Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Connections

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Creampuff Feels There Aren't Enough Hours in the Day

Back when I was just a wee creampuff and my family lived in a little yellow bungalow in Edmonton, my favourite spot in the whole house was the giant cushion in the floor behind the sofa. Hidden from view, between the couch and the bookshelf, I whiled away many a happy hour flopped on my stomach, reading Monica Hughes books and scarfing forbidden snacks. Before long, I found myself waking up on that giant cushion of a morning, in my nightie, and wondering how I’d gotten there. It became apparent that I’d be sleep-walking to my favourite spot night after night, as though the daytime hours I spent there weren’t enough.

My sleep-walking rarely took me anywhere more spectacular than the living room, although on one memorable occasion, I woke up, in my nightie, on our neighbour’s doorstep, my finger on the doorbell. A perplexed babysitter came to the door and when she asked me what I was doing there, I had to think fast. What WAS I doing there? At night? In my nightie? In bare feet? Was I there for a little after-hours fun with my friend Elku, inventor of the infamous Bum Check game? Was I there to mock her little brother, Joku, for peeing on our couch that time? In the end, I did what I knew any sane 7 year old would do if she found herself in her night shift in front of the neighbour’s babysitter. I asked for a glass of water.

The babysitter, used to this kind of request from her bedtime-stalling charges, got me a plastic cup of water, which I drank with dignity on the doorstep. I handed the glass back to her, thanked her politely and turned to go. As I skipped across their lawn towards my house, I ran into the neighbour dad, Daku, coming up the driveway with a weird look on his face. Apparently, my parents had been entertaining Daku and his wife, Anku, in the living room that night and they’d seen me come down the hall, walk by the living room and walk out the front door. As I meandered down our driveway, they became concerned and when I disappeared from view, downright alarmed. Peering out the window, Daku thought he’d seen my head on his side of the hedge and came over to his house to try and flush me out. All’s well that ends well, but the incident made quite an impression on me. I began to wonder if I could learn to control my somnambulist tendencies to accomplish more boring tasks while I was asleep. Homework and such? Maybe some light housework? Sadly, my incidents of sleep-walking became fewer and fewer and when we moved to our current house, they ceased altogether. Too many stairs.

My sleep-walking skills have yet to return - they’ve lain dormant these 20 years - but I am apparently, according to my bedfellow, becoming quite the sleep-TALKER. I have actually woken myself up on a number of occasions by making a loud “Thbt!” noise and my nocturnal murmurings, while cute to Katr NOW, will no doubt become a moan of contention as we get older and sleep becomes an even more precious commodity. So far, I’ve yet to utter anything intelligible, but once again, I’m beginning to wonder if I might be able to harness this night-time power for good. Can it be that big a step from “Thbt!” to typing out a blog post? From “Gna!” to preparing a powerpoint presentation? From “Mthu mthu!” to writing the great Canadian novel? I’ll keep you posted on the experiment’s progress.

In other news, my mother is becoming a sex therapist. I can see her being the next Sue Johanssen, but not quite as clinical. Maybe instead of “Sex With Sue", she can call HER show “Make-out with Barianne". It would be more tongue in cheek. But not that cheek. We’ll leave THAT cheek to Elku the Bum Checker.

Comments:

1. Bum Checker??!! I HAVE TO KNOW!!!

   Comment by E-dawg — Tuesday, July 26, 2005 @ 8:51 am

2. E-dawg - for more details about the Bum Checker, talk to Subr, who actually met and became friends with the BC in Korea. Did they check each other’s bums? Or just make out in the hot tub? I might be making part of that up, ‘cause I might still be asleep.

   Comment by Rose — Tuesday, July 26, 2005 @ 4:25 pm

Creampuff Commitment

Well, it’s official! We gays can get legally married anywhere in this great country of ours. Of course, just ‘cause it’s legal doesn’t mean everybody’s all into it. For example, as some of us witnessed on My Fabulous Gay Wedding, it’s a challenge to find a gospel choir that will agree to sing at a gay wedding, even here in Toronto (they found one in the end - and they were great). I bet in Calgary, the only way a gospel choir will show up would be to protest your gay wedding. So, you know . . . different songs.

