Creampuff Revolution

Huh

My 14-month-old laptop died this morning. No goodbye, no parting words, just...phssst.

Katr, with the help of many key Twitterati, has been trying to track down solutions to the determined offness of my laptop. Thank you all for your kind assistance in this matter. You are the wind beneath my chubby wings.

In the meantime, we have called an ancient PC out of retirement to serve as emergency backup. I have to say, I appreciate having this machine to fall back on, even if it does shut off without wa

Creampuff Gets What's Coming

The dog dropped an prodigious deuce in an unfamiliar residential neighbourhood today and left me holding the bag. We walked for ages without encountering a trash can or a dumpster and after several blocks, schlepping this turd around was taking its toll on creampuff morale.

Finally, I spied a garbage can. The only catch was that the garbage can was in the courtyard of a seniors home and I was about four feet away from the garbage can, behind a wrought-iron gate.

It looked like an easy shot and I nearly made the junior girls basketball team in seventh grade, so I was confident I could pull it off.

I lobbed the bag of dog shit over the gate. It flew in a graceful arc before completely missing the garbage can and landing in the middle of the courtyard instead.

The bag did not remain intact.

It's hard to know what to do once you've flung a bag of dog shit into the courtyard of a retirement home in broad daylight. While my first instinct was to flee, I hung around for a few minutes, hoping that a senior would come out and, mistaking my tears of mirth for the remorse that most certainly came later, forgive me for my thoroughly disgusting random act of vandalism.

Sadly, all the seniors remained indoors, no doubt calling the fuzz to report that they'd been shit-bombed by some fat girl with an emo dog.

Since being arrested for smearing an old folk's home with dog shit is not on my bucket list, I decided to hightail it home. Emmy Lou did not feel my urgency and tried to slow down my flight by lunging at various fire hydrants and lamp posts. I finally gave in a few blocks from the scene of the crime.  And as I was standing under tree to let the dog do her sniffin's, some bird took a big, long, sticky crap all down my new sweater.

Karma. It's real. So, you know...next time you're about to shit-bomb the elderly, think about how great your sweater is.

UPDATE: Bevin, I never made the basketball team. But I was on the soccer team in seventh grade. Behold.

Creampuff's Open Letter to Virgin Mobile (who sucks)

Dear Virgin Mobile,

I think you will agree that in the beginning, we had a good thing going.Your kicky start-up music, sardonic voicemail guy and low commitment pay-as-you-go plan was attractive to a "occasional text and emergencies only" cellphone user like me. I knew you only wanted me for my money but I fooled myself into thinking it was more.

I let you get away with a lot, Virgin Mobile. Rate changes, network issues, I overlooked them because I was happy. Happy to keep it simple. Happy not to think about things.  

I can't remember when you first started giving me less and less time with my own money. When I first got the phone, my pre-paid balance would last for 90 days. Then, one day, it was 60 days. No problem - even with my minimal phone use, I can see going through $20 in two months. Then, it was 45 days and I started to feel...used.

When it slipped down to 30 days, I registered the change, but in my heart, Virgin Mobile, I didn't believe it. I just couldn't accept that after three years together, you would pull something like this.

Oh, I know our arrangement was open - that we had no strings attached, no contract. But my own inertia and your more generous balance times of yore kept me hoping that you'd see the light. That you'd recognize that a 30 day limit was assaholic. That a 30 day limit on my balance made us BOTH look like idiots.

Because, Virgin Mobile - you seem young and in good shape. Can you really only hold on to my $20 for 30 days at a time? Is it really that taxing on your hipster computer system? Does it chafe your tight-fitting corduroy pants to carry that kind of jack around for more than a month?

Or was this all a ploy to drive me from our loveless pay-as-you-go marriage of convenience into the arms of your brother, the myPlan Monthly Package? Or worse, to your bastard cousin, the Auto Top-up, who automatically tops up my account when my balance is about to expire after only 30 fucking days, so that I can spend MORE money for a phone I RARELY USE so that you can save up for your new corduroy pants?? Fuck you, Virgin Mobile! And fuck your cousin!

The thing is that I might have considered some of these options if you hadn't pissed me off first. If you hadn't left me hanging at several key moments over the last couple of months with your sudden dropping of my calls, your life-endangering midnight expiration dates and your cocky attitude. But now I just hate you and I hate your ass face. It's over. Just...it's over.

