Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Pick-Up

Friday, May 27, 2005

So I’m getting a little better at figuring out when someone’s hitting on me. I remember a New Year’s party, many moons ago, when this cute, older dyke engaged me in a very intense conversation. There was hand to knee contact, she got me a drink, she laughed at my dumb jokes, she said flattering things about my work and I was CLUELESS. My friend List, who was giving me a ride home, asked if perhaps I’d like to stay at the party longer and I was like “Nah, that’s okay” and we left. On the way to the car, he asks me “Don’t you like Clothilde [not her real name, but it SOUNDS like her real name]?” I said “Well, sure, she’s cool!” because she was and he said “Yeah, well. She was TOTALLY hitting on you.”

Whaaaa?

It was good to note, in a line up for a Fringe show last summer, that I am not the only clueless creampuff in the mix. This short, pony-tailed young man, who we’ll call Brevor, was hitting on my girlfriend WHILE I WAS HOLDING HER HAND. Katr thought he was just “making conversation". “Oh, honey,” I said “when a guy says things like ‘Well, I thought my day was completely ruined, but it might be salvaged . . . if I get to see YOU again’, it’s not because he’s making conversation. Also, he was staring at your chest like it was the breakfast buffet. But not a Shitty Griddle buffet, a good buffet, the kind you’d be in awe of. Like a Four Seasons buffet.”

I think that our creampuff confusion at being hit on stems from the fact that we ARE creampuffs and perhaps haven’t had as much experience with the pick up as some of our skinnier friends. It’s rare that I’ll get hit on in actual social situations. But I HAVE been hit on at the subway station, on the Bay bus, in a cab (by the driver), in the alley behind my building, in the computer lab at school, on the street. And, as I said, I am getting a little better at reading these situations.

For example, I was on my way to meet Mipa for brunch on Monday and as I was walking onto the subway platform, this gentleman calls out “Excuse me!” I stop, ready to explain that my watch is broken and that I don’t have the time. As he comes towards me, however, I can see that I’m having the Four Seasons effect. He makes it easy for me by opening with “You are very pretty. Are you married?”

It’s disappointing to me that I’m not giving off the universal “lesbian” vibe. Don’t tell me there isn’t one, there’s GOT to be, if I could just FIND it. I sometimes wonder if I should just shave my head, wear overalls, get the Earth Mother of Willendorf tattooed on my arm and call it a day. Although, to be fair, it is my experience, with the types of guys who hit on me, that lesbianism “doesn’t count".

It’s also disappointing that I’m not giving off an “I’m taken” vibe, but again, if I reveal that I’m in a relationship with a woman, they’ll nod wisely, taking that to mean that I’m just biding my time until the right man comes along.

Back in the days before I found true love, I found myself sometimes wishing that I liked the dick, because these guys are CUTE. They all have 3 things in common:

*They love my big ass.

*They’re from Africa - recently.

*They are very good looking.

The lines they use vary. “I’m new in town” is very popular, as is “Are you a Christian?” and “You have a very pretty face.” The first time it happened, I was very flustered and confused and still ostensibly straight and I ended up actually going on a date with one of these guys, which resulted in an unsolicited tonguing and a play entitled Back Off, Romeo Lovenuts. As my rebuffing efforts have improved, however, I’ve started to offer feedback on my admirers’ pick up techniques. I told one fellow that “I’d like to make babies with you” probably wasn’t going to land him a lot of dates on the subway, but when I asked one guy what he liked about me and he said “You look the way a woman is supposed to look", I told him he had a winner.

The guy I met Monday, Christopher, did pretty well. He didn’t bore me with chit chat but let me know where he was coming from right off the top. Once we’d established that this wasn’t going to work out due to my romantic involvement with another (gender neutral pronouns only) we talked a little about the kind of woman he’s looking for ("God fearing” was at the top of his list, ladies) and we finished up with a “nice to meet you” and “good luck with your search for love". I didn’t even get his phone number “in case my boyfriend didn’t work out", which is a first.

