Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Gets Mail!!!

Oh, people. I love getting fun things in the mail almost as much as my girlfriend and this week was exceptionally good.

As I waited all this week for my Candy Swap candy to arrive (Maybe today! Maybe today!), I got two OTHER amazing things in the mail.

Toggles from The Feminist Mafia

Remember when I couldn't find toggles for my brother's itchy sack? And you all told me to go to Queen Street West? But then The Feminist Mafia, in Boston, offered to send me some toggles? And I totally took her up on it, because she's lovely and a crafting goddess and I love getting things in the mail? Well, The Mafia totally came through. Not ONLY did she send me a traditional toggle and a funky toggle, she ALSO put together this excellent box of craft supplies for the 87% True road trip this summer! Behold!

Jealous? FUCK, I love this kit. The kit itself is sturdy, shuts with a satisfying snap and is a deep cerise, which matches the egg of Silly Putty (Silly Putty, people!!). She thoughtfully included Q-tips, because we all know the 'Tips are still the sweet, sweet cotton monkeys on my back. The toggles are beautiful and it will pain me to part with them. The notebook says "Harvard Square" on it, which I know will make EVERYTHING I write in there effing BRILLIANT. The markers are bright AND they have my name on them, so none of the other kids at the Fringe will steal them. HA ha! Foiled, marker thieves!

 

Thank you, Feminist Mafia!!! You are the best. I'm sure you'll be seeing many photos of the kit in blog posts to come. I promise I won't keep hash or 'shrooms in the kit.

Money From the Government

Usually, when you apply for grants, they tell you that you'll know in 16 weeks. So when I got a letter from the Ontario Arts Council this week, a mere 12 weeks after I last applied, I thought it must be some kind of newsletter and I almost didn't open it. So you can imagine my surprise when I DID open it and there was a big fat cheque in there! And a letter telling me that I get to be the playwright-in-residence at Buddies In Bad Times Theatre next year!

I know, I know - USUALLY a big cheque = hookers! Blow! Yarn! But Katr reminded me that this cheque represents my livin' money for about four months this fall, so I should probably put it where I can't get to it, i.e. not with the 'shrooms and the hash in the travelling craft kit.

I spent quite awhile gazing at the cheque and thinking about all the hookers, blow and yarn I coulda bought. But then I thought about how "playwright-in-residence" doesn't mean that you actually LIVE in the theatre, even though Buddies has a kitchenette and many fine subterranean tunnels, and that I might want to eat and possibly pay rent/mortgage/phone, etc. And so I very responsibly put it in the bank and then went back to fondling the craft kit.

So anyway - thanks, Ontario Arts Council! You too are the best! I'm sure I'll be mentioning your fine, fine support in blog posts to come. I promise I won't do hash or 'shrooms at the theatre. Or, if I do, I won't mention it in the final reporting letter.

Fruity Creampuff

It's strawberry season here in southern Ontario and we opted to buy a flat of berry goodness from our organic food people. Of course, when we ordered a flat of strawberries, we were really ordering hypothetical berries. Berries that would show up LATER. Not berries that would appear at our door in all their pungent goodness last night at 6 o'clock.

Nothing motivates one to complete domestic tasks like the possibility of several pounds of rotting fruit in the living room. And so last night, Katr sat down with a paring knife and trimmed 12 litres of strawberries. I was tempted to just sit there and watch, but I've noticed that Katr seems to feel that me pouting, flaunting my bruised hands and saying "But I was in the HOS-pital!" is no longer cause for special treatment. So I hauled out the entire pile of our unfolded laundry and we trimmed and folded and watched a CBC special about decadent Berlin in the early twenties. There was a great deal of titty in the documentary, so there were a few times there that Katr caught me inappropriately gripping pairs of balled up socks and there were other times when Katr's grip on the red, rosy strawberries was just a little too . . . firm.

Anyway, the pungent smell of unexpected strawberries brought me back to when I was living with Jesk in an apartment over a restaurant on Dufferin Street nearly 10 years ago. I came home one afternoon to find the apartment smelling quite pungently of citrus. Usually, the apartment smelled of three-day-old lentil loaf that our eating disordered roommate had left to moulder, so the citrus scent was a welcome change. "What's that smell?" I asked Jesk, who was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. She looked up at me and said, in her "Please don't kill me" voice: "You . . . you like oranges, right?"