In the wake of this increased discussion of homosexuality, I thought now might be a good time to post a link to The Fine Art of Being Come Out To, A Straight Person’s Guide to Gay Etiquette. At a loss when your residence roommate corners you with bagels and comes out of the closet? Unsure what words you, as a straight person, should use to describe your gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered friends? This is the guide for you. I will note here that the section on weddings is a little out-dated and I guess now that same sex marriage is legal in Canada, you Canadian straights can ignore the part about not making your gay friends sit through your wedding video - now, if we choose to marry, we can retaliate by having you sit through our video! And we will . . . oh yes, we will.

Some of my readers have likely come across this handy guide already, but I just discovered it the other day and found it enchanting. Balanced and informative, it’s also hilarious and an excellent way to amuse yourself at work during these long summer months when Television Without Pity is on hiatus. I feel the need to point out that most of my straight friends are better “intakers” of the “outcomers” than I’ve been - for instance, I seem to recall, having been told privately about a family friend’s shy emergence from the closet, greeting him with “So, I hear you like the dick!” when next we met.

In a public place.

While he was with his mom.

Good times.

Our SummerWorks show, The Meeting, opens two weeks today and so my posts will be short and pithy ’til then. Right now, I’ve got to get back to my search for pictures of busty cheerleaders. It’s . . . for the show. Seriously.

Comments:

1. Until you added the part “while he was with his mom", I thought that story was about me. I believe you said something similar at a restaurant before we went to see “The Producers".

   Comment by Drew — Thursday, July 21, 2005 @ 8:50 pm 

2. No, honey, what I said to YOU was “So, I hear you’re a big MO!” And I even waited ’til your sister was away from the table! ‘Cause I’m sensitive like that.

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, July 21, 2005 @ 10:50 pm 

3. True! I stand corrected. But you might have waited until a cute waiter came by. Hehehehe

   Comment by Drew — Thursday, July 21, 2005 @ 10:58 pm

Vintage Creampuff 2 - Two Shades of Blue

I’d probably have some more creative and exciting to discuss today if I hadn’t spent the whole weekend reading the new Harry Potter. We each bought one, because we couldn’t wait. But at least our rampant consumerism benefitted an independant bookseller, as we bought our books from the local gaybourhood bookstore! That’s gotta count for SOMETHING.

Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the book, but before I go, I give you another adventure from the Bwab office, one that clearly took place before the advent of cell phones. Oh, how technology has changed our lives.

The Bwab Report II - Two Shades of Blue

David is a second year law student who is our research assistant for the summer. He is also Mr. Bwab’s son-in-law. It’s a nepotism job and he knows that and that’s okay, ‘cause we’re each on our own journey.

In order to do research, David has to go to the library. A typical day for him is to arrive around 9:45 a.m., get the morning’s instructions from the lawyers and leave around 10:30 a.m. to go do “research". Thursday, David left for the library before Mr. Bwab even got to the office (his arrival times vary, thus he thwarts Stats Canada) and when Mr. Bwab arrived, he asked where David was. Now, see, David doesn’t tell us where he’s going when he leaves, ‘cause it’s more or less understood that he’s going to the library. So I say to Mr. Bwab, “He left around 10:30 this morning. I think he’s at the library.” And Mr. Bwab says “Which one?” and I make an educated guess and say “The law library.” And HE says “Well, phone the university law library and the library at the courthouse and tell him to call me right away.” Then he and his dog (Chablis, the Dog With More Drool than Bite) limp into his office and shut the door.

So I yank out my phone book and look up, oh, I don’t know, LAW LIBRARY or something and of course, they’ve all got fancy schmancy names like the John A. MacDonald Sue Your Ass Off Memorial Library and I don’t know which one is which. So I buzz one of the lawyers, Ruth, who used to LIVE at law libraries and say “If David was at the law library, which one would he be at?” and she knows the numbers by heart. So I get on the blower and phone the two libraries.

