Creampuff Revolution

Creampuffs in the Pool

Back in November, Katr and I went to an all inclusive resort in Mexico called Excellence Playa Mujeres. While we were there, we had some thoughts and took some pictures. These are those thoughts and pictures.

DUM-DUM!

I know, right?? Awesome.

The first time we went to Excellence Playa Mujeres was right on the heels of the crazy rollercoaster goat rodeo that was buying our home (literally, we got on the plane the day after the deal closed). So we spent the first few days there staring straight ahead or weeping, spending many evenings in our room instead of going out and taking only two photos the whole time we were there - one of some papayas that tasted like farts and one of a particularly nice hibiscus. 

THIS time, it was a totally different story. We were bright eyed! Bushy tailed!  Super drunk! We went to the spa (that's a whole other post)! We got in the pool even though it was freezing! We went out to dinner all the time! We talked to people! That, as it turns out, was a mistake, but otherwise it was a pretty great time. 

Cuban show. Hubba hubba.

Highlights included:

Lesbians

I always get excited when I see other lesbians at the resort. I immediately want to shout "LESBIANS!" at them while clapping my hands like a seal, but I realize that shouting "lesbians" at random lesbians in Mexico might be perceived incorrectly. So then I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to signal to them that Katr and I are not just fat sisters who like to grab-ass in the pool. To what end? I don't know.

I honestly don't know what I hope the outcome will be when the other lesbians realize that they are not the only muffdivers in the Lazy River. As Katr pointed out when I plunked our things down very close to one of the suspected lesbians on the second day, what if they are idiots? Just because they also do not care for the dick doesn't mean that we will totally get along.

I dared to share a few twinkly glances with the butchest of the lesbians there nonetheless - although later, when I saw her engage one of the servers in a lively conversation about her favourite beer and why the resort should carry it and how disappointed she was that the resort didn't have her favourite Australian beer, I wondered if perhaps Katr wasn't correct to advise a cautious approach.

In the end, we never actually had a chat with any of the lesbians, but it did give me a frisson of excitement to see a few of my own kind on the beach in another country.

Emmanuel at the Lazy River

We staked out our favourite spot at our favourite pool pretty early every day - like REALLY early, like 6:30 or 7 a.m. - because we really like that spot and also because we really liked Emmanuel, the hardest working man at the resort. 

This was the only time I saw Emmanuel stop moving the whole time we were there. Photo by Katr.

I make a lot of jokes about being drunk in general, but the fact is that I rarely drink and when I do, it's ONE drink and it's usually about a tablespoon of Amaretto in a pint of diet gingerale. Emmanuel was not having any of this.

From the moment we sat down around 9 or 10 in the morning (you stake out your chairs, see, then go back to bed, get dressed, have breakfast and then go back to your chair and laugh at the nimrods who thought they could show up at the lazy river at 9 a.m. and just FIND SEATS HAHAHAHAAHAHAAAA you're so naive!!) Emmanuel was ON us.

Once he'd figured out our drink for the day, he would just keep bringing them - the minute your straw made that slurping sound against the ice, he was there with a fresh drink and a smile. And we DRANK THEM.

That's my flabby white elbow on the left. JEALOUS?

It is entirely Emmanuel's fault that we spent one particularly raucous afternoon in the pool, laughing hysterically and riding the pool floats like they were ponies. I remember thinking, as I flailed around in the water, nearly blacking out with mirth, that THIS is how people drown in pools shallow enough to stand up in. Oh, good times.

Katr's Birthday

It was Katr's birthday while we were there! They put up some balloons in the room and brought us a little cake. Katr...you're my favourite and I love you the most!!

Katr's birthday shrine with flowers and cheesy photo I got from the resort photographer. 

People with No Boundaries

I don't know how it happened. We met a few folks from the Trip Advisor forums that we'd haunted for months before the trip, and that was lovely. But then, we met some other people who were also nice but HAD NO BOUNDARIES. 

The second week, we somehow ended up in a marathon yap session with two couples, one from Missouri (we'll call them Bhea and Bave) and one from Manchester (Braig and Bindsey), and ended up getting roped into having dinner with them later that night. We didn't really have conversations with these people so much as we provided a face for them to look at while they talked about themselves endlessly.

Where the swingers meet, according to Antonio who works at that bar on the left.

