Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff is Asked a Personal Question

It was a sunny morning in the gaybourhood today and I was on a mission. We have been without peanut butter for weeks now, possibly months, and this morning, Katr expressed a craving that could no longer be denied. Also, we were out of margarine. Also, we needed lemon poppyseed loaf. So I strapped on my very unsexy yet insanely comfortable SAS sandals and headed down our street to the Fresh Mart, making a mental note to avoid those fancy lookin' chocolate bars..

I was about halfway down our block when I spotted a slightly dishevelled gentleman in a sky blue, button-down shirt and flip flops wander out onto the sidewalk. I did not detect any pants on this man and was about to cross the street; unlike most of the residents in our 'hood, I prefer not to start the day with "penis surprise". But before I could make my move, he called out to me, "Excuse me!" and as I got closer, I could see he was a little panicked.

"Are you," he said, with a lovely Australian accent, "are you, by any chance . . . a cat lady?"

I don't know what I was expecting him to ask me. "Do you have a light?" or "Have you seen my pants?" or perhaps "Do you know the way to San Jose?" "Are you, by any chance, a cat lady?" was not on the list. I sort of gaped at him for a moment while I tried to decide if he was insulting me. My first instinct was to a) immediately blurt out: "What? Just because I'm fat and in the gaybourhood and wearing SAS sandals and no makeup and have fuzzy hair, you think I'm a cat lady?" and then b) whack his pantless ass with my duck purse.

But instead I paused to give it some thought. IS "cat lady" really considered an insult or just is it an affectionate, if somewhat contemptuous, term for ladies with more than one cat?  Does it depend on the context? Am I giving off a cat lady vibe? If yes, does that bother me? Should I hook myself up with one of these action figures? And sweet lavendar lord, where were this man's PANTS?

"You see," he rushed on, noting the confusion and consternation on my face, "I am a dog man."

"Are you a HOTdog man?" I thought, as I tried not to glance in the direction of his junk.

"And you see, I was looking after a friend's cat. And you see, the cat has run off. And I thought that if you were a cat lady, you know, you might know . . . how cats think and where . . . this cat might have got to," he finished lamely.

"Ohhh," I said, my indignation waning,"I see. I'm really sorry about the cat. But no, I am not a cat lady. In fact, I am allergic to cats and know very little of their habits."

"Okay," he sadly, "thanks."

I got his name, apartment number and a description of the cat (grey, answers to "Lulu", for any of you local readers), and advised him to put up a description at the Fresh Mart and other shops along Church Street. I also suggested that he might try opening a tin of tuna and making kissing noises like Steve Martin in Roxanne. He agreed that these were good ideas. I made some more noises of sympathy and then he went back inside and I continued on my way, keeping my eye out for the cat.

I felt sorry for the pantsless man. It's horrible enough losing one's own pet; losing someone ELSE's pet seems, to me, almost worse. So I mentioned the missing cat to the barristas and folks in line with me at the coffee shop. They all looked at me like I was a cat lady. Then we were all distracted by a "bitch lady" who characterized the cashier's inability to find a plastic fork for her fig loaf in a timely manner as "very disappointing". Jesus Christ, lady - are your fingers broken? Use your hands!

I also mentioned the missing cat to the cashier at the Fresh Mart and told her that Dog Man may come by with a notice later on. She clucked sympathetically. Then she turned around to tell the other cashier and I don't speak Cantonese, but I'm pretty sure she told the other cashier that "this cat lady has lost her cat". Then the other cashier clucked sympathetically and then they didn't charge me for the cream. Which was nice.

Wending my way home, I made a few little detours, hoping to flush Lulu out. I hoped that some nice cat lady had found her. I laughed heartily my own stupid pun when I decided that next time someone asks if I'm a cat lady, I can reply "well, I like a lot of pussy". And I considered stopping by Dog Man's apartment to suggest that perhaps when he found his pants, he'd find Lulu too. Then I decided that this would be funny only to me.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized I had forgotten the peanut butter. Effing cat.

Creampuff Shares a Little Too Much About Her Brother on His Birthday

  Not only is today my wonderful brother Jaro's birthday, but I discovered, over at Super Babymama, that it is ALSO Blog For Radical Fun day! Talk about your perfect timing.

Am I a radical . . . anything? Well, I'm a lesbian who's not ashamed to be fat and speaks openly about her donut fetish, so that's a start. My brother Jaro, though, is an actual activist. He organizes, demonstrates, educates and makes a mean tofu curry. So in honour of Jaro's birthday coinciding with Blog For Radical Fun day, I thought I would share one of my favourite stories about my radical brother engaging in fun.

Jaro's first form of resistance was nudity. As a young child, like 3 or 4 years old, he found clothing binding, uncomfortable and unnecessary. He would frolic in the buff at every opportunity and played for hours wearing only the thick, horn-rimmed glasses Mom strapped to his head with an elastic.

