Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Dentata

We have dentist appointments Thursday and so I have been flossing assiduously. It's not that I don't floss normally - I mean, I'm not an ANIMAL - but I'm definitely what you would call a prefunctory flosser.

My dentist's office has been calling every 3-4 weeks for over a year now to remind me that it's time to come in for a check-up. I have been dodging their calls like it's aliens calling to schedule an anal probe. The desk staff at the dentist's are all 12 years old and yet, their calls intimidate me. But I finally relented when they left the following plaintive message: "Hi, Roro. It's Shelley calling from the dentist's office. We were just wondering . . . if you're ever coming back?"

The thing is, I like my dentist. He's a relaxed, funny, soft-spoken man who loves The Simpsons and keeps pictures of his kids at each chair in the clinic, so that you can get a good view of who you're sending to college. I started going to him 5 years ago when one of my wisdom teeth said "Fuck sagacity! I wanna see some STOMACH!" and disintegrated.

I was drinking some tea and suddenly, the tea was crunchy in a way that tea should never be. Naturally, I spat out the gritty tea and stared at the little cement-like chunks in my cup. As I drew breath, I suddenly felt the wind hit my back toothal area. It felt empty back there. Too empty. So later that day I walked to the dental clinic. "I need to see the dentist," I said, "I think I ate one of my back teeth." They had me in the chair in under a minute.

After checking out the situation, Dr. Arre said "Well, Roro. It seems like you've eaten half of your wisdom tooth. The grey stuff was probably the filling, although I don't know who would put a filling in a wisdom tooth." I thought wistfully of my Edmonton dentist, Dr. Doch, who'd told me I didn't to have my wisdom teeth out. "You should have your wisdom teeth out," Dr. Arre said, "All of them and the sooner the better. Also, you have quite a few cavities here. I'm guessing around ten. Do you have insurance?"

Do I have insurance?  Is dog shit my favourite snack?

Not only did I not have insurance, I didn't have a JOB. I was working on a project and living off meagre grant money and my savings at that point. I didn't cry in the dentist's chair, because I didn't want to short out the electric cleaning apparatus in my mouth, but he saw the panic in my eyes and he patted my shoulder comfortingly. "No, huh? Okay, okay, don't worry. We'll work something out. We have payment plans. We'll take care of you and fix this all up. Okay?" THAT'S when I cried. Just a little.

My parents very kindly offered to pay for the wisdom tooth surgery, which was a huge relief. I filled my precriptions for Tylenol 3 and anti-biotics, cursing Dr. Arre for not also prescribing Ativan, which my lucky brother had when he got HIS wisdom teeth out a few months. There would be no sleeping through the surgery and no laughing gas. Just me, the local anesthetic, my four impacted wisdom teeth and Dr. Arre's foot on my face, which he needed for leverage as he wrestled with the shards of the disintegrated tooth. I have vague memories of him struggling with that last, stubborn tooth and saying things like: "Geez, Roro, are you okay? I don't know what to tell you, it's just so deep in there and I can't seem to get a grip on OH MY GOD, SUCTION!! SUCTION!! Man. Are you okay? Why are you laughing? Okay, I'm going to try it again."

By the time the foot was on my face I was laughing helplessly at the absurdity of the whole situation. "Why . . . are . . . you . . . LAUGHING?" grunted Dr. Arre, as he yanked vigorously on my tooth, the hygienist blotting the sweat from his brow. This only made me laugh harder. When it was all over and my mouth was a mass of bloody cotton batting, he told me he was giving me a discount for being such a good sport. And he did.

After the surgery, I went in to see Dr. Arre about once a week for nearly two months while he filled the rest of my cavities. My visits to his office became part of my routine, like going to the gym or therapy. On my birthday, he filled one of my ten cavities for free. And then one day, he said "Well, we're done! Come back for a cleaning in six months or so!" and it was all over.

I'm not going to lie to you. I was relieved, but also a little bereft. When you have someone's hands in your mouth every week for two months, you start to feel like you have a bond. Like war buddies, or temps. And so when Dr. Arre declared my teeth sound and cut me loose, I didn't feel abandoned, but oddly . . . lonely. I had not, in fact, realized I WAS lonely until the prolonged emergency dental visits ceased. And realizing that not only was I LONELY but that it had taken the faux intimacy of someone's hands in my mouth - some GUY'S hands, no less - to make me recognize that I was lonely was totally fucking depressing. I sank into a funk, thinking: What if that was it for me? What if those visits represented the most intimate human contact I would ever have? What if the holes in my teeth were the ONLY cavities I'd ever have filled? If you know what I mean? And I think that you do?

