Creampuff Revolution

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.

Creampuff Gets Back to What's Important

Now that the US election is over, we can finally get back to more crucial items on my gay agenda - blog awards for Canadians.

The nominations for the Canadian Blog Awards are now open! Head over the the CBA, giggle at the cartoon beaver and nominate your favourite Canadian bloggers in a variety of kicky categories. I plan to hit it hard tomorrow and nominate all you cool Canadian beavers and ... male beavers, just as soon as my Obama Day drunk wears off.

I believe it was through the Canadian Blog Awards last year that I discovered zoom from knitnut.net, a tremendous, hilarious, eloquent Ottawa blogger whose post about a baby suppository incident nearly made me barf with horror and glee. Will I discover even more bloggers who write about things I shouldn't talk about in job interviews or with Katr's mom? History will decide.

Creampuff Dream Dates

I apparently had the best date of my life over the weekend. Thanks, Ben! The Buffy, the donuts, the wrath, the snuggling - you sure know how to treat a creampuff right. I'd offer to fill in more of our date details, but I'm not a girl who likes to slam donuts and tell. Though I notice Ben left out the part where we flew to LA to egg Elvira Kurt's house.

I had another dream date over the weekend with my friend Jeba, who complained about my paltry posting progress this month. And to her I say...shhh. There's a reason I'm not posting. It's because I'm too busy reading and I CANNOT STOP.

That is all. Proceed.

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?