Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Neglect

We were filming a scene last night where a couple of babes get it on and I was reminded again of why I started writing in the first place: so that I could get my hot friends to make out with each other onstage or, now, on camera!

I'm living the dream, people! Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to take candid photos of any wardrobe malfunctions that occurred. Actors! So touchy about their "boobs" showing up on the "internet"...

I'm afraid my poor blog has been as neglected as my lovely Toronto friends on this trip. I'm SO sorry - I love you all and I'm sad I'm missing out on seeing most of you this time around. If you're not:

• letting me film at your house
• taking on a small but pivotal role out of the blue at the last minute
• holding a boom mike
• being photographed without your consent on Church street after dark
• free to be an extra for a few hours at Fire on the East Side this Saturday

I'll have to catch you next time!

In the meantime - there's some hot girl-on-girl action to look forward to, so there's that. When?? Don't worry. I'll keep you posted, pervs.

Creampuff Lowering the Tone

The hotel I'm at right now has a personal oxygen canister in the minibar. Yeah, that's right - in case I need to suck more wind. The only thing stopping me from stealing the personal oxygen canister and wandering around Toronto taking hits off it is the $56.95 charge I will incur by removing it from my room. FOILED!

More later. Swiss Chalet is here, delivering my Festive Special. It's the most wonderful time of the year!

Notes from Creampuff's Office Safari

The rumours are true. I recently spent nine days in Toronto, commuting to Mississauga and working IN AN ACTUAL OFFICE. Jealous? You should be. It was fucking AWESOME, or, if you will,"f 'awesome".

I made some notes about the experience, which I plan to include in my ongoing anthropological study of office life vs. my actual life. I find it helpful to compare and contrast the activities I participated in at the office with my usual work from home routine.

Lest you fear to join me on this journey into oft-charted waters, let me assure you of this: I wore pants the whole time.

 

Activity	Working from Home	Working at the Office
Getting to work	Get up at 6:00 a.m. Make coffee Start working	Get up at 6:00 a.m. Groom Put on the pants Go down to lobby for hotel breakfast Take 20 minute walk to Union Stn Buy GO ticket Get on 7:55 a.m. train 30 minute ride to Clarkson Stn Knit Get picked up by lovely, accommodating co-worker Go to Tim Horton's Get into it with douchebag who tries to cut us in the line Get to the window and find that the lady in front of us in line has bought our coffee Feel warm glow Consider paying it forward, then realize that would mean we'd be paying for the douchebag's coffee DENIED Arrive at office at 9:00 a.m. Start working
Meetings	Take place in office (i.e. our dining room) Include whole team (me and Katr) Often feature hand puppets Possible snacks (fruit, carrots, fuzzy peaches candy, black licorice cigars)	Take place in boardroom with projector Include whole team (~10 people) Often feature slides, charts, spreadsheets Ice cream cake is served
Bathroom breaks	Frequent and lengthy, due to variety of enticing reading material	Rare and harried, due to there being one single seater for 60 women
Lunch	Good days: Leftovers, salad, sandwich, Daily Show Bad days: Chips	Good days: Delicious meal at nice restaurant Bad days: Harvey's (still pretty good)
Work	Far less slackery than you might expect	Oh, hell yes
Distractions	Hilarious co-worker Cute dog Being felt up Facebook	Hilarious co-workers Ice cream cake Inflatable driving range in the parking lot Being told by tech support that Facebook is not allowed at office, even though it is a valid social media tool, but WHATEVER, this shit would never fly at MY office
Getting home from work	Look around Note that I am at home Continue working	Get ride to train stn from lovely co-worker Get on 5:38 p.m. train Get close-talked to by stale-breathed, spitting, deaf, irate GO train aficionado Try not to gag Feel gum getting stale Remember what happened last time I spit my gum out at the GO Stn Swallow gum Get to Union at 6:10 p.m. Take 20 minute walk back to hotel, constantly tugging at the back of my shirt, which my laptop backpack is causing to ride endlessly up over my ass
Nickname assigned by boss	Redacted	"Poopsie"
Less than stellar moments	Injuring my shoulder while punching the air and chair-dancing to Eye of the Tiger	Using my own blog as an example in my Windows Live Writer presentation. The client informs me that "Rock Out With Your Cock Out" is not a category they use on their corporate blog.
Triumphs	Getting key tactical information without any Bothans dying Not having chips for lunch Getting the dog to sit in the park	Not getting any significant food stains on my office clothes Not referring to the bathroom as "the ladies shitter" Being there the week they had ice cream cake

Please note that this is only the first draft of my report. I hope to produce the definitive work on the subject. Stay tuned for my next anthropological study entitled: Pants. Why?