I don’t begrudge these guys their search for love in random public places, but I do wonder if those are the best locales to meet chicks. Then again, it is romantic, in an old fashioned kind of way. The same kind of way that Emilio Estevez’s crazy stalking of and surprise-attack-kissing of Andie MacDowell in St. Elmo’s Fire was romantic in the eighties. I don’t know about you guys, but give me online or heck, even speed dating any day, where the risk of rejection still exists, but at least we all know what we’re there for. And if you’re not hitting on me, you SHOULD be.

Comments:

1. It’s true. You are very pretty.

   Comment by Shbu — Monday, May 30, 2005 @ 6:28 pm

2. Oh Roro, how I love that you engaged him in conversation, with pick-up pointers no less. Awesome. Also - ‘the Four Seasons effect’. I will do my best to use it in a sentence three times today, because there is NO way I want to loose track of this one.

   Comment by Berin — Monday, May 30, 2005 @ 7:28 pm

3. You could always send the poor schmucks on a scavenger hunt to prove their love, like some skinny bitch did to me once.

   Comment by Mike, connoisseur des femmes grandes — Monday, May 30, 2005 @ 8:45 pm

4. Oh my god, Mike - BRILLIANT!! I’ll try that next time.

   Comment by Rose — Monday, May 30, 2005 @ 9:23 pm

Creampuff-a-versary

Katr and I are big on celebrating anniversaries. Any excuse for a party, really - we celebrate our first-contact-a-versary, our first meet-a-versary, our condo-purchase-a-versary, and sometimes, if we’re feelin’ sappy, each week-a-versary. Because we’re sappy, sappy lesbians.

Last year, for our 1 year first-contact-a-versary, we decided to do something extra special to commemorate the blooming of our lurve. So we made a reservation, got all dressed up and experienced the tasting menu at a local dining establishment of unparalleled excellence. This year, however, we found ourselves out of town for our 2nd first-contact-a-versary and enjoyed our special dinner at an establishment that boasts more “ho cuisine” than “haute cuisine". Because I love them so, a comparison:

Susur, Toronto vs. Jack Astors, Brampton

Susur: Tiny sign on front of restaurant barely visible. Silver, with black engraving. All lower case letters. Elegant. Subtle. Sublime.

Jack Astors: Big red and white neon sign with a cartoon “jackass” on the right hand side. Get it? In case you don’t, part of the sign flickers out from time to time so that it reads “JACK ASS".

Susur: Subdued decor, white linen, light sculpture.

J.A.: Crayons on the table.

Susur: Our server tonight is Piers, who is elegant and refined and somehow makes us feel elegant and refined as well. As if he’s casting an aura of elegance and refinement around us. A big aura, because we’re creampuffs.

J.A.: Our server tonight is Kyle, who writes his name on our table with a crayon.

Susur: Appetizer - lobster gelée / poached lobster / crème fraîche

J.A.: Appetizer - Crabby Dip with Pita

Susur: Katr and I hold hands across the table.

J.A.: Katr and I hold hands furtively under the table, ‘cause - BRAMPTON.

Susur: 2nd course - hot foie gras: seared foie gras/ spice shortbread tart filled with duck confit / roasted apple / umé / foie gras reduction

J.A.: 2nd course - salad that tastes like the bag it came in. Ranch dressing.

Susur: Piers sees our cards to each other on the table and asks if tonight is a special occasion. We tell him that it is our anniversary and he is effusive in his congratulations.

J.A.: Kyle sees the heart I’ve drawn on the table with crayons, in which I’ve written “Roro + Katr [that cheesy symbol for “forever” you learned in 3rd grade]". Kyle looks away and tells himself that we’re probably just old school chums. Who like to hold each other.

Susur: 3rd of 7 courses - soy marinated rock bass / lily bulb purée / squid Ink tuille / dashi black truffle vinaigrette

J.A.: Main course - Kickin’ Club Sandwich with Chipotle Mayo. Chipotle! Chipotle! (I like to scream it out, which they encourage at Jack Astors)

Susur: When the wait staff see that you are on your way to the ladies room, they step aside smartly to let you pass. If one of them happens to be near the door to the ladies’ room as you approach, they will hold the door open for you. In your absence, they push your chair in a little bit and fold your napkin neatly by your place.