Some people associate dental visits with discomfort, physical pain, unpleasant tastes, drooling, bleeding and judgment. I associate mine with the severe emotional turmoil which eventually led to me totally changing my approach to and outlook on life. So while it's nice to waltz into Dr. Arre's office these days with my insurance (which I have through Katr's work) and my fabulous girlfriend (Katr), it's also like visiting the scene of a crime or the abode of an ex. An ex who will judge you if you haven't been flossing.

Creampuff Gets a Model

Non-knitting enthusiasts/disdainful knitting experts: This post contains brief descriptions and photos of my amateurish knitting. Mock - enjoy - ignore. As you wish.

I'm working on my brother's long-overdue birthday present, a five colour extravaganza which Katr has started referring to as "the beast". I'm going to be felting it. The thing is already the size of a king-sized pillow case brunch table for four at Mitzi's Sister. I still have at least a foot to go and knitting it has dispelled any fears I had about having the stick-to-it-iveness to to knit a blanket, a sweater or a truck cosy. I will post pictures when I'm closer to the actual felting, but in the meantime:

Madeleine's Hat

My math professor friend Marni and her math professor husband had an adorable math professor baby this January and I knit her a little hat. I was very worried that the hat would be too small to fit their baby's giant brain, but as the photos demonstrate, it fits just right! Marni's pretty sure she'll outgrow the hat once she's mastered the multiplication tables next week, but in the meantime, she graciously allowed me to post pictures of her child. Madeleine is my first finished object model!! She seems a little surprised by all of the attention. Also, in the second photo, a little suspicious. So effing cute.

I knit young Madeleine's hat in the last of my orange and pink hand-dyed Peruvian cotton, which I loved. It was some of the first yarn I ever bought and I'm beginning to understand why the Yarn Harlot has a "core stash" that "is not there for knitting; it is there for BEING." Fortunately for Katr, poverty and lack of storage space prevents me from buying any yarn I'm not actually going to use. FOR NOW.

Mom's Black and Red Striped Goth Birthday Purse

It's my mother's birthday in a couple of weeks and when I suggested I knit her something, she suggested a light little purse to carry her ID, some cash and . . . "Your crackpipe?" I asked. "Yes, that's right, honey. My CRACKPIPE."

I gotta say, I feel the purse looks a little crooked and assy here, but it's actually quite silky and lustrous and, since I stretched it out and flattened it a little, much better proportioned. I must say, though, that between Mom's purse and Jaro's "beast", I have finally accepted that "eyeballing" things without following a pattern or knitting a swatch is a dangerous game. Perhaps THE most dangerous game. Also - the i-cord strap took about 2 episodes of 24 longer than I thought. Partly because I am slow and partly because even when you're only knitting three stitches over and over and over and over, knitting elves do not pick up the slack while you're sleeping or in the ladies' shitter. Effing elves - what good are you?

Creampuff Cannot Resist a Candy Swap

So Lex tells me that Andrea at a peek inside the fishbowl is hosting a candy swap. A swap . . . of CANDY, people. If you are interested in participating (and I know you are), head on over there and get IN on it. CANDY! In the meantime, here is my Candy Swap Questionnaire.

Candy Swap 2006 Questionnaire

1) When I was a kid, Halloween was all about:
a) collecting as much candy as I could
b) collecting candy to eat as I go
c) sharing with my siblings
d) Who cares about candy? I was too busy egging my teacher's car.
e) Halloween was forbidden in my house and I've never gotten over it. Bring it on!

f) Binge eating and subterfuge.

2) What is more important to you: quality, or quantity?

In reality, quantity. In the interests of cheaper Candy Swap shipping, however, I'll have to go with quality.

3) If you were on a desert island (haha, I wrote "dessert island" but that would be a totally different question now wouldn't it?) and could only have one sweet treat, which would it be?

ONE? I'm tempted to say ice cream or pie or ice cream pie, but those things might not keep on a desert island and I'm taking the survival aspect of this question WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too seriously. I guess I'd have to say red and black licorice. Then I could eat it AND use it to lash sticks together for my raft.

4) You arrive at "Dessert Island" – where you discover a river of pudding flowing freely through a swamp of Cool Whip. No one is watching. What do you do?

I think we all know my feelings on pudding.

5) Sweet, sour, or savoury?

I could do without the sour, but I like a little sweet and savoury together, truth be told. The chocolate covered pretzel . . . the "Chicago style" cheese n' caramel corn from Kernels . . . a pile of salt and a pile of sugar . . . I'm not picky.

6) Sex or chocolate?

Sex AND chocolate. And pudding and donuts.

7) What kind of candy, if any, would you turn down if someone offered?

Anything with marshmallows or carob. GAH. Also, I will eat dark chocolate, but only under duress. For instance, when I've already consumed all of the milk chocolate.