The librarian at the first library listens to me as I say “I’ve lost a law student. Is he there? He’s got fuzzy hair and glasses and he walks like Robocop.” The woman puts the phone down to laugh, then picks it up again and says “Honey, is this your first week at work?” I say “Fifth, actually.” and she says “We have four floors here.” and I say “Could you page him?” and she puts the phone down to laugh again and says “How? With smoke signals?” and I say “So you don’t have a paging system?” and she says “Who wants to talk to him?” and I say “My boss does.” and she says “Well, it must be pretty important if he’s got you phoning libraries and making a fool of yourself.” and I say “You bet it is.” Then she tells me that she could post a message on the first floor and that David might see it on his way out. “Thanks,” I say to her, “for all your help. I’ll phone back later.”

The woman at the courthouse library was much more cooperative. “Well,” she says “we don’t have a paging system, but I could go out and have a look for him. It sounds pretty important, I mean, if your boss has you phoning around, making a complete fool of . . ” “Yeah,” I say, “it’s a matter of life and death, thanks. He’s got fuzzy hair and glasses and he walks like Robocop.” The librarian goes out and has a look for him and doesn’t see him and I’m just about in tears by this time, having failed Mr. Bwab and all, and I buzz him and say “I phoned the libraries. He’s not there.” And Mr. Bwab says “Oh, well, I’ll get him later.”

The day continues, David doesn’t turn up and Mr. Bwab leaves for the day. Then David comes back and Sherri says “Mr. Bwab had Roro calling all the libraries this morning looking for you.” David says “Well, that’s stupid. You can’t reach me at the library.” and I say “Well, I know that NOW, DAVID.” and he starts to panic and he says “What did he want?” and I say “I don’t know, but it must have been pretty important if he had me call all the libraries and make a complete fool of myself, ” and Sherri says under her breath “Oh, you’d be surprised.” So David sprints into his office to call Mr. Bwab. 30 seconds later, he comes out looking sheepish. “It’s okay,” he says, “Mr. Bwab just wanted to know if I could play golf with him tomorrow.”

Sherri caught me before I went for David’s nuts.

Then on Friday, David left for the library and didn’t come back. Mr. Bwab saw him off in the morning, did fine without him all afternoon and then he says goodnight to everyone (this is around 3 o’clock in the afternoon) and goes downstairs to his car, which is parked in full view of the building. 30 seconds later, I get a phone call. It’s Mr. Bwab. He’s calling from his car. Downstairs. He hasn’t left yet. He wants to know if David’s here.

“Gee, Mr. Schwab, you saw him leave this morning, you held meetings in his empty office all afternoon, you left and went downstairs and you are right NOW sitting in your car in our parking lot, where you can see the front door of the office. He wasn’t up here when you left, Mr. Bwab, look right, look left, do you see him, he’s not here, he’s at the damn library!!”

“He’s at the library, Mr. Bwab.”
“Ummm . . . his phone number at home is . . . umm . . . 429-8795.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know, I’m asking you.”
“What do you mean, you’re asking me? He’s your son-in-law. He’s married to one of your daughters. HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW THE PHONE NUMBER?”

“Where would that number be, Mr. Bwab?”
“Well, look in the phone book, under Bein.”
“Great idea. Let’s just have a look-see in the phone book. Ummmm . . . ah, here it is. It’s 988-7783.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Do you want me to write it down for you?”
“No, no. I have an excellent memory.”
“Oh, I know, Mr. Bwab. I know.”

Thank you for tuning in to this edition of the Bwab Report! I wish I had more tales of law firm derring-do to share, but I fear this may be the last one of that era. But I AM going to visit an office furniture store later today and that could dredge up all kinds of memories. I’ll keep you posted.

Comments:

1. Soo…if you’ve already finished, maybe you could loan a sister your copy of Harry Potter for her to read during her week (week!) of vacation? I’m at home. I have a rental car. Call me.