J.A.: Kyle doesn’t know where the john is.

Susur: Dessert - apple chiffon cake / vanilla anglaise / soft whipped cream / black berry preserve / calvados and rosemary jelly / passion fruit and blackberry glaze / orange-fig ice cream with mint

J.A.: Dessert - Jack’s Apple Pie, which is basically a ramekin of apple pie filling covered by a slab of pastry and a scoop of French Vanilla ice cream. I’d like to complain more about it, but really, it was pretty good. Although we were sad when we discovered that pastry was only on TOP of the apples and not BELOW. Those apples were loose, guys. LOOSE.

It may sound like I’m shitting on poor Jack Astors but truth be told, I have a weakness for the big box restaurant. It must be my suburban Edmontonian roots - growing up, independent restaurants were all well and good, but really, I just wanted the popcorn shrimp at Red Robin. Also, once you’ve eaten at Susur, will anything else ever measure up? Of course not. So why fight it? Maybe next year we’ll have our 3 year first-contact-aversary at the Mandarin Buffet, maybe Swiss Chalet the year after that and for our 5 year first-contact-aversary, we’ll be holding hands and pitching woo at Taco Bell. I’d better make a reservation now - that place fills up pretty fast on Chalupa Wednesdays.

Comments:

1. Congratulations, Katr & Roro!
   Mmm. Popcorn shrimp. I miss those days before anyone ever uttered the word “carb", those days of free refills, of Jubey asking for a to-go cup for her free refill of diet Coke…
   Maybe you should both come to NYC for your three year contact-aversary? We have much to offer here! Dylan’s Candy Bar, Serendipity ("frozen hot chocolate"), a restaurant devoted entirely to forty varieties of rice pudding, several restaurants devoted to nothing but dumplings, dozens of Burritovilles…By then I hope to have escaped hell and moved to Brooklyn, where I will try very hard to blend in with the hipsters, and the guest futon will await you! File in the back of your lovely minds…

   Comment by Chezza — Thursday, May 26, 2005 @ 2:25 am

2. Yeah … we are SO not ending up at the Mandarin. Holy-hannah. I’m still holding out for a belated anniversary celebration at Canoe.

   Comment by Queen Katicus — Thursday, May 26, 2005 @ 3:24 am 

3. Hey, what about our anniversary?

   Comment by bill — Thursday, May 26, 2005 @ 4:36 am

4. Bill, you’re right - 31 years of marriage! Congratulations!! The fact that you guys took a transformative trip to Greece this year around the time of your anniversary gives me hope that Katr and I won’t spend OURS at Arby’s.

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, May 26, 2005 @ 5:14 pm

Creampuff Condolences

As noted in my previous post, my good friend Reol suffered a loss last week and her mom’s funeral with this Friday. I have been fortunate thus far in my life to have attended but a handful of funerals. Some people seem to have been born knowing what to do or say in these times of trial and I have often wished that I was one of them. I know that somewhere out there, some kind soul has written a book, or at least a good article on funeral etiquette, but I thought that, as an unhabitual funeral goer, I would offer some helpful tips on appropriate behaviour for the socially inept like myself.

* You may not think of yourself as a “cryer". You are probably wrong. I, for example, thought I would be too morally indignant to cry at my cousin’s extremely Catholic wedding. I was therefore caught off-guard when I started to tear up and was forced to ask my aunt for a kleenex. The only one she had was old, crumbling and scrunched up in the bottom of her purse. I shook off the pencil shavings, but nearly inhaled an Altoid. My point is, have the kleenex ready BEFORE things get under way. Don’t wait until the deeply moving, yet funny eulogy to rip open the loud velcro of your bag to get to the goods.

* If you don’t know the whole family well - or even if you do - don’t be saying things like “At least she’s in a better place.” You might really believe that - THEY might really believe that - but chances are they don’t wanna hear it from you today.

* “My mom died” trumps “my pantyhose are chafing". Let it go.

* The kneeler - not a footrest.