It seems that young Jesk, excited by fruit season, had stopped in a the little family-owned fruit market next to our apartment. She (like me) had never been there before, having a surburbanite's suspicion of non-chain stores, but their glittering, fruity wares spread out on the sidewalk proved too tempting. Their baskets of oranges, in particular, were quite fetching and Jesk decided to buy some. So she went into the store and said "I like to buy a box of oranges."

The lady behind the check out said "Wonderful! Would you like the 18 or the 24?"

Jesk thought "Wow, 24. That's a lot of oranges. But I sure like oranges and maybe Roro will eat some." So she said, "I'll take the 24," and pulled out her bank card. The lady handed her the debit thing and that's when Jesk noticed that the cost of the "24 box" was $24.00.

"Hmmm," thought Jesk, "those sure are expensive fucking oranges. What are they, golden oranges? Stuffed with diamonds and David Duchovny's phone number? That's the last time I come HERE." Naturally, she was too embarrassed to say any of this to the sonsy lady behind the counter, so she meekly punched in her code.

The lady said, "Wonderful. I'll have one of my boys help you out with them."

"Help me out?" thought Jesk, "I can carry my own oranges 20 feet!" Instead, she said reluctantly "Oookaaaay." The lady's son came out and said to Jesk, in a friendly way, "Do ya got your car here?"

Jesk said "Nooo . . . I just live next door, so don't worry about it -"

"Oh no," the fellow said, "It's heavy. I'll carry it up for ya. I'll be right behind ya."

"Um . . . great."

Confused, Jesk walked out of the store, then turned around and saw the young gentleman staggering under the weight of an ENORMOUS BOX. "Lead the way!" he said, in a strained yet macho voice. Horrified, Jesk beetled over to our door and let him up into our apartment, where he deposited the box of 100 oranges she'd just purchased in our kitchen. Then he strutted out, leaving Jesk alone with her gigantic orange collection.

Jesk swears her first thought was "Oh my god. Roro's going to KILL ME!!" Which is funny, because when she told me the story, MY first thought was "Well, at least we won't get the scurvy." And hey - we didn't! So it all worked out.

Back to the strawberries; our freezer is now stuffed full of them and the possibilities are delightful. Will we make jam? Daily smoothies? Delicious fruit topping for ice cream? OR should we go with my brilliant suggestion and just make ONE GIANT DAQUIRI?

Creampuff . . . GAH

Warning: This post contains discussions of an "intestinal distress" and "visit to the hospital" nature. Also, it is lengthy.

I was pretty sure I'd end up at the Emergency Room on the day of the Dyke March this year if Katr decided to offer her brilliant marketing ideas to radical lesbians and trans persons in person this time instead of via her blog. So you can imagine my surprise when I ended up there HOURS before the Dyke March and for a completely different reason! A reason that rhymes with "bamoebic bysentery".

I'm not the kind of person who says things like "I know my body", because the truth is, I kinda don't. But I DO have a great memory. So when I started to get sick on Wednesday, I thought "Heeeey, wait a minute. This feels . . . familiar! It's kinda like six years ago when I had what I thought was food poisoning, but turned out to be a kind of infection that kills people in Third World Countries!"

I spent Wednesday night in the ladies' shitter a) pleading with my intestines to "Pleeeeeeeeeease stop hurting meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" on an hourly basis and b) wondering if I would make it back to bed before I fainted or if I should just aim for the laundry pile.  But then Thursday morning, I felt a little better, so I decided to hold off seeing a doctor. But then Thursday night rolled around.

It was like Wednesday night all over again EXCEPT that as an added bonus, my brain had decided to replay a song over and over in my head, you know, to comfort and anchor me in my faint and shivering state. And that song was "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas.

Words cannot express how much I LOATHE "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas. When I first heard the song, I thought it was a Saturday Night Live parody of an actual song. It wasn't. I've heard the song three times in total and somehow I know all the words. I don't know what was more hideous - the hourly visits to the bathroom, the sickly sweet energy drink I kept sipping to keep from dehydrating or hearing "Mix your milk with my coco puff, milky milky coco, mix your milk with my coco puff, milky milky riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight" ONE MILLION TIMES. By morning I was a broken woman. It was time to go to the doctor.