   Comment by E-dawg — Monday, July 18, 2005 @ 5:43 pm

2. I’m *soooo* sorry I missed this story in it’s first person telling. It’s been a while since I peed myself laughing.

   Comment by The Rocket that Must be Rode — Tuesday, July 19, 2005 @ 3:41 am

3. Oh, I do so love to see you skipping down memory lane with such abandon and hilarity. Speaking of memory lane, I was just in E-town. I packed light to allow for shopping. Then I got caught up in watching the Harry Potter movies with my 3 year-old nephew (who won’t sit still for anything else but he likes the goblins) in preparation for the Half-Blood Prince (and without spoiling anything, I’d just like to say that it made me want to cry, but not as much as when I read Fall On Your Knees for the first time, which was good, because I was sandwiched between a drooling sleeping girl and an ex-military man on a crowded flight to LaGuardia at the time, and couldn’t get to my purse for any Kleenex). So anyway, I didn’t do much shopping, which meant I had some room in the luggage so I went through another old box, and found some lovely photos and some delightful Roro memorabilia. I plan to auction the originals on eBay when you’re famous, but if you ever need some inspiration from the past, just let me know and I’ll send you photocopies. Don’t be scared. I have my vanity but I’m fair and if there was anything unflattering to ANY of us, I probably threw it away. (The same is not necessarily true of pictures of moi with certain ex-boyfriends, which I probably kept as long as I looked good.)

   Comment by Chezza Pezza — Tuesday, July 19, 2005 @ 4:45 am

Vintage Creampuff

My dad came to town to visit this last weekend and he brought my youth in a suitcase with him. Reams after reams of letters from the days before e-mail; programs from Fringe shows I barely remembered seeing; old birthday cards, forgotten pictures, some hideous plastic earrings that I thought were cool at the time and a couple of real treasures. We’ll call them “The Bwab Reports".

Some of you may remember those halcyon days when I had a summer nepotism job working for my dad at the law office he shared with a crazy German senior partner who we’ll call “Mr. Bwab". The following is one of the dispatches I sent to my university pals - it was written 10 years ago but man . . . it seems like yesterday.

THE BWAB REPORT

The day was going pretty well, all in all, until about 3.5 minutes into it, when Mr. Bwab’s giant Schnauzer, Chianti, ate my turkey sandwich right out of my bag while I was on the phone at another desk. When I returned to my post, all that was left was a pool of drool and a chewed up piece of plastic wrap. “You’re lucky,” Mr. Bwab’s secretary Sherri said, “that the dog didn’t swallow that and choke.”

Since neither Sherri nor Chianti have nuts, I chose to crush a handful of Nutty Club lemon drops instead.

Scant minutes after the demise of my lunch, Mr. Bwab called me into his office and said “Please phone Julian Amos at 10 a.m. for me please and could you please get me his file?” “Certainly,” I said, trying to maintain my perky secretary persona as the smell of my turkey sandwich and the dog that consumed it wafted towards me from behind Mr. Bwab’s desk. I prepared to lunge at the dog, but then the phone rang and I had to dash out to reception to answer it. “Good morning,” I said, “Bwab and adfasdlifkasdlfiaedfani.”

“Roro, you are so CUTE in the mornings!”

“Oh, hi Mom. Dad’s in the crapper, do you want me to have him phone you back?”

“Roro, now I don’t think “crapper” is an appropriate term for work.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, honey, it’s not exactly a $14.00/hour word.”

“What would you LIKE me to call it, Mother? Your husband is upstairs taking a MONSTER shi - oh, hi Mr. Bwab. Yes, your mail is done, it’s just . . . sure. Mom, I gotta go.”

Hanging up, I proceeded to search high and low for a file on Mr. Amos. I got up on the step ladder. I got down on my knees. I turned that office upside down. I questioned everyone I came in contact with: “Have you seen the Amos file? The Amos file, the Amos file, have you seen the Amos file, he ain’t no Muffin Man! Yeah! And again, oh have you seen the Amos file, the Amos file, the Amos . . . oh, hi Mr. Bwab. No, I haven’t found . . . yes, I’m still looking . . . I will. Yes. I’m sorry.”

Half an hour later, I was back at my desk, despondent at being unable to find the file in question. With a heavy heart, I lifted my hand to buzz Mr. Bwab and tell him that I , once again, had failed in my secretarial duties. Just then, the door of his office opened and out limped Mr. Bwab with a file under his arm. It was the Amos file. THE FUCKIN’ AMOS FILE.

“Oh gee, Mr. Bwab, where did you get that from?”

“What?”

“Oh I don’t know, THE FILE I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR SINCE THE CRUCIFIXION?”

