Creampuff Revolution

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?

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.

Happy Creampuff Holidays!!

Happy Holidays!! I hope you all had and/or are still having a wild and woolly holiday season!

After all the fun and excitement of our big gay wedding, we opted to take it pretty easy this year by cuddling up in our apartment with our turkey and our dog and basically doing fuck all. We had a magnificent Christmas Eve dinner and a delightful, languorous, unexpectedly snowy Christmas Day. I have to say that we both missed the pleasure of being with our families, but not the stress of entertaining or being entertained or having to explain what happened to all the eggnog or why I smelled of eggnog or what I was going out to buy more of at the store or why I was having chest pains. Also, I'm sure Katr was okay skipping my family's yearly "Decoy Wrapping and Gift Tag Clues Six Hour Present Opening Extravaganza" (the more fool her, I say!).

Lest you think we're becoming agoraphobic hermits here in Vancouver, we did attend a seasonal social event on the 23rd, when we ventured all the way ACROSS THE HALL to our lovely neighbours' open house. It was very festive and there were plenty of other homos there and some shrimp!  We enjoyed ourselves, but left fairly early after being cornered and barked at endlessly by a well-meaning, close-talking, very deaf older gentleman. Later on, when I took the dog out, I heard "Welcome to the Jungle" being blasted and a lot of whooping noises. Maybe our neighbours are swingers.

The "keep it simple" theme extended to gifts this year - while we both enjoyed the Amazonian bounty of family and friends, we each only got each other one thing.  Because I like to rub baked goods all over me, Katr got me a wide selection of delicious shower gels and lip glosses from philosophy. Mmmm.

I have been huffing them all for days. DAYS.  Fortunately, Katr hasn't noticed my new addiction, because I got her a Nabaztag.

I don't know what kind of dirty things she's getting up to with that Wi-Fi enabled rabbit. Sometimes, I hear it whimpering.

Emmy got a new treat as well. She discovered turkey.

Their love affair is ardent and touching.

She also got a couple of actual gifts - as Jeba's hilarious Christmas card predicted:

they did indeed squeak. Her new toy Dino has afforded us hours of enjoyment. HOURS.

 

As I sit here, contemplating my next turkey sandwich, it occurs to me that there are just a few days of December left - did you know? So little time to decide on my resolutions for the new year! Will 2008 be the year I finally get my driver's license? Or should I focus all my energy on my luge training for the 2010 Olympics? History will decide.

Ooo - for all those who are avidly interested, we've (Katr has) put together a post-wedding wrap-up blog over at www.kateandrose.com! If you were there, go relive the fun! And if you weren't, you can check out the ceremony and vows (nothing too cringe-worthy, I promise) and lots of other stuff. We're still working on it (particularly the thank-you page!) but we needed somewhere to put all of our tips and advice for the gay brides of the future. Because we're never doing that again.

Creampuff Solves Age-Old Mystery

I've been spending more time than usual thinking about hairstyles lately, while I try and figure out how to dress my increasingly mullet-like locks for the big gay wedding. Up? Down? Uh . . . that's it, up or down I guess. Sleek? Bushy? Like a helmet? Twinkling Christmas lights? I could go on. So I've been paying more attention to people's hairstyles lately and I came across one yesterday that caught my eye.

The owner of the hairstyle was wearing a fancy pair of jeans and a kicky cardigan. The cheerful spring in her step didn't really seem to fit in with the regular crowd at the Ivanhoe Pub, where she appeared to be headed. Her long, permed, honey brown hair was up in a strangely elaborate half-ponytail. 

I wasn't wearing my glasses, so I edged a little closer to see if I could figure out what styling trick she had employed to achieve her unusual look. I got within a few feet of the back of her head and took a good gander.  What had she . . . waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait a minute.

That's when I realized she wasn't sporting a fancy do. She had simply put her hair up with one of these:

GAH.