8) You're at the grocery store, your children/husband/pets have been The.Worst.Ever. They're throwing cans at each other, tripping little old ladies, taking bites out of the produce and putting them back in the bins, and piercing the milk bags with diaper pins. and you're a fat lesbian in a frumbly mood. You feel yourself getting woozy. That vein in your forehead is throbbing. You need an immediate sugar kick before you do something crazy. What do you reach for?

If I'm in the bakery section, danish. If I'm in the candy section, Skor. If I'm in the ice cream section, Chunky Monkey. If I'm in the checkout line, the neck of the mouth-breathing cashier.

9) What are your feelings regarding Thrills gum, ribbon candy, scotch mints, and other "grandma candies"?

I feel good about them. They're part of our history as a people and I embrace that.

10) How adventurous are you? Do spicy dried mealworms or candy-coated crickets give you the willies, or are you willing to try anything once?

I respect the adventurous candy eater. But for me, if I know that at some point this candy moved under its own power, no candy coating will make it okay.

11) Do you have dentures or other dental issues? Do you have a good dental plan?

Dental issues? Nothing that would impede candy enjoyment. I'm going to the dentist next week, so I'll have to keep you all posted.

Creampuff Time Capsule

I got a call from my friend Mipa last week. "They're moving me out," she said by way of greeting, her mouth full of something crunchy, "so you'll have to come get your stuff."

I was momentarily confused. Mipa and I had lived together for a nanosecond at the hippie flophouse in 2003, but we've both long since moved on. And the only stuff of mine she has is important stuff, stuff she actually uses, like the microwave. And I thought she got along really well with her landlords, so the news that they were evicting her was bewildering.

"Why are they moving you out?" I asked, concerned and prepared to offer her our futon if she was in need.

"They're giving my prime real estate to someone with a higher rank," she spat into the phone, "they're taking away my filing cabinets. Fine, I said, take 'em. But when some disgruntled judge calls up asking for a copy of the 1982 search and seizure form and you don't know where it is [pause for horking], that's not my problem."

"Ooooh," I said, relieved, "you mean you're switching offices at WORK."

Mipa and I used to work together at an Ontario government ministry whose acronym rhymes with "BAG". BAG was a good gig. The actual work was . . . well, anyway, I adored my boss, the pay was choice, and I met the some of the smartest, funniest, coolest, sweetest and most talented people I know working there. And, for the last year and a half that I worked there, I had my own office. FUCK that office was beautiful. I knew, when I walked into it for the first time, that I would never in all my life have an office that nice again.

I kept a lot of stuff in that office and when I left on New Year's Eve of 2004, I took MOST of it with me. But my lovely plants and one box was left behind. Subr, who inherited my beautiful office, urged me from time to time to come get the box and I would come by to visit, but it would be too cold out to take the plants home, or I'd have plans to go grocery shopping and couldn't carry the box. Eventually, Subr moved offices and took my plants with her, sticking Mipa with "the box". As Mipa moved from office to office, taking my box of stuff with her, "Roro's box" soon became "Roro's goddamn box" and her pleas for me to come and pick it up grew more urgent.

But by this time, I didn't really want to pick up the box. I wanted to wait a little longer. I wanted to be surprised by the box, transformed by its contents, transported back to a time of much cutting, pasting, fruitless editing and surreptitious Television Without Pity reading. The box needed to ripen. It had only been a year and a half. The box was still green.

"Green? Are you fucking kidding me? You should see the size of the cubicle they've got me in. I seriously doubt you even could get your goddess-like ass in here. My own stuff is spilling into the hallway as it is. The box stops here. Come on Tuesday." And with that, Mipa hung up.

And so it was with a somewhat heavy heart that I had a coffee with Mipa, then went with her to BAG on Tuesday to collect my things. Mipa wasn't kidding - her new cubicle is so small I can barely turn around in it. She handed me my stuff, kissed me goodbye and busily returned to her enormous hallway paper piles. And with that, the last thread holding me to BAG was severed.

I walked home slowly, unwilling to look in the box. I briefly considered hiding it somewhere in our condo, but Katr's been on a cleaning jag lately and might confront me with it if I left it about. There was nothing for it. I had to open it. Here is what it contained:

• A Rosie the Riveter action figure, still in its box, which Mipa gave me when I left (which handy, for now I have a pair of Rosies and they can "play" together, using their "riveting action" rivet guns in a suggestive manner)
• A plastic Mountain Equipment Co-op mug, missing the lid; and
• Nine CDs.

I know - LAME. Also, extremely anti-climactic. The CDs themselves yielded little more excitement:

Jamiroquai - Synkronized (I remember I listened to this CD right before going into a job interview for a job I didn't end up getting. Eat me, Jamiroquai.)

ani difrance - so much shouting so much laughter (so much instrumental screwing with original songs that I rarely listened to it. Jesus Christ, Ani. Just play it like I like it!!!)