The last time I had the amoebic dysentery (which, by the way, is my catch-all term for long-term intestinal distress), I saw the doctor at a walk-in clinic. He gave me antibiotics on the understanding that I would not take them without returning with (gah) a sample. We will not speak of it. I agreed to his terms, since the testing would take three days and I was on the edge of killing my houseguest AND myself. Literally minutes after taking the first pill, I felt better. One day later, it was like it had never happened. And a week later, when I went back to the clinic in the pink of health to get the test results, the doctor said "Wow. Good thing you took those pills when you did. This thing you had kills people in Third World countries." Good times!

Armed with this story and sure I wouldn't get in to see my family doctor on short notice, I went to the nearest walk-in clinic. After waiting for an hour and nearly passing out in the waiting room, I got to see the doctor. I told him my story and that I needed antibiotics. He told me to take some Immodium and asked me if I'd heard of Gatorade. I fully cried in this man's office, people. "What do you think I'm going to do with them? What's the street value of penicillin?" He patted my arm, wrote something down on a prescription pad, and left. I looked at the prescription. It said "Immodium".

Later that day, by some miracle, I got in to see my actual doctor. I told her my story and that I needed antibiotics. She told me to take Gravol and drink Gastro-lyte, because Gatorade has too much sugar. The phrases "try to ride it out" and "go to the E.R. for fluids if you get really dizzy" were used. I like my doctor, it seemed like she was taking me seriously and I wanted to believe her. So I took the first doctor's Immodium and the second doctor's Gravol and split the difference with Powerade and the dysentery got worse and that's how, early Saturday morning, Katr and I ended up at the E.R.

Dr. Carrie Weaver was not present.

"Sorry for the wait," the triage nurse said as she got all set to sign me in. "I just had some drunks in here and they pissed in the lobby."

I got a kicky bracelet and a tiny bed and a lovely red-haired nurse whose name rhymed with "Beslie". I told her my story (even the part about "My Humps" - she seemed so sympathetic) and that I needed antibiotics. She hooked me up to an IV and then attempted to take some blood. It didn't go well.

"Hmm. You're pretty dry. Maybe here . . . noooo. Okay, make a fist, make a fist . . . [slap slap slap] Okay, this one looks good, let me just . . .Oh, lord love a duck."

Beslie went over her two-poke limit and had to call in another nurse. We'll call her Bernice.

Bernice was clearly busy and put out. She didn't fuck around with ducks. Bernice stuck me quick and hard, just below my thumb joint. And then, when the second vial didn't fill as quickly as she wanted, she jammed the needle in harder and ROOTED AROUND, like she was looking to hit the Hope Diamond. I nearly puked. There was no love from Bernice. She told me to hold a cotton ball down on it and took off. My hands looked like a crime scene. I felt very butch.

That ordeal over, Beslie came back with some stool sample gathering accoutrements and encouraged me to make use of them. Know what's hard? Crapping in a cardboard box while you've got an IV stuck in your hand. Fortunately, before I had to experience the full horror, the doctor came in. He barely made eye contact and it was like Katr wasn't there at all. But he DID give me a prescription for antibiotics.

The fluorescent lights behind him glowed like a halo as he passed it to me. I have never seen a healthcare professional look so beautiful.

Katr filled my prescription and took me home and generally took care of her whiny-like-a-man girlfriend for the rest of the day. And the next day. And I started to feel like myself again almost right away. Only tired. And a little thinner. But not so much so that I would advocate amoebic dysentery as a weight-loss method, so don't get any ideas.

I will never drink Powerade again.