When they did stop to ask us a question about ourselves, it was only to find a new jumping off point to talk about them. They were super friendly and occasionally funny but after a few minutes, it just really exhausting and OMG I KNOW THINGS ABOUT THESE PEOPLE I SHOULDN'T KNOW, like:

• Medical problems, mainly involving the brain


• Crazy ex-boyfriend/ ex-girlfriend/ex-wife/3-dead-husbands stories


• The feeling you get in your nuts when you swim with dolphins


• That Bhea from Missouri thinks Obama was a secret Muslim (that's where Katr lost her cool)

We also met a gal from right here in Vancouver, who we'll call Beirdre. God love her, she accosted us in the pool one day to ask about where we were getting our poolside burgers (Emmanuel kept us fed as well as liquored).

I was a little drunk and wasn't wearing my glasses, so I kept staring at her as she sort of barked questions at us and as she reached up to rub her face I realized what it was that was off about her - SHE HAD NO FINGERS. On either hand. NO FINGERS, YOU GUYS. 

This poor woman had lost her fingers - AND toes - and a lot of her hearing - after contracting a mysterious bacterial infection and going from healthy to near death in two days.

We got to hear all about it and also, all about the other people she met who had similar horrible random things happen to them while she was physical therapy learning to walk again.  

Holy fucking shit, Beirdre. 

So, to recap, here's who we met at our resort.

Social analysis

I couldn't figure out how we'd become such freak bait this time around - our previous visits to the resort have yielded some pleasant, superficial conversations with other couples who were content to exchange a few words and waves.

Katr, however, being smart like she is, had some keen theories as to why we'd attracted these folks:

1. We're two women travelling together and neither of us looks particularly gay. Girlfriends on a "girlfriends" or "sisters" trip are always looking to gab! Their men aren't around and they love "connecting" with people! 

2. We're fat and therefore must be either jolly and friendly and/or lonely, because fat people are reviled! We are non-threatening and are probably very motherly and also, they might be doing us a favour, chatting with the poor fat ladies, we probably have a lot of cats, etc.

Next time, we're going to have to either bring another couple with us for protection...or just be a lot more rude. You know, either way.

More photos

Katr has some delightful shots up on Flickr and so do I. There is one in Katr's set of me drunk in the pool but I'm not posting it here because you're too young to see that.

 

Creampuff’s Not So Secret Garden

NB: This post is about gardening. If you like to stick your hands in Mother Earth, read on. If not, I respect that. I didn’t care before this year either.

I’ve been meaning to tell you all about our new garden and I’m not really sure what I’m waiting for. AN ENGRAVED INVITATION PERHAPS??

We were pretty jazzed about having a yard to do some gardening in, but when it came to the actual “building the garden”, we called in a professional. We are not do-it-yourself lesbians. We are “work, make money and pay someone else to do it” lesbians and we’re fine with that. So when it came time to turn our tiny patch of turf into an urban garden wonderland, we called Seaton from FarmCity Food Garden Construction. And she made all our organic gardening dreams come true.

Here’s our original patch of lawn, just for a “before” shot. Not seen – gaps between cedars on the right where the dog likes to bust out into the world and sniff around for signs Big Balls, the Cat Who Fears No One.

First phase of construction – Seaton started by building two 3 x 4’ raised cedar beds, separated by a strip of gravel. Photo by Katr. Most photos are by Katr, because she takes good photos and mine look like I took them with my feet.

We endeared ourselves to the neighbourhood with these twin piles of dirt and manure. Pungent. Felt like Laura Ingalls Wilder every morning, breathing in the smell of nature and trying not to gag.

Beds filled with dirt. Trellis on the way. Dog in repose.

Trellis in place! Or, as Emmy would say, “dog prison activated”. Note ingenious strip of trellis between cedars in the back.

Once we figured out where the sun was going to be (i.e. mostly on the left), Seaton built us an extra trellis for our cherry tomatoes. Our hypothetical cherry tomatoes.

Plants! Katr has espoused the square foot gardening philosophy and actually put the eyescrews and twine in HERSELF! She has a blister to prove it and she likes to prove it often. The drip irrigation, though…Seaton put that in.

So the garden – she is growing! Especially when the sun is out, which has been rare so far this summer.

I have to hand it to Katr, who consulted at length with Seaton and also bought gardening books and ACTUALLY READ THEM, because she is becoming a real gardening maven. She’s out there in the mornings, inspecting, spraying, staking, watering and otherwise tenderly administering to our little green charges. She is also, however, worrying. Because when you put nature in your yard, other nature can sometimes get to it. Witness our nommed zucchini.

Aphids have been an issue and something is getting at the beans every now and then. And last week, Katr went apeshit on some crows that were pecking at the peppers. “I don’t know,” breathed Katr as she came back inside from clapping angrily at the birds. We gazed out at our planters. “We might end up just getting one $1500 cherry tomato.”