I was, in times gone by, quite a devotee of the scrunchy (and so were you - so zip it) but I always wondered who the hell would buy a scrunchy made of obviously plastic hair. And today, that mystery was was solved, as so many mysteries are, by a lady outside the Ivanhoe Pub. Thank you, mysterious stranger. Thank you. I will rest easy tonight.

Today's truffles:

Passion Fruit * Silky dark chocolate ganache paired with a thin layer of passion fruit and Tahitian vanilla. (This truffle was so pretty I almost couldn't eat it. ALMOST. The passion fruit held the Tahitian vanilla hostage. The Tahitian vanilla was breathless . . . and aroused.)

Vanilla Fleur de Sel * Creamy caramel with Tahitian vanilla infused and a touch of Fleur de Sel (sea salt from Brittany) (Mmmmmm. And now that I know what "fleur de sel" is, I'm going to start using it more in every day conversation, like when I order my sandwich at Subway. "Could I get a dash of sub sauce and some fleur de sel on that? Wicked.")

Creampuff Interview - Mother's Day Edition

First of all, to my mom: Happy Mother's Day! Thank you for giving me birth, for keeping me happy and alive through childhood, for supporting my endeavours and my choices in life and for being fucking hilarious. I hope you enjoy the trip to the spa we're setting up for you! I'm not saying which spa here, because I don't want you to be harassed by blog-reading riff-raff. Riff-raff - you know who you are.

Second of all, to hopeful mothers-to-be Whozat & Shrike: I WILL get to those memes. I PROMISE.

Third of all, to wenders' mom: You questions are answered below. Also, Happy Mother's Day!!

A little background - wenders was playing this interview game on her blog and ended up interviewing her mom, KnittingPainterWoman. I joked on PainterWoman's blog that I thought wenders' questions for her were quite restrained and that if I had been interviewing MY mother, I probably would have asked a bunch of accusatory questions like "why did you ground me so much?" PainterWoman, like my mother, is a therapist - perhaps she sensed that I needed "talk a few things out". So she sent me the following awesome questions:

What question would you most like your mother to answer, and what do you think that answer would be?

The truth is that I don't remember ever actually being grounded. It wasn't that I didn't get in trouble, mind you, but a stern talking-to, followed by extra chores or perhaps docking of allowance were generally the punishments of choice. In fact, I was quite proud that, unlike most of my friends, I never got grounded. I asked my mom once why she was against it. If I recall correctly, she said something like: "Well, sweetie, if you've done something that made me so angry that I wanted to ground you, the last thing I'd want is you hanging around here all day and reminding me that I'm pissed off." Which I think makes all kinds of sense.

As for what question I would CURRENTLY like my mother to answer, that's a tough one. I COULD ask her something like "How'd you get to be so cool?" or "Would you rather a wrist corsage or a pin-on deal for our big gay wedding?" But the reality is that I'm not a person who asks a lot of questions. I prefer to make things up. Also, I've been watching alot of Alias lately, so I suppose that my fantasy question for my mom would be "All those years that you were an elementary school librarian, bringing home the most awesome books ever and patiently, lovingly teaching us to read . . . were you also, by any chance, secretly a space cowgirl, fighting for interstellar justice, backed by an anonymous billionaire?" And I imagine her answer would be: "That's right. Between working full time and having two kids three years apart, I was also saving the universe, darling. One space-hog at a time." And then I would say "I KNEW it!!" and then she would show me her space boots.

If you got to pick an "alternate life" how would it be the same/different from the one you have now?

I'm kind of a lazy dilettante. I've dabbled in many artistic and athletic pursuits in my life, but whenever anything started to require actual work (like reading a manual or learning music theory or drinking fewer milkshakes before dance class), I would lose interest. This is an ongoing problem for me, actually, and may require some kind of Ritalin derivative. Or hypnosis. I'm open to suggestions, people. Anyway, I suppose that if I were to pick an alternate life, I would be interested to see what would have happened if I'd actually been driven to pursue any of these things in a serious way. Perhaps I would have been a champion weightlifter who wrote opera! Or a professional cat's cradle instructor! Damn.

