Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Blogs Her Truth

Note: This post is all about BlogHer08 and how I went to it. That's right - I'm blogging about a conference I went to about blogging. If you don't care - I don't blame you. Carry on.

Okay, so BlogHer08. When you wait a week to do a post about it, you'll find that others have summed it up better than you ever could! Huzzah! Once again, procrastination pays off.

I would say my experience at BlogHer was a synthesis of mo pie's from Big Fat Deal and Kerry from Crunchy Carpets. Great people, overwhelming and underwhelming simultaneously, conference is what you make it, should have been more prepared...etc. And now, the highlights!

Excellent Choices I Made:

Meeting Curly - Somehow, out of 1000 bloggers at this conference, I only knew two. I'm married to one of them and the other one was the witty, lesbonic Curly McDimple of Ham & Cheese on Wry. I started reading her a couple of years ago and while many people came to love her blog through her heartbreaking "re: the muppets" series, it was her description of seeing a co-worker exit a bathroom stall eating a piece of pizza that cemented my high regard for her work.

She and I pulled off an historic meeting at breakfast on the second day (tricky, as she was there for work and using her *real* name. That's right! I know the true identity of Curly McDimple! Don't worry, though, Curly - your secret is safe with me. Well, pretty safe. I guess what I'm saying is that it would take a lot of dough...nuts... to pry your name, address and cellular telephone number from my powdered sugar lips).

Big Fat Deal Meet-Up - BlogHer had several of these "Birds of a Feather" get-togethers where, for 45 minutes, you could hang out with other bloggers in your niche. When I saw "BFD Meet-up" listed on the schedule (why wasn't the whole name on there? What if we didn't know what that meant? Not all the fatties can decipher your ingenious code!) I guessed it was where all the other creampuffs would be. And I was SO RIGHT.

The BFD Meet-Up was easily the highlight of the conference portion for me. 45 minutes of drinking mimosas and admiring the bodacious racks of fabulous women? Ah, how I giggled and laughed and blushed and swooned. I look forward to stalking subscribing to all the cool chicks mo pie listed in her BlogHer report. All of you! Hotness.

Random Bench Meet-up - Sadly, the BFD meet-up was only 45 minutes long, so I ended up plunking myself down on a bench next to two lovely ladies. Sisters-in-law. My knitting (ah knitting - you are the ultimate ambassador!) started us chatting. We talked mothers, mothers-in-law, their kids and my gay dog. It was a welcome oasis from the craziness surrounding us. Cynthia (www.goodenoughwitch.com) - Lucretia (www.geekmommy.net) - you are delightful and I really enjoyed meeting you. I look forward to stalking following you too.

Grover in Cupcake Form - This is the best fucking cupcake I've ever had:

Poor Choices I Made:

Yelling "This is the best fucking cupcake I've ever had" towards a person I thought was Katr but who turned out to be a shocked mom carrying a shocked toddler - Lady...I'm sorry.

Introvert Bloggers Panel - Like many a blogger, I'm a delicate flower who's painfully shy and from the description, it seemed like this session would have an interactive component where we introverts could meet and mingle in a smaller group (instead of the free-for-all of the morning "speed dating" session that I do not remember a single person from). It *seemed* that way, but in reality, not so much. It was basically three shy bloggers talking about how everyone's shy and we should all get over it. Except them. They wouldn't be getting over it. But we should feel free to talk to them if we see them alone in a corner. But if they see us alone in a corner, they will not come over to us. Thanks, guys.

Okay, nothing against the people on the panel, who all seemed very nice - it was really more about my expectations being ... unmet. Also...being an introvert is not the same as having low self-esteem. I...that's all I'm going to say.

Childless Bloggers Panel -  75% of the bloggers *I* met at BlogHer had kids. Some of them called themselves "mommy bloggers". Some didn't. Regardless, by Day Two I was excited to spend a little time with bloggers who didn't have kids and who maybe wanted to talk about other stuff. Like gay dogs or doughnuts. And while there were definitely representatives from the "childless by choice" camp, I felt the panel was overwhelmed by talk of...CHILDREN. Hahahahaaa! Shitballs!