But I bet that tomato will be DELICIOUS.

Creampuff is Loud and also Queer!

The 18th annual Loud n’ Queer Cabaret is happening THIS WEEKEND in Edmonton! That’s right – Loud n’ Queer has finally graduated to “barely legal” status! Dirty.

As usual, yours truly has a new piece in the cabaret that she won’t get to actually see. One day, Edmonton! One day I will return!

Each night is a different programme, so you should go to both! It looks like a fantastic, hilarious and very talented queer line up again this year – so if you’re kicking around Edmonton, Alberta, Canada this weekend, why not head on down to La Cité Francophone for some hot, queer action?

Here are the details:

Loud & Queer Cabaret
7:30 p.m.
At La Cité Francophone, #130, 8627 91st Street
$25 advance/$30 door, visit www.tixonthesquare.ca or call 780-420-1757
Produced by Guys in Disguise and Workshop West Theatre and is presented by Exposure: Edmonton’s Queer Arts & Culture Festival.

The longest-running queer arts showcase of its kind in western Canada, Loud & Queer is an inter-arts celebration of all that is emerging and fabulous in the world of queer culture. Hosted by the fierce and fabulous duo of Darrin Hagen and Kristy Harcourt.

Curated and directed by Darrin Hagen.

Starring Harvey Anderson, Nadien Chu, Linda Grass and Branden Martin.

Creampuff's Mind Blown Like Caligula

Gather 'round, kidz. Grandma's gonna tell you a story.

A story about a time...BEFORE THE INTERNET.

A story about a time when typing "tits" into the search bar got you nowhere - because there WAS NO SEARCH BAR.

A story about a time when we used to use something called a "card catalogue" at the library.

A story about a time when you could look up "tits" in the card catalogue but you wouldn't find anything.

A story about a time when your brother's friend Tommy Nickelchuk wouldn't let girls into the basement and you therefore had no access to Tommy's dad's prodigious porn collection.

A story about a time when you made do with what you could find.

Probably the best source of smut in my innocent youth was the public library, which housed all manner of bodice-ripping romance novels full of fairly tame love-making. I particularly remember reading the racy drama Lace and its shocking and aptly named sequel Lace II on the recommendation of friends who shall remain nameless (you know who you are, girls). Other favourites included the Clan of the Cave Bear series (you know you read them too, so zip it) and, naturally, the dirty bits of Sidney Sheldon novels that some helpful perv before me had marked by folding over the pages.

I would never check these books out of the library, you understand - that would be CRAZY. I just enjoyed them in the study carrels, taking mental notes on vocabulary and anatomy, but mainly blushing.

My other library reading passion was books about the making of films, which, for some reason, I also never checked out. I read about the making of Blade Runner, Dune, A Chorus Line - endlessly. I couldn't get enough.

And then, one magical day, my two secret library reading passions collided in one perfect book: Ultimate Porno - the Making of Caligula.

Here's the short version - the making of Caligula was a clusterfuck in every possible sense. And someone wrote it down and it made for really excellent reading and kept me clandestinely occupied for several weeks. Naturally, I could NEVER check out a book called Ultimate Porno - just the thought of the librarian giving me "the look" if I were to take it to the desk kept me from even considering removing it from the building. But I sure did enjoy it.

It's been a long time since I read Ultimate Porno but it all came rushing back when I saw the following tweet from my film-critic friend Paul Matwychuk:

I replied:

Paul and I had a little more back and forth and then I checked out Paul's excellent review of Caligula.

And then, a couple of days later...THIS HAPPENED:

That's right - the Edmonton Public Library responded to my tweet about Ultimate Porno.

First of all - how awesome is it that the EPL is on Twitter in the first place?

Secondly - how hilarious are they? VERY HILARIOUS.

Thirdly - what happened to the EPL's copy of Ultimate Porno?? That book was genius! It had it all! Drama! Action! Extras complaining about improperly sanded wooden dildos! I bet some less scrupulous youth than I made off with it after my love affair with it ended. Godspeed, Ultimate Porno Stealer - godspeed.

Fourthly - the librarians are ON TO ME. And it's TERRIFYING.

Don't leave me hanging like a well-hung Roman here, people. I encourage you to tweet about your own young adult horndog books and see if your local library responds.

Creampuff Has Her Eye on You

We have a new intern starting today! She's joining us for the summer and I couldn't be more thrilled. Having an intern not only makes us unspeakably cool but will also, you know, help us kick more ass. I'm not going to tell you her name, but it RHYMES with "Berin".