Thanks to my ire and number portability, my meagre business and I are leaving you, Virgin Mobile. Perhaps I'll join my wife's "Family" plan. Perhaps I'll switch to a mobility plan that lets me keep my balance for 180 days and features the same calling rates. All I know is that this relationship, while toxic, has taught me some valuable lessons about misplaced loyalty and style over substance. One day I may even bring myself to thank you. But until that day, Virgin Mobile, I leave you with this:

You suck, Virgin Mobile. Good day.

Sniff.

I lost my engagement ring.

It's been missing for a few months now, but I kept holding out hope that it would turn up. That elves would replace it on my nightstand. That the drawers, coat pockets, endless laptop bags, purses, cosmetics bags, bundles of loose socks, jars of peanut butter that I have searched over and over again, would suddenly return its garnet-y glory to me. That I would be bathed in the fire-like glow of its stones and my heart would be warm once more!

I really can't tell you what happened to my ring. I hadn't been wearing it very often because it had been giving me a rash (I KNOW! What?? It's true.) I FEEL like I stashed it somewhere "clever" but clearly I was too clever even for myself. It's also very possible that I didn't stash it and someone made off with it. Once I saw that it was missing, I took my time looking for it because I didn't REALLY want to admit that it was gone. But after tussling with the dust bunnies under the bed while wearing my headlamp earlier this week and finding no trace, I was forced to concede defeat.

You know...it's a ring. No one's going to die. Far worse things have happened to far better people. But still, I am sad and deeply annoyed with myself for treating it in so cavalier a manner. Because I really really loved that ring. On the other hand - it WAS giving me a rash. And not a love rash.

I was torn about telling Katr about losing my engagement ring. Not because I thought she'd be mad but because I felt like a dingus for losing it. But for a yap-tastic lass like me, the news was difficult to hold in and it wasn't long before I tearfully spilled. And, instead of making me feel like the dingus I am, she had the phone in her hand, ready to call our ring designer to get me a new one immediately. Why? Because of the love. Sniff. Because she's the greatest and stuff.

I am one lucky doofus.

In the spirit of celebrating lucky doofusness - Katr and I did an interview a few weeks back with the lovely Robert Allen and Holli Ehrlich of the Wedding Podcast Network for their Newlywedcast. They are the cutest and it was lots of fun to talk about our lurve and the iPod proposal and planning our nuptials and our talented friends (yeah, I left out the part of how I LOST MY ENGAGEMENT RING).

Let me tell you - no one loves talking about their wedding like people whose wedding is OVER. So if you want to hear us going on and on about how great our wedding was (and why wouldn't you? We're so delightful!), check out our chat with Holli and Robert on Newlywedcast.

And if you have any suggestions for my new ring, let me know. I'm thinking maybe this time I'll go with something like this:

Because clearly, I can't be trusted with nice things.

Creampuff is . . . Unwell

Oh my god, you guys. I am sick as a

I didn't want to believe it. At first, I was simply feeling a little dull and uninspired. Then I was a little scratchy throated and had a headache. I hit the ColdFX and hit it hard. I bought some anticipatory Dayquil - you know, just in case things went south. They did. They went south like an eager lover. I am now out of Dayquil. I just spent the last half hour lying on the bed thinking up country song titles that describe how I'm feeling.

I Feel Like Ten Kinds of Ass

If Only I Could Find The Cat That Shat In My Mouth

Thank the Good Lord for the Sweet Sweet Ice Maker in Our Fridge

Jesus, Take the Wheel and Head to the Drugstore For Me

If I Bring That Up One More Time We'll Have to Vote on It

I Feel Like Twelve Kinds of Ass, 'Cause I Thought of Two More

Oh Chicken Soup, I Wish I Could Taste You Tonight

My Woman Up and Left, Was It My Ricola Breath?

It's true - young Katr left this afternoon for a week-long biznass trip. On the one hand, I miss her tender love. On the other hand, we're not gay married yet and do I really want to let her know the extent of my potential for horkaciousness before we tie the knot? I don't think so either.

I hope you all have wonderful disease-free weekends. And I mean that. Me, I'm looking forward to some fine whine and possibly some easy knitting. Although on second thought, maybe just the whining. One more harsh sneeze while holding knitting needles and I might put out my eye.

**UPDATE** I can't believe I forgot to include "Noseminer's Daughter". Damn.

Creampuff Nears End of Victory Lap

I'm a world class procrastinator. In fact, if there was an Olympic event in procrastination, I wouldn't get around to applying.