Lesley Barber - When Night is Falling soundtrack (because it's good to think about the lesbian sex at the circus and get a little hot and bothered at work)

Catriona MacDonald - Bold (yep, that's good fiddlin')

Bonnie Raitt - The Best of Bonnie Raitt (What the . . . whose is this?)

Original Broadway Cast Recording of Les Miserables (ha ha - yeah that's mine. Don't judge me.)

Shirley Bassey - The Remix Album (Mmm. HOT)

Jason Robert Brown - Songs For a New World (My favourite thing about this "musical revue" CD is that it was like the guy who wrote the songs had 10 great ideas for 10 different musicals, so he wrote one great song for each and then kinda gave up and turned all those songs into a "revue". I mock it and yet recognize that it's exactly the kind of thing I would do. Because I'm not so good at follow-through.)

I'm not sure what disappoints me more - having opened the box too soon, or clearly leaving fuck-all of interest in there. Next time I leave stuff at work, it's gonna be Pop Rocks and knitted dildo covers. 'Cause that's time capsule GOLD.

Creampuff Wimps Out, Is Ashamed

I grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. The summers were generally glorious - not too hot, light out until 10 p.m., rat-free - and winters were fucking freezing.

Edmonton routinely reached temperatures of -40C in the winter, back in the day. For you Fahrenheit lovers, that's -40F. And the windchill - don't get me started about the windchill. When I saw the opening Hoth sequence in The Empire Strikes Back, I asked my mother if the film had been shot in Edmonton. I can't count the number of times I walked to and from school, wishing for a nice warm Tonton Tauntaun to ride, or at least slice open and curl up inside. Perhaps with some hot chocolate. And Leia. Perhaps with her shirt off. Mmm. . . Leia.

I remember I lost half my eyelashes one winter's day when the condensation from my breath froze my face to the scarf I had wound round my head several times and when I removed the scarf, several lashes were pulled right out. The real indignity? That my lashes are so sparse and stubby to begin with that no one noticed they were gone. This incident is why, to this day, when I remove a scarf, I handle it very carefully, like it's made of plutonium and about to go off in my face.

The thing is that I LIKE the cold. It makes me feel brisk and alive. I love the snow and the ice. I feel invincible. Also, I'm a bit of a masochist. When I moved to Toronto to go to university years ago, I blew my fellow students away by wearing Birkenstocks, sans socks, well into December. My campus nickname was "Alberta Feet" and I was proud. I wore the lightest of jackets and when Torontonians talked about the "wet" cold and how it was so much "worse" than "dry" cold because it got into your "bones", I called them "pussies" because the coldest "wet" cold Toronto has to offer still cannot compete with "losing half your eyelashes" in -40C/F.

I'm not going to lie to you. I felt superior here, in that incredibly annoying "My experience completely trumps your experience, so shut it" way. But the truth is that I haven't experienced a whole Edmonton winter in nine years. And guys - I've gotten soft.

I've been in denial about this the last couple of years. I still mock people who talk about the "wet" cold, but, as I taunt them about not wearing a hat, I think that I too have noticed the wet cold. This winter I wore gloves more often than I ever have before and when the harsh wind blows right in my face, I MAKE A NOISE instead of taking it stoically as I used to. I buy thicker socks. A couple of times this past winter, I actually TURNED ON THE HEAT. But because I am delusional, I was still somewhat secure in my ability to withstand the cold. Until yesterday.

Katr's best friend Dapo and his lovely girlfriend Jebr scheduled a garage sale this weekend and we agreed to help out. The sale was originally scheduled for Saturday, but was called off due to possible rain and rescheduled to Sunday. Saturday was a beautiful day. Sunday - not so much.

When we checked the weather in the morning, it didn't look so bad. The sun was shining; it was +5C (41F) and going up to +10C (50F). To me, that is sweater weather. Since I figured we would probably get warm by lifting and moving garage sale things in the morning chill, I wore a t-shirt, jeans, sandals and the ram-pocket mammy cardigan I bought in Galway. I was certain I wouldn't need it for long.

The first sign that the weather might be a problem was when Dapo brought out some shelves and the wind blew them over. The wind then threatened the tables and everything on the tables. Even the 100lb box of dishes rattled from time to time. Every time we turned away, the wind sent relatively heavy things skittering across the street. Undaunted, Dapo, Jebr and Katr continued to set up while I "supervised" and crooned sweet nothings to my Tim Horton's coffee in the one sunny patch of the sidewalk. It was rather strange - I knew I felt uncomfortable in some way, but I couldn't figure out WHY. And then, when the wind whipped a piece of my hair into my face so hard I thought I'd lost an eye, it hit me:

I WAS COLD. IN TORONTO. IN MAY.