Sure, this means that I'll have to wear pants two days a week, which we all know is a hardship - but I'm willing to make that sacrifice for the good of our business.

My only real concern, I told Katr, was that Berin would be too young to get my Monica Lewinsky jokes. That's when Katr informed me that there would be no Monica Lewinsky jokes. And also that:

• I'm not allowed to refer to the intern as "the monkey", as in "Bring me a Fanta, Monkey!" or "Monkey, rub my feet!"


• The intern will neither be bringing me Fantas nor rubbing my feet.


• I should avoid using my disgusting cuss phrases around the intern (i.e. instead of saying that Typepad is "shitting the bed", I should say Typepad is "slow today".)


• The intern is not here to walk the dog so that I can catch up on Pet Society.


• I can't tell Berin when she gets here this morning that she doesn't actually have the job and that in fact, she and our impromptu houseguest Padu will be duking it out for the position in a battle of wits and physical prowess which Katr and I will film and then pitch at the neXtMEDIA conference in Banff next week as a cross between Survivor, Eco-Challenge, The Apprentice and Gold Case.


• The intern will not be in charge of "scone appropriation", "muffin acquisition" or "latté liberation".


• "Starpukes" is a stupid "I hate it" name for "Starbucks". This has nothing to do with the intern, Katr just heard some guy on a cellphone yesterday going on and on about "Starpukes" until she wanted to give him a quick dunch in the pick.

Despite these dire warnings, I'm sure we'll find lots of ways to have fun with the summer intern. Like later this morning when I make her vacuum the ... no? Well, okay, then at lunch when she makes me a sandw - really? Geez. At least I have Topless Tuesday to look forward to, right? Katr? Right?

Creampuff's Goofy Grin

As some of you may recall, I lost my engagement ring some time ago.

The debate rages on over whether is was lost or stolen - RAGES! - but there is no debate that it was kind of giving me a rash. So hey - if you stole my engagement ring, I hope it's giving YOU A RASH TOO.

Katr sweetly offered to get me a new ring, but I was having none of it. It's expensive. Plus, I still have my wedding ring, so I have something to flash in her face when she's annoyed by my antics and I taunt her with "Well, you married me!" I was resigned to coveting her engagement ring until a suitable "new ring" anniversary, like 28 years from now.

For my birthday this year, we were going to go to a movie, take a "surprise field trip" and get an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. I spent a lot of my birthday holding a bucket and trying not to woof, so Katr's original plans were foiled. But a few days after my actual birthday, she took me on the surprise field trip - to see our jeweler Rosemary at Era Design!! Because over the previous few weeks, they had been conspiring to recreate my ring!! I know!! Sniff.

Rosemary had found some pretty new garnets for me to look at and we discussed how I wanted a smaller ring this time and also, what's with the effing ring rash? And then she told us about the gold.

Hey - gold is expensive. Three years ago, when we got the rings, gold was cheap like borscht. Now, it's pricey, like borscht with a perogie floating in it. My original ring cost about 1/3 of a month's rent. For a ring that's 1/3 of the size, it would cost a whole month's rent. HA ha! Fucktastic!

I have to tell you - I was torn. The thought of spending so much on a ring I potentially lost made me a little queasy. Do I say "fuck it!" and go for it? Do I hold off? We decided to sleep on it - and then the next day my computer died and settled the question for me! Yeah!

We did end up buying the stones, to have them on hand for when gold gets cheaper or we get richer. But I left the garnets with Rosemary. Because I can't have nice things. But I can and DO have the BEST WIFE EVER. Thanks, Katr. You make me want to marry you all over again. And not just to get that new ring.

Creampuff Snow Day

It's crazily snowing here in downtown Vancouver (though you can't really tell from this photo)and I'm wearing a toque inside.

I love having a "winter" here in Vancouver. Even though this winter is considered freakishly cold (we donated a box of warm clothes yesterday to the Sub Zero Clothing Drive), it's still not the -40 lose-your-eyelashes weather I grew up with and I have a hard time taking it seriously.

I'm loving the brisk cold and snow - plus, snow makes the dog totally fucking lose her MIND with delight, which makes walking her hilarious.

I'd be lying if I said we hadn't felt the chill indoors the last few days. But we staunchly refuse to turn the heat on, choosing instead to swathe ourselves in knits and occasionally slide our hands under the warm, sleeping dog to keep them limber.

So here we are, on a dark, blizzard-y winter morning, keeping toasty through a combination of knitted hats, hot coffee and superiority.

