Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Has a Breakthrough

I don't usually come out to the person driving the cab. It's not anyone's business...there are personal safety issues...But every once in awhile, I slip up and say something about "my wife". Or, if the cab driver is hitting on me, I might take a break from pretending to have a husband and just tell the fellow I like puss. Inevitably, an admission of lesbianism in a taxi cab leads to the following exchange:

Cab driver: Have you ever been with a man?

Me: No. (this is a lie, but a word to the wise - admitting you've been with a man means that you've just never found the right man, except that you HAVE found the right man and he just happens to be driving this cab)

Cab driver: How do you know you don't want to be with a man if you never tried it?

This question has always pissed me off. How do I know? I know the same way I know that crabs are unpleasant (but carbs are delicious). I know the same way I know that the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. I know the same way I know that Madonna should put on some fucking pants already. I KNOW.

It just so happens that I was being hit on in a cab by the driver recently. It was a short ride and I didn't have the energy to make up some story about my burly husband Chet, who runs a rugged logging camp by day but lets me hold him while he weeps at night because I'm the first person who ever taught him how to love.

Cab driver: You are very beautiful. Very pretty.

Me: Thanks.

Cab driver: You ... have a boyfriend?

Me: I'm a lesbian.

Cab driver: A lesbian! Ho ho! So, have you ever been with a man?

Me: No.

Cab driver: How do you know you don't want to be with a man if you never tried it?

Me, having a sudden, incredibly brilliant brainwave: Well ... how do you know YOU don't want to be with a man if YOU'VE never tried it?

Cab driver: Unnnnnnnnnnnngh!!! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! That would be awful, I wouldn't like it at all!

Me: I KNOW! Me neither!

There was a stunned silence. I could tell that I had just BLOWN THIS MAN'S MIND.

A few minutes later:

Cab driver: Okay. I see what you are saying.

We continued toward my destination, having a perfectly civil conversation. I was elated. Why had I not thought of this before?  I was ready to classify this incident a success in lesbian/cab driver relations until the last moments of the ride, when this happened.

Cab driver: So you are married?

Me: Yes.

Cab driver: To another lady, right?

Me: Yes.

Cab driver:  So, how often do lesbians have sex?

Me: What?

Cab driver: Like, how many times per week?

Me:  WHAT?

Cab driver: Two times? Three times?

Me (mysteriously, while exiting the cab): As often as we want, my friend. As often as we want.

Sigh. So close!

And now over to you, my friends. What do you say?

Creampuff's Olympic Wrap-Up

The flame is out. 

"The flame is out," I sighed plaintively to Katr as the Olympic blaze was extinguished in Beijing.

"The flamer's out?" she said, peering out towards the balcony of the known homosexual across the street. "In this weather?"

Now that the Games are over, I'm gearing up to go through my usual five stages of Olympic grief.

Denial: Sure the GAMES are over, but the montages set to inspiring music live on. Surely they'll be playing those for several more hours, right? So what if there's major league baseball on right now? The montages are coming. I WILL NOT LEAVE THIS COUCH, WOMAN!

Anger: GodDAMN why didn't my parents put me in sports when I was a kid?? I could have been an Olympian myself! I could have been a contender! (This, if you know my parents, couldn't be more unfair. Those people had me signed up for every sport there was. Swimming, soccer, dance, gymnastics, skiing, figure skating, basketball, track & field - they paid for lessons, went to recitals, coached my sports teams, sent me to camps. Few stones in the world of sport were left unturned by them. The truth is that I was moderately good at everything and could possibly have excelled at one of these disciplines had the thrill of victory not been eclipsed by my total devotion to inertia and pie.)

Bargaining: If I walk the dog extra hard today, Ian Hanomansing will come over later with his pictures from Beijing and a cheesecake.

Depression: Not only am I getting too old to become an Olympian, but I suspect I'm also too old now to play one on TV.

Acceptance Snacking: Cheetos and Southern Comfort will fill this void within me.

To keep the glory going just a little bit longer, I thought I'd award some Olympic accolades of my own.

Favourite Olympic Blog Post: Has to go to Syd, for her in-depth analysis of women in sport.

Best Horse Name in Equestrian Competition: Jumpy Des Fontaines (ridden by Zhenqiang Li of China)

Best Angry Athlete Quote: Sherraine Schalm, fencer and medal hopeful, after a soul-crushing defeat at the hands of a rival early in the competition, told a reporter "It's like I imagine being a man. It's like being kicked in the nuts repeatedly." I hear you, Sherraine.

Gayest Athlete in Gayonia: Australia's totally adorable gold medallist 10 metre platform diver Matthew Mitchum. I'd never heard of him but seconds after tuning into the diving final, I turned to Katr and said "Perhaps he should be wearing a rainbow Speedo". It was so awesome to see him win. He was apparently the only openly gay male athlete at the Games. Way to keep the flame burning bright, brother!

Cutest High Jumping Librarian: Tia Hellebaut of Belgium. We have so much in common, Tia and I. We both wear glasses - we're both sponsored by Pizza Hut - we both scored a personal best in the high jump this year. Hers was 2.05 metres. Mine was 1.5 feet - just over the height of our couch.