What invention do you wish someone would invent?

I would like to skip this whole "hybrid vehicle", "alternative fuel", "carbon offsets" thing altogether and get someone to invent a teleportation device. The device would run on the blood of the innocent. Hahahahaaa! Just kidding. It would run on any kind of blood, regardless of innocence.

What accomplishment (if any) must you achieve to know that your life has meaning?

Winning NASCAR. It's like my white whale. Mainly because when I show up at the track, they keep trying to sell me bullshit like "You need to have a license" and "You're heavier than the actual racecar".

To what fictional place would you be willing to relocate?

I know you're all thinking I'd pick the world of Anne of Green Gables, but the truth is those people had to work hard and shit outdoors.  Forget it. After due consideration, I must conclude that no fiction has stirred my imagination quite like Jasper Fforde's tales of Literary Detective Thursday Next. I would like to live in the world of Thursday Next, where literature replaces religion and I could have a pet dodo. I would also have a funny name, like "Fonda Squirrel". And I would work with Thursday at Jurisfiction, where I could leap in and out of any book ever written! I could spend a day at Hogwarts or tell Raskalnikov to get over himself! I could stop in for a plate of fried green tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café! And before long, alert readers would notice Anne Shirley suddenly finding herself attracted to "the stout girl with the nut-brown hair, Grecian nose and blue-grey eyes who uses slang and scratches herself." Sign me up!

Speaking of signing up, here are the rules of the interview post. Participate - IF YOU DARE.

So, you wanna play along?
Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me, please.”
I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing.
You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not.
You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
So, there you go. Cheers.

Creampuff Finally Posts a Recipe

A couple of weeks before I left Toronto, my (step)grandmother, Anro, came to town to see a play with me one Sunday afternoon. We went for lunch beforehand and had a great time catching up on all the family doings. She ranted about how she wants to start a clothing line for seniors (Tagline: "Not all seniors want to look like 15 year old hookers"). I ranted about how hotels SHOULD give us a deal on a block of guest rooms for our big gay wedding but they DON'T because they are ass, all of them, ASSSSSSSSSSSS! Somehow, perhaps in an attempt to relax, we ended up talking about reefer.

While my grandfather was alive, I visited him and Anro one fine Easter. My grandfather was an avid gardener and keen to show off his prize daffodils. We wandered about the yard until we came upon a patch of herbs and tiny vegetables in a back corner bordering the neighbours' yard. Grandpa told me that their neighbours ran a nursery and had arranged with my grandfather to help with the upkeep of the yard in exchange for a chunk of the garden. Then my grandfather took off in pursuit of a marauding squirrel and I took a closer look at the neighbours' plot. And I saw a lot of these.

Because the neighbours were growing weed in my grandfather's yard.

Fortunately, the neighbours are generous types and have been hooking my step-grandmother up fairly regularly since my grandpa passed last year. Sadly, it seems that Anro was having some issues enjoying her time with Mary Jane.

"I have trouble rolling my own," she said to me, "because of my arthritis. It's VERY frustrating. Maybe I should get a bong?"

"Well," I said to her, "I don't know from bongs. But I know you like chocolate." 

"I DO," she said, emphatically, then patted her silver bob back into place.

"Well, then do I have an idea for YOU."

She was all ears.

"First," I told her, "you're going to want to get yourself two boxes of Duncan Hines Brownie Mix. Or Betty Crocker. Whatever. Set one box aside. Take your weed and give it a good grind, with a mortar and pestle if you have them. Then you're going to take a couple of big pats of butter and heat 'em up in a frying pan. Then you're going to take about a tablespoon of your weed and you're going to LIGHTLY sautée the weed in the butter. LIGHTLY, though, don't overdo it. Then you're going to add the sautéed weed to the brownie mix along with all of the other wet ingredients and bake it, as you would normally do."