Creampuff Wonders WHO THE HELL LOUISE IS

On the way back from a Slurpee run yesterday afternoon, I stopped to get the mail. There was a pretty postcard from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia addressed to Katr. Because I am a nosy so-and-so, I fully turned it over and read it. Here is what it said:

Hey, Kate!
Last postcard I'll be sending before I get back to the T-dot. Hope the weather is nice there, as it's been raining here all week. Excited to practice french with you b/c god knows I need the practice to retain any of the stuff I learned. Been trying to practice breaking on my spare time (which is very little!) My journal is now half-filled with my daily blabberings of the day's events. Hope to see you soon when I get back in town! w/[heart] Louise

What the . . .WHO THE HELL IS LOUISE?

Firstly, I love the name "Louise", but feel that it is a fictional name, like "Fandango" or "Phyllis". The only Louise's I have known were in books or movies or my fishtank. As far as I know, Katr does not know any Louises either.

Secondly, for someone who took high school French in TEXAS, Katr's French is quite good and she uses it charmingly. But she is the first to admit that she is no more a French expert than I am a paleo-botanist. Therefore, Louise's excited wish to "pratice french" with Katr can only be construed as a euphemism. For ANOTHER KIND OF FRENCHING. You know what I mean.

Thirdly, no offense Louise, but "my journal is half-filled with my daily blabberings of the day's events"? If my girlfriend ever had an affair with someone who wrote a sentence that boring, I'd shit twice and die.

Fourthly, what "breaking" are you practising in your spare time? HEART-breaking? Is it HEART-BREAKING, Louise? GOD, your name cuts me like a KNIFE.

In my agitated state, my Slurpee acted as a balm, much in the way that Ron's lovely, moving post removed the sting of the Oiler's tragic loss of the Stanley Cup. But still, this Louise business rankled and when Katr got home, I pounced.

"You have a postcard," I said, "from a certain LOUISE."

"Oh?" She sounded so innocent.

"It's on the front hall table," I spat, "it's from Peggy's Cove."

Sounds of Katr wandering over and picking up the postcard. I could stand it no longer.

"WHO IS THIS LOUISE?" I said, my eyes flashing crazily, my tongue tinged green with Slurpee, "Why is she sending you postcards?"

"It's not FOR me," said Katr, calmly. "It's addressed to a DIFFERENT Kate. Kate [not Katr's last name]."

"But -" I sputtered, "it's addressed to our apartment!"

"Nooo," said Katr, pointing to the address, "It's addressed to our BUILDING. Someone's written the apartment number in after - probably Dave, downstairs."

Sure enough, our apartment number was in a different colour ink. I felt sheepish. And still a little crazy.

"I was just testing you," I said.

"Sure you were, Sherlock," she said, "sure you were. 'Cause your mind - it's like a steel trap."

So, hey - if any of you are named Kate? And you have a friend named Louise? And your friend Louise was just in the Maritimes? And you speak French and enjoy "breaking"? Yeah, I have your postcard.

Creampuff Sport Nostalgia

Not a lot of people know this, but I was almost solely responsible for the Edmonton Oilers winning the Stanley Cup in 1985.

I was 10 years old and had been reading a book about spells and witchcraft during the playoffs. So when it came time for the deciding game between the Edmonton Oilers and the Philadelphia Flyers, I knew that all it would take to put the Oilers over the edge was a good defensive line and some wicked hexing.

I had obtained a mini-puck bearing the Flyers logo from a Happy Meal and it formed a central part of my hexing set up. The other ingredients of my ritual were:

• Herbs (from an herbal tea bag I had ripped open)
• A small flashlight (as a pyrophobic, I didn't mess with matches)
• Sugar-free Lime Kool-Aid (to immerse the mini-puck)
• Sugar-free Grape Kool-Aid (for my refreshment)

When the game started, I made sure I was in the living room, where a Stanley Cup final-watching party was in progress. I let the Flyers skate around the ice for awhile, unsuspecting. I wanted them to get a little cocky before I took them down. A few minutes into the first period, I slipped away to begin.

First, I lowered the vinyl black-out blind in my room. Then I turned off my light. Then I turned my light on again, because I couldn't find my flashlight. Then I turned my light back off and turned on the flashlight. I carefully sprinkled the "herbs" into the Kool-Aid, all the while chanting "Mmm-mmm-OIL-ers, mmm-mmm-OIL-ers" in a deep, pagan voice. And then I slowly lowered the Flyers mini-puck into the herbed Lime Kool-Aid. I heard it sizzle as it dropped into my "potion" and I pushed it down with my fingers. As the Flyers logo disappeared beneath the dirty Kool-Aid, I changed my chant to the following:

You are blind, you cannot see
You will lose, because of me.