Naturally, I wasn't the only one of us who was cold. I was just the only one who didn't want to admit it, particularly in front of Dapo, another Albertan, who was wearing even less than I was. People came and bought things and were jovial and wished us luck in the foul weather. Dapo kindly fetched us some warm socks to wear, and my Alberta Feet thus wore "socks with sandals", which I swore I'd never do. Though stunned by my own wimpitude, I entertained no thoughts of cutting out. But as the wind rattled Dapo's coffee maker and pierced my mammy sweater, I felt my stoicism . . . slip. The last straw came when the rascal wind gusted up and blew my full cup of Jebr's signature sweet coffee onto my leg, where it was delightfully warm for a nanosecond before becoming a cold, wet weight, like a toddler, made of ice, peeing ice water on my lap. You know, those ice toddlers. Let's just say it was a "wet" cold.

It was all downhill from there. I had the wet leg. I had socks on my hands. I was visibly shivering. And then, when the staccato of my chattering teeth grew so loud Dapo had to strain to hear a guy asking "how much do you want for this Hibachi?", Katr TOOK ME HOME. And I WENT.

I would like to take a moment to apologize to Dapo and Jebr for wimping out. I am mortified, to say the least. And then I would like to apologize to all you people who I've made fun of over the years. It was wrong and I am sorry. And as soon as I'm finished posting here, I'm gettin' back to my knitting. Because clearly, I'm going to need more hats.

Creampuff Wishes Her Girlfriend a Happy Anniversary By Being a Total Freak

I am a rather suggestible person. I like to think it's because I'm an artiste, that this malleability is integral to my Art, but I suspect it's really that I'm a wanker. When I read books, I tend to get a little . . . involved. And I start to feel, act and react like I am actually in the book I am reading. Before, when I was single, I tended to live out these book-related fancies solo, unless some friend or roommate was unlucky enough to cross my path. But now that I am with Katr, she has to deal with Dame Drama. In this last year alone, I have, among many other things:

• Emigrated to Atlantic Canada after barely surviving the Potato Famine;
• Watched my husband get lanced through the eye during a medieval tournament;
• Fallen hard for Ginny Weasley;
• Felt the wind rushing through my heroin-addicted bike messenger mohawk; and
• Bravely tended a plague-ridden village in England with naught but the vicar's delicate wife to help me.

Of all the books I've been in recent memory, I'd have to say that Sarah Waters' books of lesbonic historical fiction have had the most potent effect on me. The drama - the history - the naughty Victorian words for one's nethers - the twists - the turns - the agony - the ecstasy! When I finished Affinity, I nearly had to take a personal day to recover from feeling kicked about the head and the stomach. When I got to the critical halfway point in Fingersmith (if you've read it, you'll know which part I mean), I actually screamed aloud and threw the book across the room. So when Reol gave me The Night Watch as a belated birthday gift, I braced myself for the Blitz. But I forgot to warn Katr.

I'm not going to spoil el booko for those who've yet to read it, but here are the basics. The book is set in 1940's London, during and just after WWII. There are lesbians in it. There's a straight girl. There's the straight girl's brother, who I'm guessing is a big 'mo, but I haven't finished the book yet. One of the lesbians drives an ambulance around during raids, helping the folks who got bombed. They all smoke, drink a lot of tea, wear much powder and lipstick (the women) and have complicated, intertwined relationships. It's all very dramatic.

The problem is that Sarah Waters never writes books about happy lesbians in stable relationships who wear wolf sweatshirts and go to drum circles. She tends to write about relationships in transition, relationships in turmoil, relationships where jealousy, abandonment, suspicion, insecurity and trust issues threaten to tear people apart at any moment. And I am soaking it up like a gigantic lesbian Q-tip.

What's hilarious is that it always takes me a couple of days to notice that the book has invaded my consciousness to the point of thinking "Oh no! Jerry's dropping incendiaries again! Hope the warden has the fire boys on it. Better get to the Underground for shelter." whenever I hear a loud noise. I also noticed myself worrying about what will happen if Katr isn't "careful" and gets me "in trouble". I referred to our dinner from Pizza Hut last night as our "rations" and I've started hoarding sugar and eggs. I noticed a rip in my jeans and wondered if I had enough "clothing coupons" to cover a new pair. Whenever Katr mentions some other woman (a co-worker, a speaker at a conference, my mother), I immediately assume it's because she's having an affair this person under cover of darkness, in the bombed out buildings of London. And when she says to me: "Uh . . . the "seams" you drew down the backs of your calves with eyeliner are coming off on the couch," I come back with "Why don't you LOVE ME ANYMOOOOOOOOOOOOORE? Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah." [dissolves into tears while girlfriend looks on, bewildered.]