"Alright," she nodded, "I'll give that a try. But what's the other box of brownie mix for?"

"Well, here's the thing," I said. "While the first batch is in the oven, you'll want to make up a pan of pot-free brownies. See - sautéeing the weed in butter actually releases MORE of the THC than smoking does, so you may be dealing with some very powerful brownies and you shouldn't have too many at once. But of course, after you've had a few of the 'special brownies', you might feel the need to eat a WHOLE PAN OF BROWNIES. So that's what the second pan is for."

"Of COURSE," she said, "how smart."

"Aw, shucks," I said, "you have to say that, 'cause you're like my grandma."

Anro promised to whip up some of the brownies before my next visit the following week. Lunch at her place a week later was delicious and delightful but, sadly, there was no loot-bag of two-bites for the ride home. Ah, well. I assumed that, like me, Anro liked to TALK pot brownies, but not actually follow through. So you can imagine how I laughed when I got this e-mail from her:

"It was great to see you both times. I was mad at myself for forgetting to give you the special brownies I'd made for you to take on the bus. I had a few after I baked them and was glad it was evening & I wasn't going anywhere but the ceiling for awhile! They'll go back in the freezer for the next time."

Ah, Anro. Just knowing that you might be high on pot brownies and laughing hysterically at your cats the next time I call is reward enough for me.

Now that I'm back on the west coast, I'm looking forward to doing more baking myself. Katr's been carefully nursing the stick of peace and relaxation that she refers to as "The Joint" for many months now (fretting over its whereabouts, cooing to it, etc.), but yesterday we had a visit from the Ganja Fairy, who brought us a housewarming gift! What shall we make with it? Brownies? Banana bread? Flan? All I know for sure is that I'm stocking up on Cheetos. They may not be the most healthful snack when you've got the munchies, but at least the orange cheese powder lets me track where I've been.

Creampuff to Seals: "You Are All My Children"

Because I'm here and queer and zuhn asked us to, I thought I'd try my hand at video blogging today. Turns out that my hand don't really know how my camera works. HA ha! Enjoy! Well - after it loads, that is . . .

Of course, as the lovely melle noted in the last round of comments, I believe my "seals" are actually "sea lions", which are a kind of seal and may still be referred to as "seals", if you are a marine biology hick. What's the difference? Sea lions bark more and have ears and are descended from bears. Seals, on the other hand, somehow get Heidi Klum into bed.

Creampuff Valentine's Gay Special

Valentine's Day is here again and, as usual, I'm bitter.

Katr's in town for work and she leaves on Valentine's Day and this is the last I will see of my love for a month, but because of the nasty cold I contracted while she was here, I suspect that there will be far more hanky than panky. Nothing says "Come hither" like a sexy negligée and a wet, hacking cough. My one consolation is that at least my illness will make it a little easier for her to leave me, because when I am sick, I am also whiny like a man.

It must said that, single or no, I've always hated the Valentine's Day. In elementary school, the agony and ecstasy of card-sending - in junior high, the drama of the carnation-gram - in high school, the tragic searing of the tongue with too many cinnamon hearts - in university, the dreaded Goldschlager hangover. For years, my roommate Jesk and I had a Bitter Single Girl's Valentine's Day ritual where she would buy a flat of Valentine's cupcakes at the Loblaw's and I would rent a tender, heart-warming film from the Blockbuster, like Terminator 2. Then we would order pizza, eat cupcakes and enjoy the bloodshed. Those were good times.

Anyway - I've been tagged again by the lovely Winter to tell you 5 Things You Don't Know About Me (the same Winter tagged me to share 5 Weird Things awhile back) and I thought that with Valentine's Day shitting cinnamon hearts and shiny red decorations upon us, I'd like to share a Special Embarassing Lurve Edition 5 Things with you all. I've always been freakish and secretive about love, so coming up with these took a really long time. In no particular order, here they are.