* Don’t ask the grieving family if they “got your Christmas card".

* Laughing in the church is okay in certain contexts. A family member tells a humourous yet touching story about their loved one - okay to laugh. Some guy interrupting the sermon with a cough that sounds like “SHANTZ! SHANTZ! SHANTZ!” - not okay to laugh. Until later.

* Don’t assume that because YOU are starving, your girlfriend must also be starving and then make her walk all over downtown Brampton 15 minutes before the service looking for a muffin. She’s NOT hungry and you should have eaten more at breakfast. You silly twat.

* The eucharist - not a tasty snack. Besides, who needs a snack that bleeds when you chew it? Bring trail mix instead.

* The reception is not the time and place for a long, intimate chat with the bereaved. They’re really touched and happy you came - they don’t want to know about how your orthodics are making you walk funny. Seriously - have a drink. Admire the koi.

* There is no “right” thing to say. Depending on your relationship with the family, you can even get away with something like “Man . . . SHITTY", followed by a hug. There are, however, several WRONG things to say.

* Even if you haven’t been in touch for awhile prior to shittiness striking, it’s okay to send a sympathy card. As our friend Sura said on Friday, “No one will think less of you for caring.” They WILL, however, think less of you if your card has a crying kitten and a rose on it. Think “simple".

Reol and I have been friends for nearly 10 years now and we’ve seen each other through varying degrees of shittiness but this definitely takes the cake. She and I talk sometimes about how we’ve come along way since university, where we met - we occasionally reminisce about pulling all-nighters to finish projects, sharing the same scuzzy, be-vermined bathroom with 30 people, employing questionable hair care practices. 10 years later, we’re both in awfully lovely relationships, we live in nice apartments and, most importantly, we’ve grown as people. On Friday morning, however, when I got up at 5 a.m. to finish a draft that was due at 11, squished a silverfish when I stepped out of the hotel shower and then proceeded to cut my bangs with Katr’s nail clippers, it occurred to me that in some ways, maybe not so much has changed after all. But for sure, some things will never be the same.

Sad Creampuff

Oh, guys. After a down and dirty fight of Herculean proportions, my good friend Reol’s mom died of cancer this afternoon. Kids - call your moms.

Comments:

1. Just happened by here and saw this post and wanted to express my sympathies. I lost my mother when I was 18 and you’re right: folks need to speak with those they care about when they feel it because you never know when you’ll have another chance. True not just about mothers but everyone.

   Comment by Katharine — Tuesday, May 17, 2005 @ 9:26 pm 

2. Hey Not sure how we found your blog but glad we did. It’s a great blog. Sorry about your friends mother.
   we have bookmarked you and will keep checking in. Take care!

   Comment by Misty — Wednesday, May 18, 2005 @ 3:00 pm

Creampuff Coif

The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of getting a freakin’ haircut. At the ripe old age of 30, I still have trouble accepting that my hair KEEPS GROWING after it’s been cut and that at some point, I’ll have to have it cut AGAIN. This just seems tiresome to me, rather like golf. I hit the ball with 3 different clubs and got it in the hole - my work here is done! What? 17 more holes, you say? I’ll be in the clubhouse.

I have been known to take action between haircuts myself, in the form of cutting my own bangs. My own lack of motor control and the cowlick on my left side generally conspire to keep me even-ing things out until the bangs are about an inch from my hairline and then I just look real surprised for a couple of weeks. Humiliating, sure, but at least they’re out of my eyes. And, in the more extreme cases, out of my gum.

The thing is that my hairdresser, a lovely and talented older gentleman named Beith, has raised his rates. Not by much, but let’s just say that if I give him $40, le tip, she is shitty. A few years ago, I paid for my haircuts with a big jar of Skippy and a box of Red Rose Tea, so $40 seems pretty steep, particularly when one is, how shall we say, making a career change. My good friend Jugr (not a licensed hair dresser) used to cut my hair in exchange for foodstuffs and most of the time, it looked pretty good. What I discovered, though, with Jugr, is that if you don’t tell her EXACTLY what you’d like and just assume that she knows you want the same, boring mom-type haircut she gave you last time, she’ll just try things. One such experiment led to a cut that can only be described as the Darth Vader and which had one of my work colleagues snaking his head around my cubicle, breathing in a laboured way and asking “WHERE IS THE REBEL ALLIANCE?”