Speaking of sponsors, before I sign off, I'd like to thank mine:

Petro-Canada: Helping this armchair athlete since 2006.

Vitamin Water: I believe it was your Dragonfruit flavoured water that provided the key hydration I needed to help me blast through the entire women's mountain bike competition in one sitting.

Small Potato Urban Delivery (SPUD): Without you guys bringing a box of goodness to our door every week, we might not have eaten a single fruit or vegetable throughout these Games (Katr tells me that the mushrooms on pizza "do not count").

Pizza Hut: Without whom I would never have successfully completed the biathlon, consisting of the following two events: 24 Hour Bung-Up and Shit-a-Discus.

Thanks to all of you who made my armchair Olympics so memorable. Here's hoping that next time around, I'll have improved in my sport and graduated from armchair Olympian to balcony Olympian. I hear they're holding the Opening Ceremonies in 2010 across the street from here and I don't want to miss a thing.

Creampuff's Top Tips for Armchair Olympians

As I'm pretty sure I've mentioned in previous posts, I am an Olympics junkie. I love the effing Olympics. I'm like a crack addict who has to wait for two years between hits. I know that not everyone shares my ardour for the agony and ecstasy of the Games and that this particular Games is very controversial (Free Tibet!) and that the Games in general are hugely expensive and wasteful. I know these things. But when that cheesy, sweeping CBC Olympic theme enters my bloodstream through my ears, I am powerless to stop myself. I am glued to the TV for the duration.

Being addicted to the Olympic Games is not an easy path. It takes grit, determination, long hours and an HD cable package to compete with the best in the world. For any aspiring Olympic junkies out there, I thought I would draw on my vast experience in this area and share some tips that are sure to get you to the top of the Olympic viewing podium. Here now are my top ways for you to go for the gold while sitting down.

Warm Up

Don't go into the Games cold. There's too much at stake. Do some vocal exercises - there will be cheers of joy, growls of frustration and some all out yelling when you don't agree with the colour commentators. Also, there may be tears. You don't want to strain your voice during the first heat and have nothing but painful rasping left for the final.

Wrist stretches are also important - there will be extensive pointing, fist-shaking and, of course, remote control use.

Done right, your warm up ritual will enable you to spend equal amounts of time a) exclaiming loudly at how you're genuinely outraged at the skimpiness of the women's beach volleyball outfits and b) watching large portions of the women's beach volleyball games in slow motion.

Hydrate

It's important to make sure you're drinking enough fluids during the longer races - otherwise, you could cramp up metres from the finish line and get your ass handed to you by the Dutch.

Fortunately, Katr's "friends at Vitamin Water" mailed her 30lbs of free Vitamin Water just a few weeks ago. Why? We don't know. But we DO know that few things are more delicious than free rainbow-coloured drinks. When we're flagging at the half-way point and the race car's too far back, Vitamin Water is there to keep us peppy.

It's okay, at the end of a long day, to celebrate with an alcoholic beverage - just remember that booze can really effect your remote control reaction time.

Make sure you're getting proper nutrition

Like the Olympic athletes, your body needs to be in good working condition to endure the rigours of the Games. Try to remember this easy formula: for every Malteser you consume, also eat a grape.

Use Olympic jargon to deal with withdrawal when you're not actually able to watch the Olympics.

Here are some ways you can integrate Olympic terminology into your daily life:

When you're going to the ladies' room:

You: I'm going to practice my release moves.

When the dog is straining at the leash on your daily walk:

You: I don't think it's wise to pull out in front of the peloton this early in the race.

Dog: Are you wearing spandex?

When your boss asks you where the website copy is:

Her: You said you'd have it done by noon.

You: Well, I didn't do so well in the first heat, but I have high hopes for the repechage.

After you and your lady friend share a private "weightlifting" practice:

You: I think I just set an Olympic record in the snatch.

Her: Your clean and jerk could use some work.

Record as much coverage as you can ahead of time.

No matter which network you're watching, Olympic coverage breaks down like this:

• 25% Commentators saying the same things over and over and over while nothing's happening.
• 49% Advertising, sponsored "Olympic Moments", anchor banter, documentary segments about the host country
• 1% Mmmm, gay girl crush on Ian Hanomansing
• 15% Actual action involving sports I want to see (cycling, swimming, diving, gymnastics, rowing, kayak, women's team sports highlights, track & field, running, occasional tennis)
• 10% Actual action involving sports I do not care for (dressage, sailing, men's team sports, boxing, wrestling, tae kwon do, shooting, walking)

This means that out of a six-hour block of CBC's Olympic Coverage, there's generally only about an hour of actual content I care about. This makes the PVR and your remote control your two best friends. And if you're enhancing your Olympic experience by knitting, you'll need a doubles partner to operate the remote.

My Olympic viewing doubles partner is Katr and I couldn't ask for a better teammate. She's aggressive, strategic and always pauses when I have to go practice my release moves.