You know what else is warming? Memories.

One of my favourite winter memories is the year of the Great Snow in Toronto when the mayor called in the army and I got snowed in.

I was living in a basement apartment in a house and got up one morning to find the snow outside was almost up to my waist. The main door opened in - but the screen door opened out, making an escape from my apartment seem unlikely.

I was a temp, though, and got paid by the day and I wasn't about to miss a day of work, so I got all bundled up, managed to wrestle the door open and busted a trail through the snow out to the sidewalk. Just like Pa Ingalls! The bus stop was a 3 minute walk away - it took me about 15 minutes of struggling over drifts and yelling "Fuck!" as snow filled my boots before I got to the bus stop. When I turned the corner, I saw:

1. Over 100 people waiting for my bus.

2. My bus swerving to miss an elderly woman and her walker who were stuck in the snow at the crosswalk and then skidding wildly through the intersection, coming to rest with a crunch against a lamp post.

3. All the passengers on the bus exiting the now disabled bus angrily.

4. Snow. Because I lost my footing and faceplanted.

That's when I turned around, struggled home, called my agency and went back to bed.

Later that day, I got up to go to the grocery store for provisions and discovered I ...couldn't. The snow was almost up to my head and the door was stuck fast. I called my landlords for help, then remembered they were away in Hong Kong. There was only one other person I could call.

Me: Padu!

Padu: Roro? What's up?

Me: You need to come over here right now. And bring the cookie sheet.

Padu: Ooo! Are we having cookies?

Me: No! You'll need the cookie sheet to dig me out of my house!

Padu struggled bravely through the snow with the cookie sheet and once I was freed, we struggled bravely through the snow to the Loblaws, where we bought emergency rations - cookie dough and Shake n' Bake. Then we spent a cozy night curled up in my subterranean igloo, watching movies on my tiny tv and periodically taking the cookie sheet outside to keep the entrance clear.

It was like Little House on the Prairie, but gayer and with better food and with an electric heater instead of sticks of hay and with a bathroom instead of crapping in a pot under your bed and everyone pretending not to notice. Mmmmmmmagic.

I need to go warm my hands up now by clapping with glee over the whirling whiteness outside. I wish you all happy snow days, wherever you may be. Keep those cookie sheets handy.

P.S. Typepad's new comment area kinda makes it look like you need to sign in or sign up to comment. You totally don't. Just scroll down a little further for the usual name/email/URL fields. Dear Typepad - why do you do it? Love, Roro

Creampuff so Crafty

Just a quick update - I'm knee-deep in gingham and hot glue. Jealous?

Creampuff Not Nuts About This Poetry

I discovered, in the course of research today, that a woman named Sharon McCartney wrote a book of poetry called The Love Song of Laura Ingalls Wilder.

The poems are mainly written from the point of view of things Laura Ingalls Wilder grew up with - objects, outfits... tools. The butter churn pens an ode; Ma's green delaine dress sighs a sonnet. And one of the poems is by Pa's penis. It's called Pa's Penis.

I like poetry. And lord knows I loves me some Laura Ingalls Wilder. And I've been known to speculate about hidden parts of the Ingalls day-to-day existence. But ... no. Just...no.

Now, Pa's Steaming Pile, I can get behind.

Creampuff's Running List

It's very busy around here and I'm really trying to keep my mouth shut.

When you work from home with your spouse, and you are me, it's hard to not shout out every little thing that comes into your head. But Katr had a lot of work and a lot of conference calls today and I had a lot of work too. So I decided that, instead of harassing my wife while she's diligently doing her part to keep me in bonbons and bourbon, I would keep a list of things I did not say today.

6:45 a.m. Mentioned that the morning latte might be a little weak, but did not treat Katr to a blow by blow description of how my cunning plan to foam more milk was foiled by the coffee machine's unexpectedly tiny water receptacle, which overflowed into the espresso area, causing the fullness of the roast to be undermined.

7:32 a.m. Did not share tidbits about Ava Braun, Hitler's main squeeze, with Katr. Hitler, eh? MAN, what a total cock.

8:04 a.m. Decide that when I retire from my day job, my pro-wrestling name will be Bedouin Thunder. Keep it to myself.

8:47 a.m. Kittens are cute. Katr knows. I don't NEED to talk about it. Shhhh.

9:30 a.m.  BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG.

Okay. So I only made it to 9:30 a.m. before the dam broke and the yapping began. But you know, I can build on that! I mean, I haven't even told her about this blog post yet!

Okay, I just told her.