Given my procrastinatory tendencies, it's not surprising that I've been avoiding setting an actual end date to my victory lap here in Toronto. But yesterday, I finally booked my ticket back to Vancouver. I was proud! And then, a little sad.

An aside: I have to point out here that it's not like I don't horribly miss my beaverancée. I mean, holy shit. She was just here for two days. I'll be home in 12 days. And yet, I am a sniffling mess. My roommate Deye singing beautiful soaring opera upstairs and this news (via Syd) is not helping.

It's true that deciding to become dope-smoking West Coast hippie freaks last summer was an exciting move for Katr and I. But as you can imagine, it felt like LESS of a big deal to ME because I knew I'd be back here for 16 weeks! Living the playwright-in-residence dream! Eating Swiss Chalet for every meal! Having many coffee dates! Taking my pants off in the homes of strangers . . . AND friends! And it has been so. Of course, I realize now that the promise of the victory lap was in fact just another way of procrastinating - you know, EMOTIONALLY. And I'm rapidly getting back in touch with my deep, deep fear of change. Feels good.

Whenever I fear change, I always employ the ingenious reverse psychology move my mother used to get me to leave kindergarten: Would I rather that we hadn't left Toronto at all? Well, no. We were ready for adventure! And a hypothetical dog! Would I like to move back to Toronto now? What? And give up our balconies and hypothetical dog? No! Did you already finish that giant bag of Bridge Mix you bought on Monday? Well . . . yes, but there were circumstances. And so on.

My other (less healthy) strategy for avoiding full-on meltdown in the face of change is to offer myself a pile of delicious procrastinatory nuggets to chew over when the fear is at its most acute. I like a good mix of practical and fantasy nuggets. A sample:

• "Well, it's not OFFICIAL official until I change my Toronto cellphone number!"
• "We're getting gay married in Toronto in November! I'll see everyone then!"
• "Maybe some theatre company here will produce my lesbonic historical fiction play! To great acclaim! And then Gina Torres will call me!"
• "Katr comes to Toronto on business all the time! Maybe someone will ask ME to speak at a conference! A pantslessness conference! Yeah!"
• "Maybe someone will open a Swiss Chalet in Vancouver that delivers!"

I know, I know - we all have dreams. But hey - whatever gets you through, right? So anyway - the point is that the countdown has begun. And I will greatly, GREATLY miss all of my wonderful Toronto friends and countless other things about Toronto, but I will strive not be downhearted! I have a beaverancée to snuggle up to in 12 days! And a hypothetical dog to think about! And a pantslessness conference to plan! Oh, ha ha, and a wedding! And I have to practice not screaming when Gina Torres calls! And let's not forget my Olympic training! Which I am totally starting tomorrow.

Creampuff Welt

Hey. Other creampuffs. We need to get organized. Because we're all victims of a massive (with a capital ASS) conspiracy.

I'm talking about an attack on our pocketbooks, an undermining of our ability to leave the house with confidence and a ravaging of the delicate, sensitive skin of our inner thighs. I'm talking about the planned obsolescence of our pants.

Specifically the crotchal area.

The disintegration of the crotchal area of my pants has been a constant irritation, so much so that I often, given the choice, don't wear pants at ALL. The other day, however, I had to go see our real estate lawyer. And I don't have to tell you that lawyers like it when you wear pants.

I swear I have not worn these particular pants that often. Moreover, I actually inspected the crotch of the pants before I went out, just to make sure I wouldn't be breaking on through to the other side. I was about 15 minutes into my walk to the subway when I felt it. A sudden give. A windy-ness. And then . . .  came then.

When I actually felt my pants disintegrate, I thought I was hallucinating. It went something like: "Surely . . . surely my pants did not just disintegrate. Surely the combination of anti-histamines, caffeine and moving-related muscle ache is causing me to imagine that my thighs are on the loose. Surely no one will notice if I discreetly waggle my hand near my crotch to check if my . . . [gasp] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"

And so it was. One minute I'm a sophisticated gal about town, kickin' it to the subway and the next, I'm the lead singer in a band called the Chafetains.

I didn't have time to go back and change into uncompromised pants. I was forced instead to mince my way downtown to the lawyer's office, surreptitiously yanking my right pant-leg up every few paces to minimize the formation of angry, fucked-up-pants welts. Am I turning you on? And then afterwards, instead of my coffee shop/library plans, I had to haul ass to the DUFFERIN MALL to spend $60 that I don't have on emergency pants. And then I was so worn out and tender from my ordeal that I gave up on the rest of my day, went home and iced my crotch.