That's right. By wanting to avoid talking about children, I set myself up to hear about kids (having them, not having them, not being able to have them, being angry at others who have them, feeling pressure to have them, hormonal urges to have them, regretting not having them) for 90 minutes. Just as I was thinking about cutting my losses and trying another session, Curly came in and plunked herself down next to me, saying that the only other session I wanted to go to in that timeslot was hot, bothered and standing-room only. So I just sat there silently. Knitting a baby hat. Enjoying the irony.

Things I Would Do Differently Next Time

Decide why I was there - Katr and I signed up for BlogHer on a whim. To "see what it was like". Well, now we know! And I kinda still don't ... get it. The vibe was ... whatever, if we were to go back, I would have to spend some time getting it.

Decide if I care about "famous bloggers" - If I read your blog, you're a famous blogger to me. At BlogHer, there were apparently lots of "famous bloggers". I felt very out of the loop because I didn't know who any of them were. Except Dooce. What's funny is that I've HEARD of Dooce but don't actully read Dooce. I don't know why - she's hilarious. But I guess I only have room in my heart for one career blogger at a time. And I choose Brazen Careerist Penelope Trunk.

God, I loves me some Penelope. Katr apparently sat next to her - for real!! - at dinner at a geek dinner in Toronto before the CMA conference in May and came back with a gay girl crush on her. Sometimes, in the throes of passion...but no, surely I'm imagining that.

Anyway, what? Famous bloggers. I guess my point is that you are all famous bloggers to me and I would want to go if you were going so that I could meet you. Or if Penelope was going. Hear that, Penelope? I'll totally go if you go!

So that was BlogHer! I hope you've enjoyed my in-depth coverage! Coming up - doughnuts like you've never seen them before. Stay tuned.

An Impromptu Poll from Creampuff

I was out promenading with the pooch earlier today and while we came across our usual number of used hypodermic needles, our used condom count was unusually high.

I'm always a little conflicted when I come across used condoms on the sidewalk or in the park.

On the one hand - ew.

On the other hand, hey! People are using condoms! Fantastic!

On the third, often prosthetic hand - did you really need to slingshot your used prophylactic over here when there's a garbage can 12 feet away? How are you responsible enough to use a condom but too irresponsible to dispose of it properly? Is it some manly "once it leaves my body, my seed has the atomic weight of mendelevium 258 and cannot be transported to a containment facility without endangering mankind" thing? Enlighten me, condom flingers!

But first, a poll for the rest of you:

Creampuff's GPS Might Be POS

I never truly understood the name of the band Rage Against the Machine until we bought the TomTom Go 730 GPS system for our roadtrip.

I've nicknamed it the ShitShit. Because when you're full of rage against the machine, it's hard to come up with imaginative names.

To be fair to ShitShit, we only got it two days before the trip and neither Katr nor I had adequate time to familiarize ourselves with the various functionalities of the GPS before we took off.

And, as most of you know, I get very tense in the car when I have to operate gadgets because I am already extremely busy driving the car with my mind. 

But we had figured out how to input an address and how to navigate towards it and that seemed good. And even though we had misplaced our North American atlas, we felt confident that we could rely on highway signs for our main route and the TomTom for the fancy, in-city bits. Like driving into Portland to meet one of my favourite bloggers, Dawn from this stony planet and swell!

You don't need a ShitShit to see where this is going.

Once we were well on the road, I whipped out the GPS to see how far away we were so that I could let Dawn know when we were going to show up. I turned the TomTom on. It told me to go fuck myself by turning itself off. After some keen observation on my part, I deduced that, after relatively minimal usage, the battery in the GPS had died.

No big deal. I plug the GPS into the car charger. The light does not come on. The car charger does not work.

I try plugging it into the other cigarette lighter port. Nothing. I fiddle with the charger, pushing, pulling, pushing harder, cussing. For naught.

We are mapless. The TomTom's blank screen mocks me.

Me: We still have the receipt for this piece of shit, right?

Katr: Call Dawn.

Thank god for Dawn and her ace directions to the best brunch in Portland. She was the wind beneath our angry, flappy wings. She treated Katr and I to a delicious brunch at gravy and we had a fantastic time chatting with her and her lovely ladyfriend Mera on an extremely hot Portland afternoon during a HUGE and unexpected street fair on their street (unexpected by *us*, I mean - obviously the people who participated in the fair were well aware of its existence.)