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?

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.

Creampuff's GPS Might Be POS

I never truly understood the name of the band Rage Against the Machine until we bought the TomTom Go 730 GPS system for our roadtrip.

I've nicknamed it the ShitShit. Because when you're full of rage against the machine, it's hard to come up with imaginative names.

To be fair to ShitShit, we only got it two days before the trip and neither Katr nor I had adequate time to familiarize ourselves with the various functionalities of the GPS before we took off.

And, as most of you know, I get very tense in the car when I have to operate gadgets because I am already extremely busy driving the car with my mind. 

But we had figured out how to input an address and how to navigate towards it and that seemed good. And even though we had misplaced our North American atlas, we felt confident that we could rely on highway signs for our main route and the TomTom for the fancy, in-city bits. Like driving into Portland to meet one of my favourite bloggers, Dawn from this stony planet and swell!

You don't need a ShitShit to see where this is going.

Once we were well on the road, I whipped out the GPS to see how far away we were so that I could let Dawn know when we were going to show up. I turned the TomTom on. It told me to go fuck myself by turning itself off. After some keen observation on my part, I deduced that, after relatively minimal usage, the battery in the GPS had died.

No big deal. I plug the GPS into the car charger. The light does not come on. The car charger does not work.

I try plugging it into the other cigarette lighter port. Nothing. I fiddle with the charger, pushing, pulling, pushing harder, cussing. For naught.

We are mapless. The TomTom's blank screen mocks me.

Me: We still have the receipt for this piece of shit, right?

Katr: Call Dawn.

Thank god for Dawn and her ace directions to the best brunch in Portland. She was the wind beneath our angry, flappy wings. She treated Katr and I to a delicious brunch at gravy and we had a fantastic time chatting with her and her lovely ladyfriend Mera on an extremely hot Portland afternoon during a HUGE and unexpected street fair on their street (unexpected by *us*, I mean - obviously the people who participated in the fair were well aware of its existence.)

We asked what the streetfair was in honour of. I believe Dawn's response was "Fuck if I know." Oh, how we laughed. Then we posed for pictures.

I love meeting cool, smart, funny people from the Internet. It makes me feel smug. Thanks, Dawn and Mera! We look forward to reciprocating when you two come up to Vancouver. We'll feed you all the bacon you can handle.

After a lengthy pause at the fat girl store in Portland for ginch replenishment and atlas purchase, we pushed on to Eugene to retire for the evening. We ate Thai food and recharged the TomTom, grudgingly ready to give it a second chance.

Day 2 Roadtrip Redux:

Chambermaids at the Comfort Suites in Eugene have big smackdown fight as we're checking out. There are tears. Tears on the towels.

Hot. Hot in the car.

Katr's mom's flight to San Francisco gets delayed so she has to spend all night in Philly. While speeding down the highway, Katr tries to convince her mom that spending the night in the Philly airport isn't the best choice. Patr doesn't sound convinced.

Burger King's Lemonade ICEE tastes like bat urine. You're welcome.

Sirius Radio replays the same shows over and over. It's kind of like cable TV. 200 channels and sweet fuck all is on.

Don't stop at the Chevron in Winters, CA

As we roll across the Bay Bridge, I whip out the TomTom to guide us to the hotel in San Francisco, because it's complicated around the airport where the hotel is. The ShitShit does not give important information, like the actual name of the streets you should turn onto, but does say vague things like "Keep left. Then, make a U-turn."

Me: Make a U-turn.

Katr: Make a U-TURN? Where? How?

Me: I fucking hate this fucking piece of shit!!!!

Katr: I'm pulling over.

Between the ShitShit, the sparse street signs and the sheer force of Katr's will, we somehow make it to the Bay Landing Hotel in San Francisco. It is beautiful there. If you're looking for a nice, reasonable place to stay near the SF airport, you would do well to call.

Then, the next day, we picked up Patr from the airport and went to Sonoma for three days. More on that later. But now, a mental health tip:

It's the first day of BlogHer and I have discovered one key "don't" for you if you're planning on attending this conference at some point in the future:

Don't drive 18 hours with ShitShit and then spend 3 days sharing a hotel room with your mother-in-law before walking into a ballroom with 999 other bloggers in it. Because all you'll be able to do is blurt out "I blog about my gay dog" and then demand a mojito IV.