After Jugr, I got my hair cut for $12 at the Russian Mafia money-laundering hair salon by my house. The smell of borscht tickled your nostrils. They always looked surprised when I walked in, the haircut lasted 8.5 minutes and then they would hustle me out, once without even paying. When we moved, however, it was time to find a new hairdresser and that’s when Beith entered the picture. But now his rates have me contemplating a move.

I just don’t want to go down the same path as my mother, who decided to leave her hairdresser MJ but then discovered that the miracle hair product she was deeply dependent upon was sold ONLY at MJ’s salon. Mom had since had her hair done by another and couldn’t be seen with new hair, or MJ would KNOW, she’d KNOW and she couldn’t send my dad to get the stuff, ‘cause MJ had met my dad when he came to pick up my mother. So my mom sends my brother to the salon to pick up a few bottles of hair repair. At the time, young Jaro was savouring the delights of being away at school, and had long, scruffy hair, a few days of beard growth and was wearing a shirt that had “Earl” on the pocket. He walks into the salon, looking like he was going to bum a smoke, and instead, purchases 3 bottles of $40 hair repair with a credit card. MJ (she had a nametag) was at the cash and says to him:

“Who are these for?”

Jaro freezes. He hasn’t worked up a story, he’s just here for a pick-up.

“Uuuh . . . my girlfriend.”

“Oh? Who’s your girlfriend, is she a client here?”

Jaro starts to panic.

“Uuuh . . . actually, it’s for my girlfriend’s . . . friend.”

“Is that right? What’s her friend’s name?”

Jaro throws caution to the wind.

“I don’t know. All I know is that her hair is TOTALLY FUCKED.”

Jaro made it home and told my mom that he loved her, but that he would NEVER LIE FOR HER AGAIN.

Hairdresser monogamy - is it a social construct that’s had it’s day? All I know that is that even if I got a cheaper haircut, I would be afraid that I’d run into Beith in the neighbourhood where we both live and he’d KNOW and I would feel TERRIBLE. Maybe I’ll take some “scissor” action to give myself a little more time to make up my mind. I think we all know what that means - now’s the time to bring me all of your problems, folks, because for the next few weeks, I’ll be looking SHOCKED at every word that comes out of your mouths.

Creampuff Rub-Down

Now, we are in Cobourg. It may not be Arden, but at least in Cobourg, you don’t have to pee in the woods.

Katr’s been working awfully hard these days and I sure needed a break from my grueling regime of working at home in my pyjamas, so we came here, to Cobourg, Ontario’s Feel-Good Town, for some R&R. We tried to locate a lesbian b&b, because it’s important to support the sisters, but the ones we found in the Southern Ontario region seemed to be more like cabins in the woods (dangerously close to camping) where they rub cats on you and try to draw the moon into your womb through song. Being allergic to cats (me) and the great outdoors (also me), and being more interested in pampering (Katr) then roughing it (not us), we ended up choosing the next best thing - a gay man b&b. One of the owners is an RMT. They have a golden lab named Dylan who greets guests with an big, fuzzy, red teddy bear in his mouth. They have wireless internet and digital cable. It’s like they’re us, but slim and with a dog and liking the dick.

One of the reasons we chose to come here was that they offer a “learn to give your partner a therapeutic massage” workshop, where one of you gets taught how to massage while the other gets massaged and then - after a short break for tea and scones - for real - you switch.

I’ve never really been into massage, ‘cause I don’t like people touching me. The first time I had a massage was under duress; my back, neck and shoulders were in constant seizure due to the teeth-splintering jaw clenching I’d been doing and I was high on motrin all the time. My good friend Mipa, a girl with strong hands and an advanced knowledge of human anatomy, decided that enough was enough. I was worried that, with so much tension to release, I would become a sobbing mess the minute she started, but really, it just hurt WAAAAAAAAAY too bad to cry. The next day, I felt as if I’d been in a fight but once the soreness wore off, I noticed that my shoulders had dropped back down to their proper place and were no longer crowding my ears. A miracle? Nay. Massage.