Take it one day at a time.

The Olympics is 17 days long. You cannot expect to see it all. Pace yourself and be realistic about how much of the Games you can handle.

Also, while it may seem wise to clear your schedule during this time, it's actually important to:

• Continue showing up for work
• Keep in touch with friends and family; and
• Honour your various social obligations while the Olympics are on

Trust me - it's going to be bad enough when the Games are over. At least if you haven't screwed up your job and blown off your friends, you'll have good people around to help you pick up the pieces. I learned that the hard way after Nagano.

Overheard on Creampuff's Roadtrip - Choose Your Own Adventure

For the 12 year olds:

Scene: Our vehicle, 2:30 p.m. on our way from San Francisco, CA to Eugene, OR.

While Hungry Like a Wolf blares on the radio, I let out a silent, putrid belch borne of the Indiana Jones Whopper I had for lunch in Weed, CA. Katr fixes me with a withering glare.

Katr:  Holy. SHIT.

Me: I know. This Indy burger keeps producing sequels.

Simon Le Bon: Mouth is ALIVE with juices like WINE and I'm hungry like a wollll-

Me: If the franchise has one more release, I'm gonna have to start charging admission. But kids will still get in fr...

(rest of my sentence  drowned out by Katr rolling down my window on the highway)

For the knitters:

Scene: Our vehicle, 3:00 p.m., after leaving the Tom Bihn factory and showroom in Seattle where we got an amazing personal tour and left with many bags.

Katr: I can't believe you talked them into giving you that Swift Knitting Bag.

Me: I know. Pull over so I can look at it again!

Katr: How about you take a break from using your mind to drive the car and use it to picture the bag instead?

Me: Touché.

That's right, knitters - I'm helping to build Katr's Funky, Chic and Cool laptop bag review empire by reviewing - what else? - knitting bags.

And the Swift Knitting Bag by Tom Bihn is the first review up! Here's a quote:

With its clever construction, myriad organizational options and action-oriented name, I predicted that the Swift would take me from knit klutz to knit kninja in seconds. That's right! Knit Kninja! Hear that wooshing sound? That was me, finishing a whole sock before you could turn your head!

I do actually review the bag further down the page. It's a pretty awesome bag. Makes me want to knit things. Like my own shuriken and multiple sets of knunchucks. Kninja!

Creampuff in Possession of Both Voodoo Dozen AND (Finally) Doughnut Documentary

I have to start this post with a resounding "Thank you!!" to my friend Mami, who, mere days after giving birth to her second child, alerted us to the existence of Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, OR.

Were it not for her, we would have cruised through Portland on our way home from BlogHer, oblivious to the doughnut greatness it concealed. But instead, at 9:30 a.m. on a Monday morning, Katr and I rolled into Portland for some hot, fresh, fucking freaky-ass doughnuts. At Voodoo Doughnut, "the magic is in the hole".

They weren't kidding about the voodoo theme. It was like Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo in there, but instead of incense, you smelled doughnuts. I was so overcome by the size and variety of the doughnuts, the dirty names of some of their pastries (the Cock-and-Balls ... the Triple Penetration Chocolate) and the mesmerizing music that I stood there for several minutes.

Entranced.

Exhilarated.

Afraid.

Finally, Katr urged me forward to the counter, where we ordered a Voodoo Dozen (they choose 13 doughnuts for you. I prayed that we didn't get the Blood Doughnut). And then, my arms full of doughnuts, we went back to the car and sat there, stunned.

We knew we could get into serious trouble eating those doughnuts on the road. So we were very brave and waited until we got home. Here is what we got:

 

Amen.

I think these pictures are blurry because my hands were shaking. Just a little.

Okay, that was the top layer. Here's the bottom:

Are those ... FROOT LOOPS?

It took us a few days to get through our Voodoo Dozen. Each new doughnut was a taste sensation. My personal favourite was the Maple Boston Cream with Voodoo Icing - although Grape Ape was surprisingly delicious (maybe because we'd just spent all that time in wine country). Katr's favourite was the Glazed Sour Cream Cake with Dark Chocolate Sauce. Unnngh. So good. I...need a moment.

But that's not the end of the doughnut-related news! Read on!

As some of you may recall, I participated in a doughnut documentary last summer and then never heard another thing about it. Until May, when a film professor accosted me in a restaurant because she'd seen me in the documentary. Katr and I and some lovely out-of-town guests were chowing down at Da-De-O and I felt quite the celebrity. Nothing makes you feel so glamourous as being congratulated on your donut sex fetishist performance while you're elbow-deep in a platter of ribs.

Some keen detective work on my part and one Starbucks bribe later, I am now in possession of an 8 minute documentary entitled Doughnuts. And I have the director's permission to share it with you.

I don't feel that the camera added ten pounds in my case - but it DOES seem to have added bad hair, shiny face and teeny, squinty eyes. So before you watch, I'm going to have to ask you to keep in mind this much cuter picture of me:

You will be surprised by the difference in my appearance, but let's all remember that they WERE student filmmakers.