I'm still waiting on the IV. And someone just informed me that there was an episode of South Park that featured a gay dog. Those fuckers are ALWAYS STEALING MY IDEAS.

Creampuff Roadtrip

The rumours are true. The creampuffs are heading south for BlogHer! Look out, citizens of Washington, Oregon and California! We will soon be among you! Drinking your Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi! Shopping at your fat girl stores! Choking on the smoke plume of 1000 raging infernos! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!

I didn't realize the full extent of the California wildfire problem until I saw Katr looking over this map:

I didn't have my glasses on and I knew she'd been looking at winery tours and other outdoor activities in Sonoma, where we're spending a few days before the conference.

"Oooh," I said, pointing to the little red icons on the map, "are those strawberry farms?"

Guess what? They're not. I may bring a ham to smoke on the drive down.

I'm really looking forward to this trip and not just because I've programmed all the Dunkin' Donuts locations into our new GPS. Why? Well, because:

I love road trips. 

I love meeting people from The Internet, some of whom will be at BlogHer (I think) and some of whom might meet us for lunch in Portland.

I love shopping in the fat girl stores of America.

I love Katr's action-oriented mom, Patr, who's joining us once we hit California. Patr, she likes to do touristy things, most of which don't involve sitting (although many of them *do* involve eating).

She puts us to shame with her spryness and we seriously thought about undertaking some kind of training program before the trip so that we could keep up with her. Of course, our training regime consisted of saying things like "Man, that trip is coming up soon. We'd better get on that." and then having some congratulatory pie.

Last night, I had a dream where Patr was flitting through colourful flea markets and enjoying wine tastings while we lumbered along behind her like the Mystics from The Dark Crystal.

I'm also really looking forward to the BlogHer part of the trip, which is funny to me. Because while the "hanging out with a bunch of chicks who write stuff" part sounds pretty fun, the conference also involves two things I really dislike: talking about blogging in general and talking about my blog in particular.

Blogging to me is like sex to Catholics: You do it with the lights off and don't talk about it after. I shuddered so often while writing out my 5 Reasons for Blogging last year that I nearly pinched a nerve. And the biggest challenge is that when you go to a blogging conference, everyone opens with "What's your blog about?" and I NEVER KNOW WHAT TO SAY. I know that this is not acceptable and I've been working really hard to come up with a one-line response. Here's what I've got so far:

"It's about how expensive things should also come with handjobs."

"It's about how sometimes when we touch the honesty's too much."

"Death. And candy."

"It chronicles my adventures as the lead singer of a band called the Chafetains."

"I blog my truth."

"It's about the way I live my life: fat, naked and dangerous."

"It's about donuts and the fat lesbians who love them."

"Stuff."

Okay, okay, I'm still working on it. Maybe some inspiration will come my way while I'm packing (my suitcase). Or perhaps after we hit the road tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Or perhaps after several sparkling wine coolers at the opening BlogHer mixer, where my answer will likely be "I blog about my pants and how they're missing right now." Get ready.

Creampuff's So Vain, She Probably Thinks This Post is About Her

Note: This post is mainly about fat girl shopping. I'm not going to make assumptions about who among you will or will not be interested in fat girl shopping - you'll know who you are. Also, it's my birthday! Woooo!

It's my birthday! I'm 33 this year and since my birthday is 03/03, I feel that it's going to be an EXTRA awesome year. That's right - no pressure, but you'd better not SUCK, 33!

I've spent much of adult life looking forward to 32. I'm not sure why - 32 just seemed to resonate with me and I'm pleased to report that it was indeed a banner year. But because of my fixation on 32, I never gave much thought as to what would come AFTER 32. Turns out it's 33. So, you know - rad.

I spent much of the last few weeks of 32 bitching about two things:

1. The sad state of my hair. It's true - every hairdresser I've seen for the last year wouldn't cut my hair as short as I wanted because they felt I should "grow it out" for the big gay wedding. The result? A layered near-mullet that I've been wearing in a ponytail since last May.

2. How I had "nothing to wear". Thirty Helens agree that I often don't take good enough care of my clothes. This is fine when I spend whole days working in my house and walking the dog, but can cause problems when I'm going out for dinner with a friend and my "good jeans" are nearly worn through from dog walking and my "good casual shirt" is pilled from being washed with my jeans and also too fucking short because I accidentally put in the dryer.