It does not escape me that this behaviour is at best strange and at worst pathetic. And it's especially well-timed, as today is Katr's and my 3 year-aversary! Hey, baby - still love me? As some of you may recall, Katr and I had to have our anniversary dinner at Jack Astor's, Brampton last year; this year we've opted for upscale sushi at the incomparable Blowfish. I'm planning to suck the red leather bound books in our library (to rouge my lips) and my permanent wave is holding up lovely. But I'd better get going if I'm going to finish drawing these seams down the back of my leg with my eyeliner. That shit isn't going to draw itself and Katr's not keen to do it for me.

Creampuff Takes the First Step Towards Healing

Well, it's official. I am going to have to get some professional help. I am addicted to Q-tips.

I know, I know. You're not supposed to stick them in your ears and root around like you might dislodge the Hope diamond. It's bad for you. It messes up the wax equilibrium. You could puncture key parts of the inner ear. But how can it be wrong when it FEELS SO RIGHT? And? Right when you get out of the shower? Or the pool? Shouldn't you try to get the water out of your ears? So it doesn't fester? And so pussywillows don't grow in your ears like I read in a book once? And aren't Q-tips perfect for that?

So clearly, occasional Q-tip use is perfectly reasonable. But I realized I had a problem this morning, when I got out of the shower in our hotel, reached for a 'tip and came up empty. I felt a little burst of panic explode inside my chest. Katr usually has a little travel pouch full of those cotton wands of joy. I pawed through her toiletry bag. Nothing. I ripped her toiletry bag apart, spreading its contents about the bathroom like I was looking for my heroin suppositories. Still nothing. I turned to my own toiletry bag, willing it to magically produce the missing 'tips. I tore my bag apart. I then proceeded to empty out my knapsack, then Katr's knapsack, then my purse,then my knitting bag, and finally the the mini-bar. Nothing.

"Fuck," I thought, still in a panic, yet surprised at the vehement application of the F-bomb to what should not be that big a deal, "Fuckity fuck. Goddamn."

I began to think crazy thoughts. I could call the front desk! Surely they'll have Q-tips! Or if not, they could send someone out to get some! But then they'd come up and deliver them and I'd have to put on pants! Foiled! I could go get them myself! There's a pharmacy not far from there, I saw it yesterday, SWEET LAVENDAR LORD, why didn't I GET SOME YESTERDAY, I was RIGHT THERE!! I could go now, I could, but then I'd DEFINITELY have to put pants on and it's not pants time yet!! Fuckity fuck! Goddamn!

I was attaching a cotton pad to the tip of a 4mm knitting needle with a rubber band when I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My towel turban was in disarray. My face was red and I was breathing heavily. I had the crazy eyes. And that's when I knew - I have to stop hittin' the 'tips.

There was a time when Q-Tips were a matter of indifference to me. I used them to clean my nose ring when I first got it, but that was about it. Looking back, however, it was only a matter of time. My dad is addicted to Q-tips - I remember seeing the look of joy and satisfaction on his face while he slid those cotton-tipped beauties so far into his ear that they affected his speech patterns and motor skills. These things are genetic. I am powerless over my disease.

So I'm cuttin' out the 'tips. Going cold turkey. No more early morning scrub-outs. No more late-night inner ear frottage. And when I get back from the emergency room, where I hope they can remove this knitting needle, no more cotton-tipped LIES.

**Update** Darn it. Now Melissa's response to this post has me thinking twice about quitting - I'm clearly in such good company here . . .

Creampuff Likes Her Some Vicar

Our friend Sabo turned us on to The Vicar of Dibley awhile ago and Katr and I are hooked. Oh, how I love it. When we get our basset hound, we will be naming her Dibley.

I am a little infatuated with Dawn French (naked at left) who, for those who have not seen the way of the Lord, plays the titular (ha ha) Vicar. I remember a time not so very long ago when I, as a creampuff, was trying to rectify some fat-related self-esteem issues. I began to keep my eye out for fat people  I thought were sexy, hoping to figure out their secret. I was sitting with my friend Mach in a downtown courtyard one day when I spotted a very attractive fat girl and I pointed her out to Mach as a "sexy fat person". Ever wise, Mach said to me "Oh, Roro. There are no such thing as "sexy fat people" or "sexy thin people". There are "sexy people" and "unsexy people". Deal."

Mach is right. And Dawn French is the proof. Because Dawn French is hot. I hear she likes the dick and good thing too; it saves Katr and I from having to fight over who "gets her". If I ever get around to populating my "fantasy fling freebies" list with anyone besides Gina Torres, Dawn French will be on it. Why don't I just do that now? Excuse me.

Roro's Freebies List

1. Gina Torres

2. Dawn French

So anyway - we were watching The Vicar of Dibley the other day and as we reached the end of the disk, I said to Katr "My friend Angr was training in Boston to become an Anglican priest. I haven't talked to her in nearly 10 years. I wonder what she's up to?"

