Creampuff Revolution

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.

Creampuff Class

It was a pretty harried morning Saturday as Katr and I prepared to go to Toronto for a few days of workin'. As usual, I had left some vital chore, like packing, until the last minute. Katr, never the most relaxed traveler, was even more frumbly than usual due to some electronic mishaps and the dog - the dog knew something was up.

After his hilarious joke about storing our mail in the dishwasher was met with a lecture on what was or wasn't funny to stressed out creampuffs, my brother and his girlfriend wisely absented themselves and hung out on the balcony, where the sounds of creampuff bickering blended nicely with the calls of the seabirds buzzing our little outdoor cafe. The dog joined them. I didn't blame her.

Katr and I frumbled to the airport, grumbled through security and mumbled at each other in a surly manner as we waited at the gate. I had just finished my pre-boarding bathroom break ("What . . . is . . . wrong . . . with . . . this . . . TOILET PAPER??? GodDAMMIT!!") when I heard the gate agent call my name over the PA system. Great. What now?

I frumbled my way up to to the desk with my boarding pass. Dan at the desk was wearing a grave expression. I prepared myself to have to fight for my window seat. And then Dan said these magic words:

"Do you mind if I bump you up to Business Class?"

It may surprise you to learn that I don't spend a lot of time wanting to kiss dudes. But I nearly frenched this guy. The only thing that held me back was knowing that trying to tongue Dan the Air Canada employee would definitely give me away as a hick who'd never flown Business Class. And I am nothing if not sensitive about my hickishness.

"Sure," I answered nonchalantly, tossing my hair in so insouciant a manner that I nearly dislocated my neck, "that would be lovely."

"I see you're traveling with someone," he said, frowning at his list.

"Yes," I said, throwing caution to the wind, "can she come too?"

If Dan caught the whiff of hick desperation, he didn't show it.

"Sure," he said, "here you go. Have a nice trip."

I took the new boarding passes in my hands and felt a surge of power. I sauntered back over to a bewildered Katr, fanning myself with our new tickets.

"So," I said, when I got back to our seats, "how 'bout we fly . . . BUSINESS CLASS today?"

I swore I heard sweeping music in the background as Katr's eyes filled with tears. It was epic.

Business Class. It's everything the legends tell you. Spacious seating (so important to a creampuff). Quieter. No bad smells. Actual food plus free flowing booze for 5 hours. I hear some of the newer planes have personal entertainment systems and individual gumball dispensers; our plane was older and I didn't care. It was HEAVEN and I couldn't believe our luck. I kept humming "Somewhere in My Youth or Childhood, I Must Have Done Something Good" from the Sound of the Music, until one of the flight attendants gave me a look. While I had her attention, I waggled my empty wineglass at her.

I was careful not to betray my status as a first class virgin (worldly and sophisticated Katr has flown first class before) but I was clearly not alone. The dazzled eyes of some of our fellow Business Class passengers gave them away as first timers too. Also, how they kept asking the flight attendants how much the food cost and what the hot towel was for and how much IT cost. Ha ha. Plebes.

It was the first plane trip I've ever taken where I felt like I hadn't had to ENDURE the flight. I walked off the plane feeling fresh as a fucking DAISY. And I knew in that moment that I had been spoiled for "Economy Class" forever.

This conviction was reinforced by our hellish return trip, where we were jammed back in with the rest of the Great Unwashed on a plane so hot you could have grown rice. Stupid Sound of Music.

Creampuffs at High Altitude

It was the call you hope you'll never have to make. Even as the phone was ringing, I kept thinking to myself "Surely I am mistaken. Surely I have simply failed to search the room properly. Surely by the time they pick up the phone, I'll have found . . ."

My faux-soothing thoughts were interrupted by "Hello, this is Marina at Royal Service, how may I help you today, Ms. Tr . . . Tr . . . [sounds of brain exploding as Marina tries to figure out how to pronounce Katr's vowel-deprived Croatian last name]."

"Well, Marina," I said, "it's like this. I've lost my . . . bear."

The Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel is a pretty fancy place. It looks like this:

and they take the whole castle thing pretty seriously. Some of the staff wear kilts. A bagpiper announces certain hours of the day. It's so fancy, the bellmen and porters DO NOT ACCEPT TIPS.

The Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel is not the kind of place where you want to admit you travel with stuffed animals. And it's especially not the kind of place where you want to call "Royal Service" to report that Atiqtaq, your Petro-Canada WinterGas-promoting polar bear has gone AWOL. You CAN, because the staff are extremely helpful and friendly. But you don't WANT to.

"She's white," I said, into the Royal Service silence, "a polar bear, with a blue ribbon around her neck. I think she probably just got tangled up in the linens and escaped when housekeeping removed them."

"So the bear was . . . in your bedsheets?"

"Yeah."

More silence. I hoped she was taking notes. I held myself back from crying out "Yes, alright, yes!! We sleep with a bear! A bear and a moose, if you must know! We are nerds, Royal Service!! Nerds!!" 