I have since come to understand that massage doesn’t ONLY need to happen in an emergency. Some folks, like Katr, have ‘em every couple of weeks, to work out the kinks and keep things loose, in a muscular sense. But for me, it’s something I feel I have to work myself up to, so I like to wait until I can’t turn my head before I pick up the phone.

This is why this workshop is such a great idea. We learned the basics of anatomy, how and where to apply pressure, how you have to yell at me to “RELAX” at least three times before I actually do, how Katr’s toes twitch if you stick your thumb into her thigh at a certain place. They gave us some yummy body butter, fed us some tea and scones and left the table set up so that we could practice. We had a lovely time and the end result is that now I can make KATR rub me for money and I don’t even have to leave the house! HA! Ha ha. . . I mean, just kidding, honey. Ha ha . . . sort of.

An especially deep tissue massage goes out to all you kind and lovely people who voted for this blog over at Blogs by Women.org last week! Thanks to your love and voting efforts, Creampuff Revolution was voted the “Favourite Lesbian, Bisexual, Queer Blog” and is now the featured Blog of the Week. I’m so flattered, I’m three kinds of pink. And for those of you familiar with my colour-coded blush alert, that’s a pretty high level of blush.

Creampuff Confusion

Katr and I were watching the Superbowl a couple of years back, because Katr likes the Superbowl and I like her. The New England Patriots were playing the Carolina Panthers, for whom Katr’s cousin Mitr is the defensive coordinator (which, coincidentally, was also MY title when I worked for the government! Well, the coordinator part, anyway. It’s not MY fault I was defensive, I was under a lot of pressure.) During a suitable break in play - or in the middle of a play, because who really cares, pass the nachos - I, curious Canadian that I am, asked my American-born love a geography question that had been puzzling me for some time.

“Where IS New England?” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what state is it next to?”

“Well . . . it’s . . . not really NEXT to a state . . .”

“Why? Is is on the coast?”

“Sort of.”

She chuckles.

“What? Are you mocking me? Don’t make me get the atlas.”

“No, no . . . it’s just that New England isn’t actually a state, it’s a region made up of a bunch of states.”

“WHA? What about New England Clam Chowder?”

“Well, that’s like saying West Coast salmon.”

“OH MY GOD.”

There is a pause as Katr struggles to remember the six states that make up New England (she was born in Connecticut, which is one) and I struggle to let it sink in that NEW ENGLAND IS NOT ACTUALLY A STATE.

I mention this dazzling show of ignorance because I experienced a similar feeling earlier this week. I had decided that 5 years was enough time between annual physicals, so I finally got around to seeing my doctor. You don’t get a lot of love from Dr. Mafl, or even the time of day but she has a prescription pad and really great hair and doesn’t usually say anything about the size of your ass unless she’s obligated to do so by law. Also, she has oven mitts covering the stirrups on her table. The oven mitts have happy snowmen on them. It’s a good time.

I’ll spare you the details of my shy cervix and how Dr. Mafl can’t keep goldfish alive (a revelation that filled me with confidence, coming from my health practitioner) but suffice to say that . . . thank god that’s over. As a result of my visit, I got a prescription for some asthma medication, which I then took to Shoppers Drug Mart.

Before, when I got drugs, I wasn’t getting reimbursed, so I never really looked at the receipts - I just paid the $16 for my inhaler and went on my merry way. This time, though, Katr’s benefits were covering the drugs, so we decided that she would pay and then submit the receipts to the insurance folks. Being a more business-minded and curious creampuff than I, she actually looks at the receipt and then she says “Gee. $12. That’s a pretty big dispensing fee. Maybe we should go to a cheaper pharmacy next time.”

“Dispensing fee?”

“Yeah. They charge you a fee for filling your prescription.”

“WHA?”