Thanks to my high school pal and local hero Kajo, I found a real hairdresser here in Vancouver with whom I immediately fell in love. Why? Because the first thing she said when she sat me in the chair was "Oh, Roro. TELL me you haven't been cutting your OWN BANGS. Please... please promise me you won't ever do it again."

She did an excellent job and I happily paid her more than $20 for my sassy new hair. Those who kindly responded to my hair poll will be pleased to note I'm sticking with the gray. I'm really against posting pictures of myself on my blog, but this cross-eyed one is already on Facebook. Descartes would be so turned on...

With regards to #2, I was very excited to visit the United States of America last week, where creampuffs have more fashion choices and where my favourite ginch reside. I didn't actually intend to get anything BUT ginch from Lane Bryant, because I am at the upper limit of size for that store. But I breathed in the general direction of a pair of jeans when I walked in and the sales girl was all over me to try their "Right Fit" jeans. I was skeptical, but allowed her to measure my waist, pick out a pair of Blue 7's and send me off to the dressing room.

That's when I put on the magic pants.

I am a pear-shaped creampuff and I effing love my effing Right Fit jeans from Lane Bryant. I love that they don't gap funny in the back. I love that they're way sturdier than my other jeans but cost the same. I love that the salesgirl said to me when I first put them on: "I'm not going to make you pull your shirt tight and show me if you have a muffin top - but if you don't have a muffin top, then these are your jeans." I love that I don't have a muffin top in these jeans. I love the term "muffin top".

The other thing I realized at the Lane Bryant is that empire-waisted babydoll tops are in. And you know whose pear-shaped figure is very flattered by empire-waisted babydoll tops? MINE. I basically bought four varying degrees of this:

Then Katr and I did some damage at Sephora, 'cause we found our favourite SugarLemon stuff from fresh and had to stock up. We didn't WANT to, gang - we HAD to.

And so, loaded down with cute duds, delicious smells and free of the mullet, we arrived in Monterey. Where I proceeded to spend the entire week PREENING.

Seriously - it was crazy. Every reflective surface was my friend. I spent hour after hour casting coy smiles at myself and anything or anyone who stood still long enough; baristas, Jamba Juice employees, bellmen, sea lions, some guy who tried me sell me a book on the street called Living with God. Guys - I was VAIN. I kept humming that Carly Simon song, pretending it was about me instead of Warren Beatty. Because last week, it WAS.

I'm a little stunned at how much a great haircut, a few nice shirts, good pants and SugarLemon perked me up. I didn't even know I needed to be perked up. I feel like I've been on What Not to Wear. Pros - I didn't have to be humiliated on TV. Cons - I had to pay for it all myself with the magical elf money I hope will appear in my bank account before my credit card bill arrives. But hey - with my kicky new look and a year of 33 before me, can ultimate riches be far behind? History will decide.

Creampuff to Sea Lions: "Quit Looking at My Rack"

It's been a year since my last brilliant sea lion video. Don't lie to me - I know you've all been waiting with bated breath to see another instalment of me yapping away in Monterey while filming what I claim are the majestic creatures of the shallows known as "sea lions" but which appear to be rocks. Not even fuzzy rocks - just rocks.

I have to pat myself on the back, for I feel that my filmmaking technique is vastly improved this year. By which I mean "I stood closer to the sea lions. Because this damn camera only zooms in so far in video mode".

Behold!

After all of your derisive comments last year, I took the precaution of also adding some sea lion photos to back up my claims.

Sea lion #1: Ungh.

Sea lion #2: I feel you.

Sea lion #3: Do you guys smell me? I think I smell myself.

Sea lion #4: Clyde - don't make me club you.

Sea lion #1: Ungh.

Sea lion #2: For real.

Clyde: Whoa! Check out that chick's rack!

Sea lion #4: I totally have that shirt.

Sea lion #5: Silent, he balances on the surface of the water, surveying the landscape. He spies her, splayed regally on the rock, her dark brown pelt glistening in the sun's rays. As he prepares to make his move, he can't help chuckling to himself. She'll never see it coming...

Sea lion #6: Angelo - I can hear you narrating.

Sea lion #7: Ohhh, yeah, baby. You know what time it is.

Sea lion #7: It's BUSINESS TIME.

Look at that wink! That sea lion was totally coming on to me. Nice try, Smoove. I'm TAKEN.