"She IS a bear," I said, "so in this mountain setting, it's not surprising that she'd make a break for it. Ha ha."

Marina laughed weakly.

The truth is, Atiqtaq's always shown a propensity for exploring. She regularly disappears into various corners of our bedroom at home. And when we take her on trips, it's often a struggle to find her when we're getting ready to leave. She'll show up under the bed or in the minibar trying to get at the Coke. But this was the first time she'd actually escaped.

Katr was at a conference, so I was on my own. As Marina consulted with Housekeeping, I decided to go out and have a look for Atiqtaq myself.

Nothing outside. I thought that it would only be right for me to search the spa next - I mean, she could have been in the coldest of the mineral plunge pools or enjoying the eucalyptus inhalation room. Sure, the $60 spa fee wouldn't look great on our room bill, but I knew Katr would understand. I headed back up to the room to retrieve my investigative bathing suit and the phone rang. It was Jessie, from Housekeeping. And she had found the bear.

About twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door and I beetled over to it to find what looked like the longest-suffering member of the Banff Springs Hotel's housekeeping staff. This man was not in the mood for bear return. He had Atiqtaq gingerly by the foot and he averted his eyes as he held her out to me, like he was handing me my lost foot-long, eight-speed, disco-lit, Donna Summer-playing neon pink vibrator with suction cup base and rotating attachments. "Okayherehaveagoodnight," he muttered and stalked off before I had a chance to thank him. "What was his problem?" laughed Katr, who'd seen the whole thing. I looked down at Atiqtaq. She looked up at me mutely. Keeping her own counsel, as bears do.

We tucked her into our suitcase the next morning for the long drive home, as we couldn't risk her making another bid for freedom in Sicamous or Revelstoke. And when we let her out at home, we told her that she'd better behave if she wanted to accompany us on our next trip to through the mountains in October.

Until then, she'll have to hang out on our balcony. Gazing out towards the distant peaks. Yearning to join her bear brethren.

Things Creampuff Will Tell You She Did On Her Vacation . . .

but which actually happened only in my mind.

My beaverancée works very hard. When she is not working, she is often thinking about working. She thinks about it at night when I'm trying to get laid when we're trying to go to sleep. She thinks about it early in the morning. Real early. I've been coaxed gently and lovingly awake more times than I care to recall, only to hear her croon the following sweet nothings:

"I've got a client calling at six this morning. Want me to close the door?"

I sometimes joke to Katr that she lured me into this relationship by appearing to enjoy taking time off. She then replies that I lured HER in by appearing to enjoy being gainfully employed. Touché.

In between kinzin launching and my new contract beginning in May, we had a little window of possible holiday time and I decided Katr was ripe for her first non-family/non-work-related vacation in 3 years. So I called my parents and asked if we could stay at their empty place in Victoria for a few days.

Katr and I both had big plans for the 3 days we were going to be "unplugged". These plans included taking photos of all the adventures we'd be having about town. Here are some of things we had in mind.

Visiting the Free Range Bunnies at UVic

My brother told us that the grounds of the University of Victoria are overrun with cute, cute bunnies. All the time. In fact, when you're down and out and feeling just too existential to go to another class, these cute bunnies have been known to warm your heart while they chew on your socks.

We hoped to feed carrots to these bunnies. Large, cartoonish carrots, like you'd draw in Microsoft Paint, because you don't have Photoshop. Shut up.

I was also hoping to shoot a bunny video for my ongoing nature series, partly for artistic reasons, but mainly to answer the seal video showboating my cousin and his girlfriend posted on THEIR blog.

Hold Hands in the Beautiful Butchart Gardens

I first went to the Butchart Gardens on a band trip in March of 1989. It was beautiful then and spring hadn't really hit. "Just wait!" the locals said, "in the spring, it's amazing!" Coming from Edmonton, where a classmate of ours had lost a small part of her ear in the freezing fuckin' cold the week before, the fact that ANYTHING was green seemed like a miracle to us.

I was eager to see the gardens in full bloom this time and so was Katr. This is the scene I imagined:

"Oh my god. Isn't that fountain gorgeous? No one's looking - quick, take off your shirt!"

We love to be natural in Nature. Katr's the redhead.

Take a Horse-Drawn Carriage Ride

When you're at my parents condo, every now and then a horse goes by and it's like you're back in the early 20th century, but with better plumbing. Katr and I thought it might be fun to be part of the action - feel the clip-clop of hooves, listen to the sonsy driver, watch the horses crap into a bag. Romantic!

 

What We Actually Did

• Stayed inside (it was raining, shut up)
• Slept
• Read books
• Slept
• Ate
• Slept
• Made some of these:

• Listened to Bob Marley

Also - and this may be the brownies talking - but I think we spent a morning at the Willowstream Spa at the Empress Hotel being rubbed for money. All I know is that there's nail polish on my toes where there was none before and we suddenly have a bag of new, expensive-looking grooming products. The kind you buy when you're blissed out and defenseless and your hands are too moisturized to grip your credit card properly. And you're humming Bob Marley. 