I look at the receipt and sure enough, the inhaler I need was $4 but it cost me $16. $16!! Because Shoppers Drug Mart charges an EXORBITANT DISPENSING FEE. That’s right, Shoppers! I hope that someone at your organization is blog monitoring and that they register my disgruntlement! Printing out a couple of stickers, slappin ‘em on a couple of inhalers and telling me to rinse my mouth after puffing is not a $12 service. Was there a handjob? NO. Nevermind that I already got one from the doctor ("Cold hands, cold hands!” “Keep your feet on the mitts!")

I know that YOU probably all knew about the dispensing fee (although I remember polling my work colleagues about the New England question when it happened and discovered that 50% of them also thought it was a state - HA!) But this incident has inspired me to pick up where I left off on my pitch for a new CBC Radio show. I would call it “The Great State of New England - Things You Thought You Knew, But Don’t, Because You’re Not So Bright.” I’ll keep you posted.

Speaking of posting, many thanks to all you fine, fine folks who’ve been voting for this blog in the Favourite Lesbian, Bisexual Queer category this week at Blogs by Women! You guys . . . the love . . . it’s beautiful. The poll continues ’til Saturday and y’all can vote EVERY DAY, if you want to. And if you don’t, that’s cool too. Because there’s no pressure here. Just love. And donuts. Mmmm . . . donuts.

Comments:

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1. Additional info for you kids who are now dying to know all about dispensing fees:

   They are negotiated on a provincial basis, between the pharmacists’ associations and the provincial government.
   They range substantially from $5.28 per prescription to over $16.00!!
   My handy work-supplied benefits guide suggests that if you are on “maintenance” medication (e.g. something you have to take regularly like birth control or inhalers) then you should get the full-prescription (e.g. the 3-month supply) filled at the same time and not keep going back. You’ll save that fee X 2.

   Check out this dispensing fee chart at the University of Guelph to see the full range of fees.

   Comment by Queen Katicus — Friday, May 6, 2005 @ 12:25 am

2. Good tips, your Majesty, good tips! Too bad MaKe didn’t have this info when she was buying eye drops for her cats - but she knows NOW.

   Comment by Rose — Friday, May 6, 2005 @ 12:45 am

Creampuff is a Peeping Tom

One of the reasons we bought our condo is that the dining room is shaped like the cockpit of the Millenium Falcon. Of course, our view is mainly of drug deals going down in the alley rather than the cosmos, but you gotta use your imagination. My usual seat in the dining room, where I work on my laptop, looks straight into the living room of an apartment across the courtyard, one floor down, about 50 feet away. Or 200 . . . I’m not really good with spacial relations. Anyway, when I’m not looking at my screen, I’m staring absently into this living room. We used to know the guys who lived there, Bandrew and Bason - I actually went to university with both of them - and they kept their drapes closed. They had light, linen-y sheers, but even at night, with the lights on in their apartment, you couldn’t see much. Not that I was watching or anything, guys, but after years of Queer as Folk, I kind of expect all the gay men I know to be engaged in hot, sweaty sex at all hours of the day, in all rooms of their house. Now, I don’t spent ALOT of time hanging around our 6-windowed dining room unsuitably attired (read: in my giraffe nightie), but there are times when I wander in there without pants on, looking for pants in the dining room (because often there are pants there). Or I might spend time in there with my finger up my left nostril, trying to realign my rogue nose-jewelry. When I thought I had lost the pendant off a treasured necklace last week and Katr found it hiding under a boob when she was feeling me up - that happened in the dining room.

Because of their drapes, I was denied voyeurial access to Bandrew and Bason, but I also felt protected. So you can imagine my combined delight and chagrin when I noticed that there were new tenants in the apartment and these people keep the drapes open. AT ALL HOURS. At first I was overjoyed and set to watching them carefully, trying to determine if they were two cute gay men like Bandrew and Bason, or if they were two kinda boyish lesbians (even better) OR if they were (gasp) HETS, but without my glasses, they both just looked like Elvira Kurt. I was going to get my glasses, but was distracted by something in my teeth and it was then, while I glamorously rooted around in my mouth after some stringy pineapple, that I noticed one of the new Elviras was WATCHING ME. In a private moment. IN MY OWN HOUSE! Outraged, I got up and lowered the blinds. And then turned out all the lights. And then raised the blinds a little and peered out at the new tenants. They’re lounging on their couch. They’re not DOING ANYTHING and yet I CAN’T LOOK AWAY.