I know that I am not the only person who has suffered in this way. I also know that Worn Out Pants Crotch Syndrome is not confined to creampuffs - it just hits us earlier and oftener. And what I want to know is why is it that we can put a man on the moon but we can't make my fucking jeans last longer than two months?

I could feed you all kinds of facts about the plus-sized clothing industry and their global conspiracy to chafe me, but then I'd have to find some kind of source for these facts and that would take away from my leftover Hallowe'en candy eating time. My point is that I understand that it is not in the best interests of the clothing manufacturers to make pants that last. That's why it's up to us to deal with our pants.

What we need are some scientifically-inclined creampuffs with some spare time and an aversion to thigh welts.  Together, these creampuffs could create a new creampuff pant crotch fabric - I'm thinking some kind of titanium/denim polymer. Would it be expensive? Possibly. Would it be worth it? DEFINITELY. If I'm already spending $360/year on jeans - that's almost a dollar a day, people! I could sponsor a child for that kind of money! - and not getting handjobs, then spending $250 for a pair of pants that last until I decided not to wear them anymore would be a DEAL. How 'bout it, Science?

Until this fabric miracle comes to pass, I think I'll be saying "no" to pants. Instead, you'll be seeing me about town in this little number.

Jealous?

The Chafetains. Heh heh.

Creampuff May Need to Have Some Kind of Mental Evaluation

When last I checked, my friend Jesk had a white winter coat. So for her birthday this September, I was planning on knitting her a warm fuzzy something that would match her white coat. I had some very nice yarn for the main body of the project but needed a little zaz for the trim. And that's when I found the ball of gorgeous, pure white angora at Three Bags Full. It was a little pricey, but come on - it's ANGORA! And yes, it will shed, but it's white! And Jesk's coat is white! White on white!

I didn't even ask for a handjob at the till.

It was after I got the angora home that I started to have suspicions of the "sneaking" variety about this particular knitting project. Hadn't Jesk told me a story involving her winter coat on the phone this spring? Hadn't something unfortunate befallen the coat? Hadn't Jesk's sister dirtied the coat and then put the coat in the washing machine? And wasn't the coat a down coat? And hadn't Jesk's sister killed Jesk's white winter coat?

An e-mail was dispatched to the birthday girl to confirm.

In the meantime, of course, I couldn't leave the damn angora alone and was dying to see its sweet fuzziness in action. But where to start? Aha!

I taught Katr to knit in March, as she expressed an interest and also a jealousy around my t.v. watching industriousness. Being a genius, she picked it up quickly and actually knitted 3/4 of an attractive pink cellphone cosy before she completely lost interest. She'd repeatedly hinted that if I wanted, I could finish her cosy. And if I finished the cosy, I could trim it with my new fuzzy friend. Score! I couldn't wait to see how it looked!

Well, "darn cute" is how it looked (I'll try and get a photo of it later). But I noticed while I was knitting the three rows of fuzzy white trim that, for the first time in Vancouver, I was feeling . . . scratchy throated. Also, tickle-y.  I sneezed violently once and rubbed my eyes. They immediately started watering. I also noticed that my fingers were very red and a little blotchy. Perplexed and on the verge of another life-threatening sneeze, I looked at the yarn label again. And that's when it hit me.

You were all ahead of me on this, weren't you? And you probably all figured out WAAAAAY before I did, didn't you? You probably all remember that angora comes not from sheep, but from RABBITS, don't you? And who's allergic to rabbits the same way she's allergic to cats? Holy shit. ME.

Sweet fuzzy Christ.

So there I was, with my tiny brain thinking I was knitting with a soft and extremely fuzzy version of this:

while instead, I was knitting with this:

which means that I might as well have been rubbing myself all over with these:

I am itchy just thinking about it.

So it turns out Jesk's new winter coat is forest green and my project idea is totally out the window. Which is fine, because clearly I need to take sometime to knit myself a brain. In other news, I'll be back in Toronto next week, for anyone's who interested in swapping me something for a ball of $13, pure white angora. Slightly used.

Edited to include sexy photos: Here is the cell phone cosy. Makes Katr's phone look a little racy, I think. Now if only she'd get that "If Loving You Is Wrong, I Don't Wanna Be Right" ringtone, the package would be complete . . .

An Open Letter to Creampuff's Grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

First of all, I can't BELIEVE you DIED on my BIRTHDAY this year.  I think that Katr and I were watching Pride and Predjudice when you slipped away, the old-school, 6-hour version with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth. You would have dug it for sure.

