Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff's "Obscure Reference" Poll

Yesterday, during a script workshop, my dramaturge made me cut the "soylent green" joke in my piece because he said that only he and I would get it. The actor, an intelligent, well-read woman in her forties, had never heard of it.

I was shocked. Do we not all know about soylent green?? I must know!

I haven't decided if I'm going to cut it. It's my experience that when you make a more obscure joke, maybe 1/3 of the audience gets it - but that 1/3 of the audience immediately become rabid fans because they sense in you a fellow geek.

If you're curious about the outcome of this decision, drag your Easter Creme egg-filled guts down to Solo Flights on Monday, April 13 for a night of wine, cheese and monologues! It's pay-what-you-can and chocolate WILL be accepted. By me.

UPDATE: Well, I kept the joke in and the actor (Jan Derbyshire, who was hilarious and brilliant) ad-libbed something about Charlton Heston, which got a WAAAY bigger laugh than the original joke. I then went on to claim credit for the ad-lib, because I was the writer. So in the end, all were satisfied. Thanks to Solo Collective for the opportunity and thanks to everyone who came out!

Creampuffs Return to the Grind

6:00 a.m. is not the same as 9:00 a.m.

For one thing, it's a lot earlier. For another, I'm not really done sleeping. Thirdly, not only is it too dark to knit, but I no longer seem to have a full 8 hours a day to devote to that pursuit. I KNOW! Shitballs. This "back-to-work" stuff blows.

In other news, we have returned from fair Victoria, where we made out like bandits at Second Christmas! We felt quite spoiled by our books, dvds, extremely pricey face cream, and, of course, Santa's favourite stocking stuffer - the Clinique bonus. Among our gifts, I presented my father with the gift of several weeks of my slow slow knitting, resulting in - handknit socks!

He was kind enough to model them for me. Such a handsome foot!

We had a delightful time in Victoria, gorging on cheese and figs, watching the dog run free in the park and creating a new DC Comic series entitled Batman vs. The Widdler after Emmy Lou decided to take a big whiz in my parents' master suite. She was clearly exhausted after her crime.

We were a little concerned when we heard about all the snow happening in Vancouver and while she listened politely, I got the feeling my mom thought we were just being pussies. There was no snow in Victoria - surely we were exaggerating our piles of snowy troubles for effect (as she knows I am wont to do).

So when we hit some awesome blizzardation on the way home from the ferry last night, I was compelled to film it. It's almost as good as my seal oeuvre - ALMOST.

An Epoch in Creampuff's Life

Well, I didn't quite make it through NaBloPoMo. But you know...fuck it! HA ha!

I was going to stop Anne-ing it up on my poor beleaguered blog, but then I got the pictures back. So suck it, Anne-haters! Wooooo!

First of all, special thanks to ace photographer and all around fabulous guy Mondo Lulu, who captured the evening in such style. We had a photo booth where audience members could don Anne's red braids and pose. And they DID. Click through for photos! Do it! You know you want to.

Anne? Still? Ha ha! YES.

One more day, Anne-haters, and the Anne Made Me Gay hysteria will be over! But in case you're an Anne LOVER in Toronto, we're close to selling out. I would advise you to get your tickets NOW. Woooo!

Creampuff in the Star!

We got a really great write-up in the Toronto Star for Anne Made Me Gay today - thanks, Bruce!

I'm particularly pleased that Bruce left out that thing I said about there being a fine line between fandom and fetish and the long, awkward silence that followed. Because I come off like a crazy enough Anne-stalker as it is.

In other news, I touched a man today who was the First Assistant Director on the original Anne of Green Gables mini-series. That's right - I touched someone who's touched Megan Follows!! I nearly fainted with delight.

He seemed used to it.

I also touched his dog.

I promise the full story at some future date.

Creampuff Wonders If There's a Hot Doctor in the House

The strangest damn thing started happening to me at the beginning of this week. Every now and then, when I put my right foot down, the area of my foot between the ball and the heel feels wet. Like I'm stepping on a wet carpet or my foot has whizzed itself.

The first time it happened, it was in the study, where the washing machine flooded the floor and soaked through the rugs a few months ago. I felt a sudden, terrifying chill through my socked foot. Surprisingly, I did not hassle Katr with my subsequent freak out and opted to feel around the floor with my hands for awhile before deciding it was a false alarm.

"Huh," I thought, when the carpet seemed dry, "I guess my foot ...whizzed itself. Or maybe my sock got wet on the bath mat before. Huh."

Then yesterday, wearing different socks, it happened again. And today, again - phantom wet foot.

I started to get really nervous about this whole foot situation. What if phantom wet foot is like smelling burnt toast and I'm going to have a seizure? I checked with Dr. Google and learned a lot about seizure auras, trench foot and foot fetishes before surrendering to a gleeful hour of watching YouTube clips of Dr. Kerry Weaver's first, doomed lesbian romance on ER.

I forgot about my foot. Until I took the dog out for her evening stroll.

Are you ready to be TOTALLY CREEPED OUT?? Read on.

Tonight, just as I got on the elevator with the dog, I felt wet foot again. And then, there it was - a notice in the elevator that one of the building's sump pumps was malfunctioning and that all of the storage lockers on Parking Level 3 (where all our stuff is stored) were in danger of flooding.

I know. MY FOOT CAN TELL THE FUTURE.

I managed to save our artificial Christmas tree and Katr's big box of ornaments, so you can all exhale. Everything else down there is in Rubbermaid bins, just in case. So far, the storage area seems pretty dry - but if my wet foot is any indication, that place could go at any second.

Life with a prophetic foot can be a challenge. With great power comes great responsibility. How will I learn to read its signs? Should I get a wacky sidekick with a divining appendage of their own (not a penis - too easy - maybe an itchy ball). And, most importantly, when will my right foot get its own show??

Further bulletins as my foot warrants.

Creampuff's Homestead

Nothing makes me feel closer to my pioneer foremothers than looking up a recipe on the internet, strapping on my "I found Nemo...in my kitchen" apron, firing up my electric range and baking a cornbread in my Pyrex.

Just like Ma Ingalls. But fatter.

P.S. Those are my "I found Nemo...in my kitchen" oven mitts. It *might* be time for a new pair, Mom. These gloves look like they've been in a fight.

Creampuff's Dog Less Interested in American Election

It's been several days now that we can't talk about the US election here at Chez Creampuff. We're both complete basket cases. I've been having weird election dreams for weeks:

• I dreamed that McCain was my grandpa and that I had to talk him down from calling the cops on some dog who'd crapped on his lawn.
• I dreamed that Tina Fey gave me a lap dance as Sarah Palin (I was wearing a moose costume and the padded gloves made it real hard to get a grip on ol' Tina and I was REALLY FRUSTRATED).
• I dreamed that Obama had a Bob Roberts-style freak out on hidden camera and blew his chances at being president (I actually woke up screaming "your mike is still on!").

Emmy Lou, on the other hand, could care less. Quite frankly, she's tired of hearing about it. And for the love of Christ, will you queers shut the damn window already? I'm effing FREEZING! GAWD!!

Anyway, my lovely American friends - just wanted you to know that we share your feelings of BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARG and that I got Katr drunk around 2:00 p.m. and that I totally thought that Kentucky was where Kansas is on the map and that this whole thing is a very humbling experience from a geographical knowledge perspective.

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 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.