We lived in a very kid-friendly neighbourhood growing up and Jaro's childhood best friend, Trla, lived across the street, so in the summer months, it was not uncommon to see the two boys streaking about - joyfully, shamelessly - in various states of undress. Not wanting to oppress him, our mom was totally relaxed with the nudity, but she did try and slap a bathing suit on him if Jaro was leaving the house/backyard. Sometimes, however, Jaro was just too quick for her.

And so it came to pass that one fine afternoon, Jaro nudely beetled across the street to play with Trla. This was not the first time my brother had showed up naked at Trla's house, but Trla's mom, Dela, was fun and crazy (in a great way) and didn't care. However, on that particular afternoon, Dela (who, I found out in my adulthood, happens to be the sister of a crazy right-wing shitslice and politician here in Canada - I'm not going to tell you his name, but it RHYMES with Bockwell Bay), was having a few people over for a tea on her back patio.  In the interests of propriety, Dela pleasantly pointed out to Jaro that she was having a tea party and that Jaro was welcome to come back and play if he wanted to go home first and "dress up" for the party. "Okay!" said Jaro excitedly and trotted back across the street to our house.

A few minutes later, Jaro returned to Dela's house . . . wearing one of my sundresses and no ginch. Jaro was kind of a literal child and when Dela told him to dress up, naturally he put on a dress.

"Is that your sister's dress?" Dela asked him.

"Yes!" my brother said brightly, mooning Dela's guests once more as he clambered into the turtle pool with my dress up around his waist.

"Well," said Dela, "it's very nice."

I was reminiscing about this story with my mom awhile back. I was surprised to discover that she had never heard it and had no idea Jaro had worn my dress to Dela's tea party. But she DID remember the day it happened. Jaro came tearing into the house and announced that "I need to wear one of Roro's dresses!" And my mom said, "Which one?" I love that it did not occur to my mom to a) tell my brother that "dresses are for GIRLS" or b) ask him why he wanted to wear a dress. She just helped him pick a dress that brought out the colour of his eyes and sent him back out to play. My mom is a radical too.

It just goes to show - you can never tell which of your children will turn out to be the gay one.

Anyway - happy birthday, Jaro! I hope it's the best ever! And your present is in the works.

Creampuff Has a New Chair

Jealous? You should be. I'm sitting on this slick little number right now. It's sleek. It's curvy and padded in all the right places. It BREATHES and it is READY FOR ACTION. I feel like I'm sitting on Carrie Ann Moss from The Matrix. You know, if she was a chair.

Katr and I bought this office chair for me this weekend. Usually when we "work" on the weekends, Katr works in our office and I read your blogs and play Neopets in the dining room. Because we both acknowledge that she is the one actually working, Katr gets the comfy office chair and I get the dining room chairs. The dining room chairs are great for short term sitting, but after a couple of hours my ass gets sore, I get frumbly and I can't feel my feet. I then either turn to knitting or bothering Katr (sometimes simultaneously), but because my ass is sore, I'm frumbly and I can't feel my feet, I'm not in the mood to take on essential household chores like laundry folding or fish maintenance. Not a good scene, as the laundry pile is often so big that we need a divining rod to find our damn ginch.

The last few weeks, however, have been very busy for me, and likely will be for months to come.  And so I find that on the weekends, when Katr is actually working, I too am ACTUALLY WORKING. And the dining room chair? It would no longer do. So we hied ourselves to the Office Depot, where a variety of chairs styles and ergonomic ratings nearly overwhelmed us. Sadly, we had to say no to the "massage office chair":

Me: Ooo hoo hoo - bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .

Katr: Don't you think you'll find constant buzzing and vibrating a little . . . distracting?

Me: I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the buzz of my new chair. And take off your shirt when you talk to me.

Fortunately, a number of other chairs were quite appealing - until we saw their price tags. Comfort don't come cheap, people, and it DEFINITELY don't come assembled. At that point, the massage chair was totally out of the running; no way am I going to bring home an item of assemble-it-yourself furniture when there's a good chance I'll electrocute myself before I even get to use it. In the end, we went with simple, sleek and very reasonably priced. We put it together on a Sunday, with the sun shining outside and a drug war going down in the alley. We rolled it into the dining room. I sat. And I knew in that moment that I might never, ever get up.

So here I am, sitting on the cloud of comfort that is Carrie Anne, looking forward to a productive and delightful day. I can work longer; I can think better; I can peep with more dedication. For, perhaps most importantly, this new office chair gives me an even more comfortable perch from which to contemplate the actions of my neighbours. Or my neighbours getting action. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do.

In other news, I feel compelled to mention that Miro, a frequent and hilarious commenter on these pages (you may know him by his handle, the "Viscount of Knockers") has written yet another searing look at the dark underbelly of children's games in his piece Rock, Paper, Scissors Redux. By anthropomorphizing Rock, Paper and Scissors, the Viscount tickles us, moves us, makes us think twice about ever using scissors - EVER - and once again proves that he is a very VERY funny man who might have too much spare time. So you find yourselves a comfortable chair - maybe get a coffee - and enjoy an excellent, incisive read. Happy Wednesday!