“The Amos file, Mr. Bwab.”

“Oh, yes.”

Long pause while Mr. Bwab, true to his German heritage, horks up a 400 kiloton looger.

“It was in my office.”

“Oh, that’s funny, I thought I had checked your office.”

“It was on my chair.”

“Oh. I see. ON YOUR CHAIR. As in UNDERNEATH YOU. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to find this file and all this time, except for when you were chewing me out about the Muffin Man song, you’ve been WARMING THE AMOS FILE WITH YOUR ASS?!? What, were you waiting for it to HATCH? OH my GOD!!”

“Well, at least we know where it is now, sir.”

“What?”

“The file, sir, the Amos file.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Was there something you wanted me to do with it, sir?”

“I want you to phone Mr. Amos at 10 a.m.”

“Right.”

It was already about quarter to 10 at this point, so I went into Sherri’s Rolodex and looked up Amos. Canada, Germany, Switzerland, Italy. Hmmmm. Four different countries. One phone call. Hmmm.

“Please.”

“Mr. Bwab, which number should I call to reach Mr. Amos?”

“I don’t know the numbers.”

“Oh, I know THAT, Mr. Bwab. YOU DON’T KNOW ANYONE’S NUMBER.”

“I’m sorry, I meant what country might he be in today?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Amos, Mr. Bwab.”

“I’M Mr. Bwab.”

“Yes, I know that . . . oh, heh heh . . .”

“Heh heh heh [looger]. Try . . . uh, I think he would be in Germany.”

“Okay, I’ll try him there then.”

“Pardon.”

“I’ll try Mr. Amos in Germany.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Gutentag.” “Good afternoon, Mr. Bwab is calling for Mr. Amos?” “Mr. Amos?” “Yes.” “Mr. Bwab?” “Yes, is calling for Mr. Amos.” “Gutentag.” “Yes, would Mr. Amos be . . .” “Herr Amos . . . nien.” “Oh, uh, thank you.” Click.

Shitbag.

“Bonjour.” “Yes, hello, Mr. Bwab uh . . . veut parler avec M. Amos?” “M. Amos?” “Oui.” “Mr. Bwab?” “Telephone pour M. Amos.” “Gutentag.” “What?” Click.

Fuckadoodledoo.

“The number you have reached is out of service.”

Yellow, rubbery fuck.

“Bonjourno.” “Hello, Mr. Bwab is calling for Mr. Amos.?” “Mr. Amos?” “Yes.” “Mr. Bwab?” “Yes.” “Momento.”

YES!!

“Gutentag.” “Mr. Amos?” “Ja!” “Please hold for Mr. Bwab.”

I triumphantly buzz Mr. Bwab.

“Please.”

“Mr. Amos on line 1, sir.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Amos.”

“Oh. Tell him I call him back.”

That’s it for this edition of the Bwab Report! Tune in next time as Mr. Bwab has Roro go to the bank for money he keeps in a different bank! Don’t miss it!

Comments:

1. Oh my God, the memories… Is it sad that I still have the original letter you sent me containing that… err… *bwab* report? This is great – I used to attempt to read it to people, but always failed miserably, with the uncontrollable laughter. Now I can just link them! It will explain why I always giggle when I hear the word “gutentag".

   Comment by Xara — Thursday, July 14, 2005 @ 8:13 pm

2. Sad? I think it’s AWESOME. What’s sad is that I lost track of the, uh, Bwab reports until now. Even sadder is that after I left that job, one of the other lawyers FOUND the Bwab reports on my computer. If only I’d been smart enough to call them “The Bwab Reports” in the first place, I would never have gotten busted. Oh well . . . live and learn.

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, July 14, 2005 @ 8:18 pm

3. There’s this creampuff, we’ll call her Bose who used to work for a Mr. Bwab in real life. The Bwab reports are incredibly true to life and brilliant comedy material. But you should know that her mother, who we’ll call Barianne, isn’t anything like the mother in this story. Giant craps have never offended me. Could this be a MASSIVE PROJECTION?