We asked what the streetfair was in honour of. I believe Dawn's response was "Fuck if I know." Oh, how we laughed. Then we posed for pictures.

I love meeting cool, smart, funny people from the Internet. It makes me feel smug. Thanks, Dawn and Mera! We look forward to reciprocating when you two come up to Vancouver. We'll feed you all the bacon you can handle.

After a lengthy pause at the fat girl store in Portland for ginch replenishment and atlas purchase, we pushed on to Eugene to retire for the evening. We ate Thai food and recharged the TomTom, grudgingly ready to give it a second chance.

Day 2 Roadtrip Redux:

Chambermaids at the Comfort Suites in Eugene have big smackdown fight as we're checking out. There are tears. Tears on the towels.

Hot. Hot in the car.

Katr's mom's flight to San Francisco gets delayed so she has to spend all night in Philly. While speeding down the highway, Katr tries to convince her mom that spending the night in the Philly airport isn't the best choice. Patr doesn't sound convinced.

Burger King's Lemonade ICEE tastes like bat urine. You're welcome.

Sirius Radio replays the same shows over and over. It's kind of like cable TV. 200 channels and sweet fuck all is on.

Don't stop at the Chevron in Winters, CA

As we roll across the Bay Bridge, I whip out the TomTom to guide us to the hotel in San Francisco, because it's complicated around the airport where the hotel is. The ShitShit does not give important information, like the actual name of the streets you should turn onto, but does say vague things like "Keep left. Then, make a U-turn."

Me: Make a U-turn.

Katr: Make a U-TURN? Where? How?

Me: I fucking hate this fucking piece of shit!!!!

Katr: I'm pulling over.

Between the ShitShit, the sparse street signs and the sheer force of Katr's will, we somehow make it to the Bay Landing Hotel in San Francisco. It is beautiful there. If you're looking for a nice, reasonable place to stay near the SF airport, you would do well to call.

Then, the next day, we picked up Patr from the airport and went to Sonoma for three days. More on that later. But now, a mental health tip:

It's the first day of BlogHer and I have discovered one key "don't" for you if you're planning on attending this conference at some point in the future:

Don't drive 18 hours with ShitShit and then spend 3 days sharing a hotel room with your mother-in-law before walking into a ballroom with 999 other bloggers in it. Because all you'll be able to do is blurt out "I blog about my gay dog" and then demand a mojito IV.

I'm still waiting on the IV. And someone just informed me that there was an episode of South Park that featured a gay dog. Those fuckers are ALWAYS STEALING MY IDEAS.

Creampuff Roadtrip

The rumours are true. The creampuffs are heading south for BlogHer! Look out, citizens of Washington, Oregon and California! We will soon be among you! Drinking your Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi! Shopping at your fat girl stores! Choking on the smoke plume of 1000 raging infernos! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!

I didn't realize the full extent of the California wildfire problem until I saw Katr looking over this map:

I didn't have my glasses on and I knew she'd been looking at winery tours and other outdoor activities in Sonoma, where we're spending a few days before the conference.

"Oooh," I said, pointing to the little red icons on the map, "are those strawberry farms?"

Guess what? They're not. I may bring a ham to smoke on the drive down.

I'm really looking forward to this trip and not just because I've programmed all the Dunkin' Donuts locations into our new GPS. Why? Well, because:

I love road trips. 

I love meeting people from The Internet, some of whom will be at BlogHer (I think) and some of whom might meet us for lunch in Portland.

I love shopping in the fat girl stores of America.

I love Katr's action-oriented mom, Patr, who's joining us once we hit California. Patr, she likes to do touristy things, most of which don't involve sitting (although many of them *do* involve eating).

She puts us to shame with her spryness and we seriously thought about undertaking some kind of training program before the trip so that we could keep up with her. Of course, our training regime consisted of saying things like "Man, that trip is coming up soon. We'd better get on that." and then having some congratulatory pie.

Last night, I had a dream where Patr was flitting through colourful flea markets and enjoying wine tastings while we lumbered along behind her like the Mystics from The Dark Crystal.