1. Before I met Katr, my longest relationship was with a boy named Daniel. I fell in love with him on the first day of kindergarten, when he wouldn't stop crying after his mom left. "Yep," I said to myself as the tears rained down on his Cookie Monster sweatshirt, "that sissy boy is MINE." We used to play Star Wars at recess together - he was Luke and I was Leia. We were together until Grade 4, when I gave him an ultimatum - his video games or ME. It was hard being single again after all that time, but it wasn't long before I stepped into the arms of my next love, Yorgo. Coincidentally, Yorgo often played Han Solo in our Star Wars recess games and he and I took up together around the same time Return of the Jedi came out and we all found out about Luke and Leia being twins. Clearly, Daniel and I weren't meant to be. Plus, Yorgo bought better stuffed toys. Score!

2. I mentioned the queer youth crush I had on Buliana Bivato in the previous post, but I did not mention the root causes of this crush, namely that she was a great singer, she was taller than me (a rarity) and that at some Fringe or Teen Fest party, she kissed me on the mouth. Looking back, it was not in any way a hot n' heavy liplock - it was closer to the hello or goodbye peck you give your close friends, if you have kissy friends. Any lingering I perceived was no doubt due to teen drunkeness. But my knees giving out after she walked away? THAT was teen lust. I was wearing a pink sweater. I turned the same colour as the sweater. I may have slept with the sweater on that night but I confirm nothing.

3. Once - and I am not proud of this, except that I AM kind of proud of it - I shouted out my own name in a . . . climactic moment. I was not alone at the time. Now, in my defense, I was with someone I had no intention of ever seeing again and in my mind, the whole point of getting it on that night was to make myself feel better. Still . . . not my classiest moment. Nor were the subsequent moments when I couldn't stop laughing.

4. Deeply fed up with a years-long bout of unrequited love, I decided for awhile to have an imaginary girlfriend. Not the "I totally have a girlfriend! Ooh, you wouldn't know her, she goes to another school" kind. The "you don't measure up to my imaginary girlfriend" kind. Her name was Mel. She was a creampuff and she had a chin piercing (which is funny to me - why a chin piercing??). She was also very handy around the house. After a few weeks, I shyly and reluctantly told my therapist about Mel and she was THRILLED that I had found love - IN MY MIND. "She shows up on time! She returns your calls! She's fat - and she LOVES it!" Mel and I had a blissful few months together and she helped me through a very rough patch. Thanks, Mel!

5. Starting in high school, I kept a journal that was SUPPOSED to be about theatre projects, but which quickly devolved into what can only be described as a WANK repository. Oh my god, people. The WANKERY of this thing. I am surprised that my laptop has not collapsed under the weight of all the (often lurve-related) angst. I suppose you could argue that, because I generally write comedy, the wank had to end up SOMEwhere. And despite it's EXTREME embarassingness, I cannot bring myself to delete it. All of its longing and yearning and self-hatred and screaming blood metaphors and word by word accounts of dramatic conversations were important to me at some point - also, it's a great file to poke around in when I'm looking for a good title. My latest play, Kiss With Your Teeth, takes its title from the following Wank Journal line: "You know it's time to stop smiling when you start to kiss with your teeth."

The problem with the Wank Journal is that there are no dates and generally no identifiable names or places, in case the WJ ever fell in the wrong (i.e., anyone else's) hands. So while I like the title of the play, I really have no idea where that line came from. Probably best not to.

So there you have it - 5 Embarassing Lurve Things About Me. If you'd like to celebrate Valentine's Day by mocking your past love-capades on your own blog, let me know! For Katr leaves me tomorrow afternoon and I will need to be distracted and amused come nightfall. Perhaps I'd better pick up some of those lesbian books you all recommended. And some Kleenex.