so pleased with having finished this grant application that, when I went to pick up some stuff at the Body Shop after, I accidently squirted Strawberry flavoured lotion on my hands instead of the slightly classier "Olive". I then had to walk all the way home, which included stopping at the butcher, the Baskin Robbins and the beer store, smelling like Strawberry Shortcake had shat on my hands. When I close my eyes, I can still hear the screaming. I think it was me.

6. Missing my own damn blogoversary. I knew it was sometime in March and I was right! It was the 13th! I wasn't planning on doing any kind of retrospective or anything, but I did want to mark it somehow. You know, like, with a post maybe. Since, as it turns out, I've only posted 105 times in 365 days. I know, I know - WEAK. Clearly, I need to step up my game. Fortunately, my previous 105 posts have been PURE INTERNET GOLD. HA ha!! So, you know - I can build on that.

And so I use this occasion of my belated blogoversary to wish all of you kind readers, commenters, lurkers, occasional visitors, critics and stumblers upon my blog due to key word combos like "fish tank tits", peace. And love. And cheap, delicious chocolate. The kind you need to take your pants off for.