I'm also really looking forward to the BlogHer part of the trip, which is funny to me. Because while the "hanging out with a bunch of chicks who write stuff" part sounds pretty fun, the conference also involves two things I really dislike: talking about blogging in general and talking about my blog in particular.

Blogging to me is like sex to Catholics: You do it with the lights off and don't talk about it after. I shuddered so often while writing out my 5 Reasons for Blogging last year that I nearly pinched a nerve. And the biggest challenge is that when you go to a blogging conference, everyone opens with "What's your blog about?" and I NEVER KNOW WHAT TO SAY. I know that this is not acceptable and I've been working really hard to come up with a one-line response. Here's what I've got so far:

"It's about how expensive things should also come with handjobs."

"It's about how sometimes when we touch the honesty's too much."

"Death. And candy."

"It chronicles my adventures as the lead singer of a band called the Chafetains."

"I blog my truth."

"It's about the way I live my life: fat, naked and dangerous."

"It's about donuts and the fat lesbians who love them."

"Stuff."

Okay, okay, I'm still working on it. Maybe some inspiration will come my way while I'm packing (my suitcase). Or perhaps after we hit the road tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Or perhaps after several sparkling wine coolers at the opening BlogHer mixer, where my answer will likely be "I blog about my pants and how they're missing right now." Get ready.

Creampuff Makes "The Face"

Sometimes, out on the street, people look at me funny.

I try not to take it amiss. I give them the benefit of the doubt. Because I know that everyone gets looked at funny from time to time. And I also know, rationally, that the bitchface they're making probably has nothing to do with me.

Maybe they were thinking contemptuous thoughts about someone else and my face just got in the way.

Maybe their pantyhose just shifted, binding their legs together.

Maybe their balls are itchy. Maybe they have crabs. Who can say?

Still, no one likes to be sneered at, regardless of the reason. In more insecure times, I would obsess over any rude look that came my way and used those sour stares as reasons to never wear a bathing suit or eat ice cream outside. HA ha! Clearly THOSE days are over.

Now, I simply wait until the person has passed by. And then, behind their back, I make "The Face".

While I'd like to take a photo of my face while I'm making "The Face", I'm afraid modesty forbids it. But I can tell you that "The Face" looks exactly like a combination of these:

"The Face" to me is like saying "Madam, I do not care for the look you just gave me." or "Fuck you and your bitchface! If my fuzzy legs offend you, DON'T LOOK DOWN!"

"The Face" only takes a second, it greatly relieves the feelings and no one gets hurt. Except sometimes me, when I go into it too fast and strain my neck.

So I was coming home from walking the dog today and there was a lady in her middle years leaving our building. I have seen her before and, as usual, I smiled and said "Hi there!" in a pleasant tone. She looked at me like I had taken a dump and rubbed it around.

Now, as I say, who knows what horrors this woman happened to be contemplating when I stumbled into her orbit? World hunger? A run in her stocking? The crabs? It seemed like maybe it was all three at once. The point is, she made no effort to return my greeting and continued on her way.

Obviously, this was an occasion for deployment of "The Face". As she brushed by me, I kicked off the launch sequence. Halfway through my facial tick/curled lip/tongue out/one-eye-squinting manoeuvre, I realized that I was making "the face" at this woman's husband, who had exited the building seconds behind her.

HA ha! Shitballs.

Now I was in a bind. He'd heard me say "Hi there!" to his wife and then saw me make a wild, belligerent face just as I went past her. The jig was up. My pants were down. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked.

As my eyes relayed this info to my brain, I gasped and tried to abort "The Face". This resulted me in choking on my own saliva, turning bright red, doing the ugly cough right in his face and then rasping "Aaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaate a buuuuuuuuuuuuuuug. Aaaaaa buuuuuug!!" while wiping tears from my pink, patchy cheeks.

I don't think he bought it. I obviously didn't take a photo, but I'd say he looked like this:

I learned a hard lesson today, people. While I'm obviously content to make The Face when no one is looking, I am quick to disavow The Face the moment the manoeuvre is compromised. Clearly, if I'm going to make The Face, I should be prepared to OWN The Face. I'll be sure to keep you posted on my progress.