You are blind, you cannot see
You will lose to Wayne Gretz-ky.

I kept this up for several minutes. Occasionally, I would waggle the flashlight into the water, to further disorient the hapless Philadelphia Flyers. Soon, the Flyer logo began to peel and I slowly stripped the gummy sticker bits off the puck with my fingernails, a little at a time. I didn't want to go too fast; I knew the importance of an exciting game.

Every now and then, I would wipe my wrinkly, Lime Kool-Aid fingers off on my pants and pop out to the living room to see if my hard hex work was paying off. Also, the living room was where the cheeseballs were and I could never stay away from cheeseballs for long. After a particularly rigorous bout of hexing, I emerged to find the Oilers had scored a goal! The others pumped their fists in the air and cheered - I merely nodded sagely and mainlined cheeseballs. I would need my strength for the third period.

My tongue was purple and my hands were green by the time the game ended. But the Oilers had won!! And it was pretty clear why. I considered writing them a letter to let them know how I'd clinched the Stanley Cup for them in only 5 games, but then decided that to do so would be to out myself as a witch. And outing yourself . . .that can be a big commitment. So I settled for remarking to my dad "It's a good thing the Oilers had a little witch looking for them, huh?" And my dad said "What's all that green stuff on your carpet, honey?"

I've never been a big hockey fan. I'm just not that kind of lesbian. And while the IDEA of women playing hockey is awesome, really, in the end, it's just hockey - with chicks. And sure, our orange and blue dining room and our orange and blue kitchen tile COULD be construed as an homage to the Oiler logo, though that certainly wasn't our intent.

But when I see how excited the fans in my hometown are over the Oilers making it to the Stanley Cup final . . . when I hear them belt out The Star-Spangled Banner as a show of support and hospitality to the visiting 'Canes . . . when I reflect on how at least they didn't loot my dad's office on Whyte Ave after the most recent victory . . . when 'Canes fan Ron shares HIS delicious pre-game rituals . . .it makes me want to hit the Fresh Mart for some Lime Kool-Aid and a flashlight. Because even if I don't actually live there any more, the Edmonton Oilers are my home team. And because win or lose - I support the home team.

Also, if the Oilers win, it'll really piss off Calgary. HA ha!!

In completely unrelated to hockey news, Chgi and I have started our daily posting over on the 87% True: The Lies that Bind blog. Scintillating car insurance tales, lines left on the cutting room floor, photos of our promo buttons and, of course, the running Slurpee count; killing time on a Monday just got easier.

Creampuff Puts Pants On - FOREVER

A few hours from now, Chgi, my Fringe adventure partner who flew in from Vancouver last night, will show up at our place to begin our first rehearsal for 87% True: The Lies That Bind!! Fun! Frolic! Someone else who'll be here all day to help me spy on my neighbours!

But then it hit me - from the time Chgi gets here until SEPTEMBER 17TH, 2006 when our tour ends in Vancouver, not a day will go by where I will not be expected to wear pants of some kind. Also, an actual shirt. Also, a full set of undergarments.

I KNOW - it's a sobering thought. For those of you without PhDs in Math (or "Arithmetic", as you Math types keep reminding me), that's 63 94 CONSECUTIVE DAYS OF PANTS. (Ed. Oh my god, Kristen. I WAS blocking out August! SWEET LAVENDAR LORD!!)

Fortunately, I have the knitting to console me (yes yes - again with the knitting). I've found, since finishing the Itchy Sack, that I YEARN to knit. I am constantly looking at pictures of my finished knitting and murmuring "You are all my children."  I lie awake at night planning what to do with my pathetically tiny, rapidly dwindling stash. I fondle my needles. I actually feel panicky when I do not have a project on the go. Knitters - are these feelings . . . normal?

Yado's Hat

Our lovely friend Jedo had a Simchat Bat for her one year old daughter last Saturday and it was beautiful. Gorgeous day, lots of queer parents and kids in cute outfits running around. A ridiculous amount of amazing food. The naming ceremony itself brought a tear to my eye; but I think it was the incredible potato salad that really ruined my mascara.