Angr and I went through junior high and high school together. She was a delightful and unlikely combination of spiritedly fun and highly practical. I have many great memories of Angr, but two that come to mind are:

a) once, when I was marvelling (in a teen angsty way) at a smear of blood on my hand derived from a too-much-fussed with hangnail, Angr made a clucking noise, rolled her eyes, licked her thumb, grabbed my hand, vigorously rubbed the blood off, gave me back my clean hand and said "There. Better?"; and

b) when anyone ever said "You can't do that!" to Angr, she would say "Watch me."

In today's modern world, answers to life's burning questions are often just a google away. And so I googled my friend Angr and discovered that not ONLY is she an Anglican priest, but she's an Anglican priest at a church right here in downtown Toronto! So I wrote her a little note (with a PEN, people), addressed the envelope to her care of her church and dropped it in the mailbox today. And then I started to panic. Because I remember Angr fondly - but what if she doesn't remember me the same way?

I am particularly sensitive to this issue because earlier this week, I nearly ran into a woman I went to university with. I had fondly supposed that this babe had moved to the other side of the country with the man of her dreams who we all heard about incessantly. She often used Sheryl Crow songs to illustrate critical elements of their relationship. It was harsh. Anyway, I nearly ran into her and my brain said "Oh, look, it's X! I should say hi!" and my body said "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" and I took off up the stairs like aliens were threatening to probe my anus.

I'm hoping that Angr doesn't have a similar reaction - her flock might get concerned if their priest took off at a run, covering her ass and screaming about aliens.  Because I remember her fondly, I'm also hoping that she's one of those "we love the gays!" Anglicans. Finally, I hope she remembers me at all.

I confided in my friend Chgi about my vague fears regarding Angr (who he remembers fondly as well)and he just laughed. "Roro," he said, "she's a PRIEST. It's her JOB to be all open and stuff!" "Hey," I said to him, "you're totally right! I mean, if I track her down and ask her for tea, what's she going to say? NO?" And then we laughed and laughed. Oh, good times.

So Angr, if you get my note and you're reading this, I remember you fondly. And I'm a big lesbian. And I hope we can have some tea.

Creampuff Shares Some Lesbian Poetry

It's that time again, here at Creampuff Revolution. That's right - it's EMBARRASSING LESBIAN POETRY TIME.  In honour of spring's inexorable progress and the memories of young lust it brings, today I'll be sharing a piece of rhyming confession that I performed at Cheap Queers last June. If it makes even one of you feel like less of a freak in the sack, then my work here is done.

Your Love Gives Me A Rash
By Creampuff

For some it takes time, but for some, we are quick

To note that we just do not care for the dick.

And that mainly with chicks we would fain spend our time,
For their charms, they are many, and their lips are sublime.

But pursuing this lust, not much time had I spent,
Unlike SOME of my friends, whose stories all went:
“We fucked in the shower after volleyball practice!”
Or began with “So I’m there going down on this actress”

Their stories, in truth, were all quite delicious,
But every last tale told involved . . . skinny bitches.

A woman of substance is what I desired.
There was one in my film class I’d seen and admired,
But my prospects seemed bleak, for the damsel in question
Oft fixed me with a glare that betrayed indigestion.

Little did I know ‘twas her way of flirting!
And not too much later, I found myself blurting
Inanities like “Hi!”

Surprisingly, this did not win me her heart.
But a few weekends later, it gave me a start
When I went to the bar and saw she was there,
All tattoos and piercings and crazy spiked hair.
She crossed to my corner and began to make clear
Her intentions, she whispered them into my ear.

The suggestions she made seemed kind of obscene
(I can’t tell you her name, but it RHYMES with “Bhristine”)
She bowed low and she pressed her lips to my hand,
And that marks the point when the blushing began.

See, for all of my talk, I was new at this game.
I won’t bore you with details, it’s really just lame,
But my lack of experience had made me quite shy.
And though I’d had one fling, or two, with “the guys”,
I’d been saving myself, see, for just the right gal
And had only discussed lesbo sex, with my pals

My one friend Deanna, she summed it up right,
When I spoke of my nervousness, shyness and plight:
“Being straight is a breeze, ‘cause with guys, you can bluff
But with GIRLS,” she said wisely, “YOU have to DO stuff.”

I considered these words as Bhristine turned her key
And opened the door of her res room for me.
Some music was playing – “You like Roz Basmerta?”
“I wouldn’t know”, I said, “I’m from Alberta.”

The kissing came next, it was really quite nice,
And Bhristine had her overalls off in a trice,
I could feel the heat rising, my face in full flush,
Bhristine was flushed too but that’s ‘cause she’s a lush,
My blush gained in strength; I feared it might consume
My face and my ears and poor Bhristine’s res room.
Bhristine pulled the neck of my shirt open wide,
Then took in my chest and said “Hey – are those HIVES?”