I guess I'm reading some bible passages (I don't recall you being all hot for the Lord, but I do know you loved you some tradition) and my uncle is doing the eulogy at your funeral Wednesday. But I wanted to write down what I thought were some cool things about you.

I love how, when we were talking about watching the Oscars tonight, I told Katr that I always thought you kinda looked like Humphrey Bogart and that when I said that, she gave me this dubious look that said "Really?" And then she actually said "Really?" But I think you did. And I remember that you tried to hide that you were a little tickled when I told you that you looked like Humphrey Bogart a long time ago. I know you were a fan.

I love that even though you broke your hip three weeks ago and the doctors weren't keen to operate, 'cause you were nearly 94 and not feelin' so hot to begin with, you just weren't keen to die.  I love that you managed to get the most out of socialized medicine, including a new hip, before you decided to blow this popsicle stand. Ha!

I love that when I brought my girlfriend to your house for the first time, you had no idea who she was or why she was there and you probably didn't want to know - but you brought her into the front room and showed her all your medals and awards and certificates anyway, because you had a lot of them and what is the fucking POINT of awards if you don't show them, multiple times, to everyone who comes to your house, every TIME they come to your house.

I love that you were really proud of my dad and showed me his graduation picture a lot, even though my dad was rockin' the Jesus look at the time.

I love that in your lawyerly prime there were few who dared incur your wrath, for you were a formidable opponent.  I also love that most people haven't seen that picture of you in a fluffy tutu performing in a revue at Hart House. Great gams, Grandpa.

I love that the last two times you came to my shows, you proudly told everyone in line, at the ticket table, next to you in the audience, that I was your eldest granddaughter. I love that I was really nervous, because both those shows had a lot of cursing and lesbonic content and I love that I needn't have worried, because it was dark in the theatre and you'd gotten a little deaf in your old age, and you totally slept through them both.

I love how an e-mail from my uncle to my father about bible passages to be read at your funeral contained the following quote: "I have reviewed the passages and attach the King James version (I recall Dad not being pleased when the new revised version came in)." I love that you thought the "new revised version" of the bible blew.

I love your hands.  You had the best hands, Grandpa.

I have so much more to say . . . but if you taught me anything with that endless story about England and the church and the bell and the book you liked to tell over and over again, it's that sometimes, brevity really IS the soul of wit. If I have any regrets about our time together, it is this: that I waited too long to learn to knit and did not get a chance to make you a glorious, ridiculous scarf.

With much love from your eldest granddaughter,

Roro

p.s. Uh . . . I'm a lesbian. Okay, you rest in peace now.

Creampuff Rejection

I have some earth-shattering news for all of you:  "la rejection", or, as we say in English, "rejection"? BLOWS.  It BLOWS. 

My usual strategy, when I am rejected (personally or, in the most recent two cases, professionally), is to:

a) have a good cry;

b) hide;

c) eat my weight in ice cream; and

d) tell everyone who'll listen about how the rejectors have crabs.

They say that when you don't get something you apply for (a grant, a job, a grant/job combo etc.), you should take the opportunity to follow up with the interviewer or selection committee, you know, to get some "feedback" on why you didn't get the grant/job.  Personally, I feel that "we're not giving you the grant/job" is the feedback and my follow-up would go something like "Fuck you!  HA ha!" (sound of me keying their car).  I have never acted on this follow-up tactic, partly because I was too sluggish due to ice cream, partly because of the hiding and partly because I don't like to receive feedback in subpoena form.

So, given my usual modus operandi in the face of rejection, I am quite pleased with my reaction to this latest crapfest.  This time, I am trying a different tack.  This time, I'm TOTALLY following up, in a non-swearing, no-keying-car-or-more-likely-bicycle way.  This time, I actually PHONED (not e-mailed - this is a big deal for me, as I fear phoning pizza parlors, let alone rejectors) one of these folks and set up a meeting for the new year.  And I just fired off an e-mail to Rejector Deux (I'm only brave enough for one of these calls a day), and will hopefully set up a meeting with them.  Because, as I learned by watching this jerk I dislike become more and more successful based solely on his ability to kiss ass and be all up in people's faces, sometimes you have to be more aggressive to get what you want.  And hey - I can do that.

So . . . that's my action plan.  The crying, I believe, may still play a part, and I do have ice cream on hand, but, uh . . . none of this "hiding" bullshit.  And I'm going to hold back on the public accusation of crabs. 

For now.