Sadly, our short respite is over and we're getting on a plane at the crack of dawn's ass tomorrow morning for a business trip. Not only will there be no brownies, but we will also be wearing dress pants for three days straight!! I don't want to alarm you all . . . but I may have to shoot the sheriff.

Creampuff Moves to Vancouver, Part Deux - Electric Boogaleux

It occurred to me early Monday morning, as I sat on the john, hurling into a garbage can, that this was not the best way to be spending my last hours in Toronto. What the fuck is with me and the sudden, violent, simultaneous expulsions this year?? GAH. I had originally planned quite a vigorous day of activity for Monday, but as I barfed and otherwise eliminated all nutrients and available water from my system, my priorities shrank to two key items:

1. Make it to (and through) my own effing play reading Monday afternoon ; and

2. Make sure UPS picked up the two boxes I needed to ship to Vancouver Monday night.

Fortunately, the reading was a very informal "cool chicks sittin' around the table reading the thing so I could hear the results of 16 weeks of government funding out loud" kind of deal, so if I needed to sprint to the ladies shitter at any time, I could. As it turns out, the box of Immodium I took before the reading precluded any wild, inappropriate defecation. Three days later, it's still working. Thanks, Immodium. You can let go now.

Then Monday night, UPS was scheduled to come pick up my two boxes between 5:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. When I got home at 4:00 p.m. I sealed the boxes up and nearly passed out hauling them upstairs. It took me nearly an hour. I then installed myself on the couch with my Gatorade and a book about dog behaviour. I had to skip a lot of the questions in the book, because they involved dogs eating cat shit and then licking you and I didn't want to puke again. Even when I did read a chapter, I absorbed no information whatsoever, because I was checking the door for the UPS guy every two minutes. I did, however, absorb some much-needed sodium and potassium.

3 hours passed. The lovely roommates came home and began preparations for dinner. Everyone was there. Except UPS. I finally called them at 8:30 p.m. and asked what had happened. "Oh," the customer service representative said, "well, the driver was running behind."

"Oh - so he'll be here later?"

"Well, no. He didn't make it by the deadline, so . . ."

"So he didn't come at ALL?"

"Well, I can have him come by tomorrow!" she said brightly.

"Yeah. I'm leaving for the airport at 10 a.m." I told her, "can he come before that?"

"Oh dear. Well, it seems like we're in quite a pickle!"

Mmm . . . pickles.

My roommates generously offered to deal with the pickup. I got off the phone, then turned off the porch light in despair. Minutes later, there was a knock at the door. My heart leapt. Could it be . . . UPS?? It was! And sure, he was late and didn't have a waybill and didn't leave me a tracking number, but at least the boxes were away! I sucked hungrily at my Gatorade bottle and headed into the kitchen to relay my tale of shipping triumph to Grmi.

"Are you sure he was from UPS?" Grmi joked as he shaped ground beef into patties.

"Heh heh . . . oh. Huh."

In that moment, I realized I hadn't seen the van. I didn't fill out a waybill. I had no tracking number and I had paid by cheque. In all probability, this guy was actually from UPS. But there was also the possibility that, in my weakened state, I had just given our good linens, some small household appliances and several hundred dollars worth of books, yarn and DVDs to some random guy in a brown toque.

As you might imagine, I spent much of my last hour in Toronto on Tuesday phoning UPS. And I have to hand to them - those people rolled into ACTION. By the time I got home to my beloved, I'd gotten both the tracking numbers AND a separate call apologizing for the inconvenience AND, even though I paid for standard shipping, they switched it to "express" and I got my boxes first thing yesterday morning. So thank you, UPS! Thank you for not making off with Padu's future sweater and my Joss Whedon collection. Thank you for showing me what brown can do. You are good kind people.

As Jeba pointed out in her comment on the last post, I neglected to display the beautiful knitting needle carrier she gave me for our birthday! Because UPS rocks, I can show it to you now! And you may gaze in awe and envy. DO IT!

Ah. So fetching. Thanks, Jeba! It's particularly ideal for travelling, as you can stuff notions or a small project in its pouch. Or you can keep your weed in there. That sock looks like it's trying to make a break for it. Not long now, little sock.

While I'm at it, I ALSO did not take photos of the lovely knitting tote that Deye and Grmi gave me for my birthday. As you can see, it is very fine and the mix of tropical print and Anne of Green Gables-esque gingham suits me to a T. Plus, it has a pocket at the front. Where you can keep your weed.

Yes, those are VHS copies of Bring It On and Centre Stage on the shelf behind the bag. Shut it.

So I'm back in Vancouver! Reunited with my beaverancée! Ready for the next adventure! Right after I take this nap. And watch some Buffy.