   Comment by Lady Marianna — Friday, July 15, 2005 @ 1:25 am

Creampuff Survival

In the wake of the recent bombings in London and the rising popularity of disaster movies such as The Day After Tomorrow and War of the Worlds, I have decided that it is important for me to acquire some kind of skill that would ensure my survival in a post-apocalyptic agrarian or even pre-agrarian world. Right now, I’m thinking that skill is knitting.

The artsy among us will be the first ones up against the wall when the really useful people, the herbologists, the carpenters, the doctors, the mad scientists, need a good rump roast. When the chips are down, no one needs a fat playwright, even for reproductive purposes. I mean, come on. I’m a flat-footed asthmatic with the family one-brow. My typing skills will be useless in a world without computers and my junior high jazz dance training, while entertaining, might not save the lives of my fellow survivors. No, they will not need my words or my snappy steps but they WILL need sweaters, ‘cause those nuclear winters can be a bitch. And dammit - there will be sweaters.

I know what you’re thinking. “Roro - where will you get the YARN?” Well, this is the cool part - yarn is for pussies. REAL post-apocaplyptic knitters use plant fibers to make their garments. Hemp, certain tree barks, stinging nettles - these fibers are the future, my mutated little friends. And as an added bonus, some of these fibers can be consumed for nutrients when the fucking adventure racer, who put himself in charge just ‘cause he can tell time by the shadows cast by my ass, eats the last rat.

My sweaters will probably be a little lumpy at first, because no matter how much pre-apocalyptic practising I do, the ACTUAL apocalypse will probably introduce a set of circumstances that even I hadn’t foreseen. Knitting with sticks while running from zombies - I might miss a stitch in my “knit one, knit one, purl one” sequence. Also, if my hands get injured, or are busy pounding nuts into mush for gruel to feed the animals, I could end up knitting with my feet. I’m not too worried about my garments being perfect, though - we all remember how hot Carrie Anne Moss looked in a frayed sweater.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I don’t even know how to knit under regular circumstances, let alone while hiding behind a pillar while helping some action hero reload. But I’ve see people knitting EVERYWHERE - in classes, on the subway, in front of the t.v., on the john. It seems like a very portable skill. Learning to create fiber from plants may present more of a challenge, as very few knitting guides offer instructions on this topic but I’m sure with a little perseverance and experimentation, I’ll be carding and spinning that dandelion fluff in no time. That’s what Ma Ingalls would have done.

Anyway - I just thought I’d let you all in on my plans in case you all are interested in acquiring or brushing up on your own post-apocalyptic skills. ‘Cause when shit like THIS is going on, can the end be far behind? I’ll see you when the dust clears. I’ll be the one sucking industriously on my nettle sweater.

Comments:

1. So when can I place my order for a Creampuff designer hemp garment? Christmas is coming up, you know…

   Comment by Drew — Tuesday, July 12, 2005 @ 8:04 am 

2. Coincidentally, I’m going to learn how to knit today at work. The women I work with knit every Wednesday and I’ve succumbed to the pressure. Some would say I should have my “Man Card” taken away, but in all honesty, I never had one. They ran out that day and I never went back to get mine.

   Comment by Drew’s friend — Wednesday, July 13, 2005 @ 5:49 pm 

3. Dude, after the apocalypse, there will be no Man Cards or Woman Cards - just “Nettle-Sweater Sucking Survivor” Cards. I’m glad you’re getting started on this now.

   Comment by Rose — Thursday, July 14, 2005 @ 4:42 pm 

4. What, knitting a cat hair sweater is no longer good enough for you?

   Comment by Sarah — Monday, July 18, 2005 @ 8:31 pm 

5. Sarah, get with it. We have no guarantee that cats will make it out okay. And if they DO, they’re gonna need ALL THE FUR THEY HAVE.

   Comment by Rose — Monday, July 18, 2005 @ 10:38 pm

Creampuff Cruise

It may surprise you to learn that they don’t make “Free Katie” t-shirts in my size. Don’t you think fat people want to see Katie freed too? Where’s OUR voice? Then again, I guess I could just get a hat.