Speaking of condo-board-approved window coverings - we called a company who advertised in the Pink Pages (Free measuring and installation!) to come and set us up with some drapes for our bedroom. They sent over a very fey, very tanned gentleman with lots of heavy silver and black jewelry, gelled hair and that weird “Fine, DON’T take my ideas, REJECT me!” melodrama that has accompanied some of your gay men since time began. We’ll call him “Byle". Byle loved our brazilian cherry floor, he LOVED it. He LOVED our crazy colours and big art and he heartily mocked our tinfoil-accented boudoir. He called us both “girlfriend” alot. He showed us all the “wild and crazy” fabrics, was upset when we didn’t go for the one HE liked but rallied quickly when he realized that the one we’d chosen was real, real pricey and would probably pay for several more years of membership at TanFastic. He was tallying up the cost of our drapes and quizzing Katr about optimizing his web site when somehow, we got on the topic of relationships. Being a window covering professional, Byle spends a LOT of time in peoples’ homes and sees all kinds of relationship dynamics and he told us that he could see that we had a very good relationship. Apparently, most of the couples he does drapes for are of mixed gender and usually the woman picks out the fabric, the man couldn’t care less until he finds out how much it is, then they have a fight in front of Byle and then the man hands over his credit card. Katr starts extolling the virtues of same sex relationships and says that because of the way we are socialized, men and women often have a hard time communicating. That’s when Byle mentions HIS communication problems - with his GIRLFRIEND.

Did YOU think Byle was gay? You did, didn’t you? Just READING about him, you thought he was gay. The man is like Jack on Will&Grace. Now, I understand that sometimes, very fastidious tanned men who call you “girlfriend” and work in interior decorating and squeal over your hardwood floor aren’t ALWAYS gay, except that they ARE and my question is, what woman, in this day and age, would date a guy like that? I am DYING to meet Byle’s girlfriend. Because I need to let her know that De-Byle ain’t just a river in Egypt.

Comments:

1. Two Mistresses of the Dark live across from you?? How do you keep yourself away from that window??

   Comment by Mike, the Viscount of Knockers — Monday, May 2, 2005 @ 10:02 pm | Edit This

2. Dude, Elvira KURT, not Elvira, Queen of the Night! If it was the latter, my story would involve binoculars.

   By the way - nice title.

   Comment by Rose — Monday, May 2, 2005 @ 10:41 pm

Creampuff Blush

Well, golly gee. I KNEW all this navel-gazing would pay off! Creampuff Revolution’s been nominated in the Favourite Lesbian, Bisexual Queer blog category this week at Blogs by Women. If you have the time and the inclination, check out the other cool nominees, then go here to vote! And THEN, go buy yourself a donut. You DESERVE it.

Apparently, you can vote once every 24 hours . . . that’s a donut EVERY DAY. Good times.

While I’m already blushing, I might as well head over to blowfish.com and pick out this year’s sex toy/aide/video for my brother’s birthday. I guess The Duke of Knockers was a big hit last year and that’s a tough act to follow. Suggestions are welcome.

Comments:

1. I’m slackin’ in my duties, but you already heard. Good! Congratulations!

   –Genia
   BlogsbyWomen Founder

   Comment by Genia — Monday, May 2, 2005 @ 10:35 pm

2. SHUT UP! If you were standing in front of me, you’d be in the middle of a giant love-filled hug. So exciting! I’m going to vote RIGHT NOW. xo’s

   Comment by Berin — Tuesday, May 3, 2005 @ 11:08 pm

3. Thanks, man! I tell you, I am tickled pink to be nominated by those cool, cool chicks at BbW. Seriously, I . . . I’m still blushing.

   Comment by Rose — Wednesday, May 4, 2005 @ 12:54 am