Jedo had specified "no gifts", so we just brought wine, 'cause that's the classy thing to bring to a children's party. But when I saw Jedo's daughter Yado wearing this cute cotton sweater in ice cream colours, I knew that a matching summer hat, knit up from the cotton yarn Jebr gifted me, would HAVE to be hers. And so it shall be.

As you can see, Katr's TED Dog has regained his place as finished object model.

I think that TED Dog looks particularly crafty in that last "ruffle close-up". I like how his tongue is hanging out in a devil-may-care kind of way. It's like he is saying "Look, man. This ice cream colours hat clashes with my red turtleneck. But for a handful of beef jerky, I'll look the other way. THIS TIME."

Well-played, TED Dog. Well-played. You enjoy that jerky now. And me . . . I guess I'd better find myself some pants.

An Open Letter to the Guys Who Aren't Getting Back to Creampuff's Girlfriend

Dear Guy Who Called My Girlfriend Asking for Free Business or Marketing Advice and Then Made Her Chase You Around Like She Was Doing YOU a Favour,

Congratulations on learning how to auto-fellate. I feel that your newfound ability to suck your own cock is the only possible explanation for your complete disregard for common courtesy in this matter. I'm not saying it's not difficult for you, a guy who is likely very busy, to keep appointments with women in other countries whom you pestered for free advice out of the blue.  When it comes time to let my girlfriend know that your schedule has changed, I imagine your deeply conflicted inner monologue goes something like this: 

"I COULD take these two minutes to e-mail Katr and let her know that I can't make the Skype call that she had to rearrange her whole weekend to be available for as a generous favour to me, a random guy she's never even met . . . OR I could . . . [ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip]"

I understand that on one occasion, you cancelled a call after it was scheduled to begin because you wanted to WATCH THE WORLD CUP. I understand that for people who give a shit, the World Cup is a major event. Because I am an avid Olympics fan, I do not begrudge sports fans their obsessions, no matter how incredibly tedious I find them. But it's early in the World Cup. All the early games are clearly scheduled and therefore I am fairly certain that the match in question did not sneak up on you like a diarrhea in a job interview. If you have the technology to Skype, then you have the technology to record the World Cup match you want on videocassette. I am told they have video recorders in England now. Please make yourself aware of this new technology.

You may wonder why I, Katr's girlfriend, am even more incensed and annoyed about your cavalier attitude and disrespectful behaviour than she is herself. The explanation for my feelings is twofold:

a) When you love someone, you tend to get far more indignant on their behalf than you ever thought possible; and

b) When my girlfriend is waiting around at her computer with a headset on at 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday, her thumbs are the ONLY things getting twiddled. Suffice to say, my needs are not being met, needs that involve sleeping and other things you do while horizontal, like turning over and sleeping some more and then perhaps getting some. Since you have clearly mastered the art of getting AND giving, perhaps you can pass on some tips in this area.

In closing, I would like to offer this suggestion: a good start in the successful marketing of your event would be to not piss off the person you're asking free marketing advice from. In the end, when your website looks like ten kinds of ass and no one signs up, you will have naught but yourself, your sore jaw and your raw, red member to blame.

Cheerio, pip pip,

Roro

Creampuff Has an Unsuccessful Shopping Trip

So I'm trying to find a giant button or toggle for my brother's itchy hairy cat bag. I'm not a particularly crafty person, so I don't really know where to get a giant toggle or button without waiting until winter, finding someone wearing a Paddington Bear-type coat, distracting this person with a marmalade treat, then snipping a toggle off their coat and beating feet. I know, I know - this plan is breath-taking in its cunning, but the fact remains that it is June and no one is wearing those types of coats. On to Plan B.

I thought I would start at FabricLand, because where there is fabric, often there are buttons! And there WERE buttons, but small ones. I wandered into the "drape fabrics" area, looking for a toggle-like item and immediately regretted it when a fight broke out over the last 10 yards of a particularly sumptuous brocade and I got hit in the face with a tassel. As I stood there, unapologized to, holding my schnozz and blinking my waterings eyes, I briefly considered using a giant tassel as a toggle. But then I remembered seeing the price of the tassel as it winged towards my face and decided to look elsewhere.