I looked down at my chest and I saw she was right.
There were hives standing out from my skin, red and bright.
"Maybe you’re allergic to peanuts”, she said,
"I had some for lunch, here, sit down on the bed,
Is there anything that I should get for you then,
Like a doctor to call or your own epi-pen?”
"No, no”, I said, “it’ll be gone in a flash,
It’s just I think you’re hot . . . and that gives me a rash.”

It took me a fairly long time to convince her
These hives were a compliment, nothing should hinder
This magical night.  Though I was terribly sorry
To have freaked her out thus, it was all hunky dory.
The rash was ignited by our passion’s fire
They weren’t hives of distress, these were hives of desire.

On that wonderful night, booze had played quite a part.
And it never takes much to pry my knees apart (If you know what I mean)

Bhristine carried on, to the floor we did slide and
Over my skin spread a warm glow of . . . pride.

For my first time, I feel I performed fairly well,
And as far as I know, no cruel tales did SHE tell
Of my strange and disfigured expression of lust.
And for every tryst after, that rash was a must.

And so, we have come to the end of my tale.
I wish that in telling it, I’d remained pale,
But I’m probably blushing right now, as I speak,
For to cure this affliction, I’ve found no technique.
Be it true love or mere lust, crush or mash,
You can read how I feel by the glow of my rash.

Creampuff on the Loose!

The girlfriend is out of town on business!  Let the debauchery begin! I'll get the hookers if you bring the blow! 58 hours - NO PANTS!!  Wooooooooooo!

Ha ha. Just kidding about the blow. But my increasingly famous and accomplished partner Katr (whose awesome blog and lovely Riverdale Farm tulip photos got a great shout-out today from Andy Barrie on CBC's Metro Morning) really is out of town and while the sorry state of my bank account precludes both hookers and blow, there are a few things I enjoy doing when my lady love is . . . absent. A short list of planned rebellious domestic activities follows:

Crackers and Slurpees for dinner. I'm ace at breakfast. I can put together a decent lunch. But by the time it's dinner, I've already made two "regular meals". What do I want from me - blood?? Katr and her demands for green vegetables generally steer me in the direction of healthy evening meals, but when she's not here, it's crackers. And a Slurpee, but only if I can bring myself to put on pants. So far, no dice.

Get the most out of that 11:35 p.m. to 3 a.m. work period. We all have our "good" work times, don't we? The times when we are the most focused, the most creative, the most ALIVE?  In my day to day, I generally hit two out of a possible four great work periods and the 11:35 p.m. to 3 a.m. slot is rarely one of the two. Not this week, gang. To be fair, sometimes the work I produce in this latest, most hallowed work period is deeply, deeply asstastic. But sometimes working in the wee hours helps me find a different rhythm, or experience a flash of brilliance or stumble into lurve, as I did nearly 3 years ago. Also, few things beat the midnight Slurpee and I happen to know that after 10:30 p.m., the 7-11 clerks actually prefer you don't wear pants. Because they're pervs? No. Because it is harder to shoplift without pants. HA ha - score!

Spend more time than is strictly necessary thinking about how I am three degrees from Gina Torres. Katr, a huge fan of Viggo Mortensen's Aragorn, is very good-humoured about my avid interest in Gina Torres. But? When the Firefly DVD is on and I keep pausing it? On hot shots of Gina Torres? And then kinda get all close to the screen and stuff? And then rewind and watch? And then pause again? Yeah, Katr, she no likee that.

Watching grisly crime and medical dramas on television. Katr dislikes these types of shows, but I can't help myself. I like the CSI. I love the Law & Order (the original though - I refuse to watch SVU, or, as I refer to it, "The Weekly Rape"). I'll even watch docudrama like American Justice. I will stay up very late watching these shows. And then I will try to go to bed. Alone.

This activity is especially fun for Katr when the phone rings in her hotel room at 3:00 a.m. (Hint: It's me calling).

Katr:  Unnnngh. Wha . . . who . . .

Me: (panicked whispering) I think someone's in the house.

Katr: Wha . . . unngh.

Me: (still whispering) I keep hearing this clacking noise, a clacking. Omigod!! There it is again! OH MY GOD.

Katr: Wha . . . baby . . . where is the noise coming from?

Me: (shrieking, yet whispering) The study! The study!

Katr: Unnnngh . . . Is it the same noise you hear when the window is open in there? And, unnngh . . . the wind blows the blinds around? And they make that clacking noise?

Pause.

Me: Oh my god. YES. THANK YOU. (big sigh of relief, followed by normal voice) So, how's your sleep going? Good?

Click.

I know, I know - WILD TIMES, people! I can't wait to get started. As of this posting, about 50 hours remain before sweet Katr's return. Suggestions are welcome.