I ventured over to the LewisCraft next, hoping that my friend Sahi was wrong when she told me that they had closed. Sahi was not wrong. Foiled again!

At this point I decided that I needed a little taste of the forbidden to perk me up. So I got on the subway and took the long, long ride out to a certain yarn store in the east end. I justified the trip by saying "Knitters use big buttons! I'm sure I saw button-like things in this store!" The truth is that I was feeling reckless and was considering spending a whack of money I don't have on a project I'm planning for the summer.

I have to say, for the record, that I love this yarn store. It seems to be run by mature ladies who are patient, don't have attitude about certain kinds of fibre and welcome dumbass questions from pattern-eschewing newbie knitters like me. I think I passed my sweaty hands over every skein in there. Unfortunately for me (or, rather, fortunately for my credit card), the sweet lady in the yarn store could not, for the LIFE of her, find the price on the yarn that I wanted (Mission Hills Cotton, for those who care). Also, they had no toggles. Also, they were fresh out of the 10mm circular needle I thought I could buy to console myself for the lack of toggles. Super foiled!

Dejected, I left the yarn store and, in a last ditch effort to actually BUY something, I crossed the street to the Value Village. Maybe there would be a Paddington-Bear type coat in there! And maybe I could sidle up to it, distract it with marmalade, twist off a toggle and beat feet! Or . . . just buy the coat. This dilemma was proved moot when I discovered that there were no coats like that at the VV.

I wandered back towards the housewares area, thinking that perhaps I could find an object that I could turn INTO a toggle. On my way there, I found a perfect, cream-coloured, eyelet lace edged queen sized sheet that Chgi and I need for our fringe show. Triumph! Bolstered by my find, I strode confidently into Housewares just as a scuffle broke out over a particularly fine toaster oven and I got hit in the face with a pirate ship replica.

This time, the lady apologized, but only because:

a) I was holding the pirate ship replica that had flown out of her basket;

b) she was very little and I was clearly a very angry fat girl in a very narrow space; and

c) when I caught the ship as it ricocheted off my face, I shrieked "Jesus Christ, lady!".

At this point, I realized that the goddess was trying to tell me something. I'm not sure exactly what it was, 'cause my nose was killing me and I got distracted by some 69 cent earrings at the checkout counter. But it was along the lines of "Just . . . go home and ice your nose." So I did. But not before I stopped off at the Sev for a Slurpee. Crushed ice and glucose make everything better.

So listen - if any of you crafty types have any toggle-buying suggestions, I am ALL EARS. Just . . . stay away from my nose.

Creampuff Gives a Gift Her Brother and His Dermatologist Will Never Forget

Warning: This post contains an unprecedented number of pictures of my knitting, crappy assembling skills and also, a shot of our washing machine.

For my brother's birthday, I wanted to knit him a cool tote/messenger bag for school. He's very smart and getting his PhD. I also wanted to experiment with felting, because it looked like such fun. Of course, every fool knows that for the felting, you should knit things out of wool. So I knit the bag out of Lopi Icelandic Wool. Pattern? What pattern? Sigh.

My brother, like everyone else in my family, including me, is allergic to wool. Why would I make something out of wool for my brother? Well, because I am selfish and also, in a felting frenzy. Also, I reasoned, it's a bag, not a sweater. I figured it wouldn't touch his skin that much. Uh . . . unless he's wearing t-shirts, which obviously no one who lives in California would ever do. Right?  Right. To the knitting!

This thing look the better part of a month to knit, even with my giant 8mm needles. I knit the body all in one piece, intending to fold it up like an envelope. Here's the finished body:

It's 75 inches long. That's my shapely foot in the first picture. See if you can spot the penny Katr suggested we put in for scale. Very funny, honey.

Those aren't big turds in the second picture - the big one on the right is the shoulder strap and the little one on the left is the button clasp. Shut up.

Now here's the bag pre- and post-assembly. It's about 25 inches long. Again, in the second picture, the penny for scale. I decided to take a chance and attach the straps before felting. Ill-advised? Perhaps. History will decide. It took nearly 4 episodes of Buffy Season II to sew this mofo up.

They say that little mistakes like the ones in the red, orange and white sections above disappear in the felting process. I fucking hope so. I'm going to pause for a moment to admire the colours. I really do like them, although they kind of look like a sports jersey. Hmm.

That's our washing machine with some of my old jeans in it. We put the bag into Katr's old laundry bag to keep the washer from getting fuzzy. It was a smart move. The second picture is what the bag looked like after one round of felting. Still too big. Back to the washer with you!

 

Ah! Perfect! Note the penny.

So it's drying now. I filled it with books to give it some shape and stretched out the poochy parts until Katr gently encouraged me to STOP TOUCHING IT. I haven't bought the giant toggle button I want for it yet, but soon. Soon, little bag.

I love it. But it's itchy. Like, REALLY effing itchy. Like, the delicate skin of my forearm kinda has a rash from trying it on. And it sheds like a mofo, or a cat, which my bro and I are also allergic to. It leaves little tufts of Lopi around the place like hairballs. So basically, for his birthday, I knit my brother a big hairy cat which I am encouraging him to rub against himself and carry his books around in.

It's the kind of bag only a brother could love. And now, instead of one itchy sack, he'll have two.

Creampuff on Tour

Sometimes, in order for me to get things done, I need a fire under my ass.  As my ass is of goddess-like proportions, it generally needs to be a big fire.  But, as I noted in my 5...Things post, I fear fire.  So you can see how it might be difficult for me to cultivate a virtuous cycle in the motivation department.

Fortunately, much earlier this year, my old friend Chgi poured kerosene on the smoldering embers of my motivational fire when he called me from Vancouver and proposed that he and I collaborate on a Fringe show! And then drive across Canada! And perform the show together! At four Fringe festivals! I said "Yes." We have written the show (ha ha - mostly). We officially have spots in four Fringe festivals (Toronto, Saskatoon, Edmonton, Vancouver). We are going to be driving this hilarious truck. And we will be blogging the whole thing at www.liesthatbind.com

Chgi and I have been friends since our high school days in Edmonton, Alberta.  He is smart. He is funny. He is relaxed, yet responsible. He wore ass-less leather pants in a show for me - twice.  Ten years ago, when Chgi and our friend Padu had a discussion about possibly going bald, Padu cried passionately "No way!  I'm fighting it with everything I've got!  If they have to take HAIR from my ASS, then that's what they will have to do!" Chgi just shrugged and said "I think I'd just wear more hats." And he does.

Hey - how often does someone like that call YOU up from the other side of country and suggest that you spend hours on the phone and e-mail, 13 weeks in person and 4500 kilometres of travel together after not actually seeing each other for about 3 years? Not often enough, I'll bet. So naturally, when Chgi phoned, my initial reaction was "Well, SURE!", which was quickly followed by "Oh, wait, ha ha . . . let me just check with my girlfriend."

Sweet Katr is incredibly and endlessly supportive of my creative endeavours. But something (call it "female intuition") told me that she'd like to be consulted before some guy she doesn't know comes to stay at our house for a month, then takes off with me across the country for 8 weeks in a Mazda. I must have caught her in a moment of weakness - or possibly a moment of great strength - or possibly while sleeping - because she agreed. And the Fringe tour was on!

So the show is called 87% True: The Lies that Bind. "Comedy, story-telling, riveting Canadian agricultural history and sex . . . with bears" collide in it. Chris and I are playing twins, which is awesome, because together, we look like Laurel and Hardy (hint: I'm the fat one). The bear in this photo? His head is actually in the show. Like, the actual head of Chgi's grandfather's pet bear is in the show. Also, I'll be wearing a dress and swearing. Theatre at its finest, people.

So hey - if you're in Toronto, Saskatoon, Edmonton or Vancouver this summer, come on out and see us! Our show times and venues and other exciting news and tidbits (including a running Slurpee count) will be posted and updated over at www.liesthatbind.com - and if you aren't anywhere near any of those places, you can still live the un-airconditioned truck-aventure with us! 'Cause we know you're jealous.