So, Tom Cruise. He is CREEPING ME OUT. Back in ‘99, I worked at a law firm where one of the secretaries really had it in for Tom and I couldn’t understand it. “Just LOOK at him,” Maco would say as she heated her noodles in the lunch room, “he’s got the DEVIL eyes.” She wasn’t kidding around, either - Maco knew all about the Devil, because she was a Catholic. This was around the time Eyes Wide Shut was opening and I thought that perhaps Maco had heard there was s-e-x in the film and the Catholic in her was offended. I tried to explain: “They’re MARRIED in the movie, Maco, it’s okay for them to have sex.”

“Sure, with EACH OTHER, not with other people. In freaky DEVIL MASKS. It’s the Devil’s film. Ooo, coffee’s ready.”

“What about Jerry Maguire? He was kinda cute in that.”

“That’s when I first noticed the Devil eyes. He’s got that smile, that Devil smile [Maco wasn’t big on descriptives]. Plus I think he enjoyed that little boy a little TOO much, if you know what I mean.”

“Maco, are you saying that Jerry Maguire was a pedophile?”

She shrugged dramatically, then took her lunch back to her desk so that she could answer her boss’s phone, which she’d been doing for nearly 8 years. I’d been there about a week before I trained my boss to answer his own damn phone. I offered to share my technique with her (whenever his phone rang, I got up and did some filing. That way, the filing got done AND he answered his own phone!) but she brushed me off. Like any Catholic worth their salt, she enjoyed a little martyrdom.

I hadn’t thought much about Maco’s Tom Cruise prejudice until recent events, which I’m sure we’re all tired of hearing about. I admit that he had been getting on my nerves a little, what with Vanilla Shitty , which I did see, out of my enduring love for Cameron Crowe and Magnolia, which I didn’t see, out of my enduring dislike of the works of Paul Thomas Anderson. And The Last Samurai? Shut up, Tom. But I gave a little after Minority Report, which I believe I actually bought and hoped that perhaps Tom was coming around.

And then, as they say in Strictly Ballroom, came . . . then.

So, I’m on a bit of a Tom Cruise binge. Because I understand that if I read one more thing about Crazy Tom and his crazy crazy shit, I will never be able to watch a Tom Cruise film again. EVER. Accordingly, Katr and I rented Far and Away this weekend (SO bad but pre-cocky Tom was pretty cute) and took in War of the Worlds on Monday afternoon. My plate’s pretty full today, but I might squeeze a little Mission: Impossible in, followed by Interview With The Vampire and perhaps, before I go cold Tom turkey, a little Pedophile Maguire.

And then I’m going to order my hat.

Creampuff Pride

I feel like I’m living in a time warp. How can it possibly be Sunday already? Have I really gone a week and a half without a blog post? Why is it hot like July when I’m sure it’s only March? And what . . . is . . . ON . . . THIS . . . SPATULA??

It’s been a busy, busy week and a half, people - a busy, busy June, actually - and I cannot begin to tell you how pleased I am that it is indeed July. You know when you’re away at university and you’ve bought your plane ticket home for April 22 and you’ve got 4 exams, 3 papers, 2 shows and a “feelings journal” due over the last two weeks and you don’t know how you’ll get it all done but you know that it’ll happen SOMEHOW because goddammit, you’re getting on that plane on April 22nd?? Well, July 1st was my April 22nd. I don’t know when I’ve ever had a dreamier Canada Day. And yes, that’s because I slept through most of it.

In the midst of all this personal excitement came the public excitement of Toronto Pride. The gays were out last weekend, people, and it was a lovely sight. Blender drinks were consumed, shirts were doffed by male, female, and inbetween alike and I got that great cat-throat that comes with shouting over loud dyke music while people smoke heavily around me. The guys across the hall do Ecstasy . . . I do Benadryl.

The gorgeous and talented Katr had this to say about our experience at last Saturday’s Dyke March and as for Sunday . . . we stayed indoors and watched the parade from our dining room. We had the one pair of binoculars and Katr provided the colour commentary for our lovely indoor guests, Bege and Krsh, while her intrepid bro witnessed the event from the ground - all the better to “oops, i’m sorry, were those your nuts?” the boys with. I would venture to say that good times were had by all.

Pride wouldn’t be Pride for me, of course, without a little bit of gay identity angst. This year, it came at the hands of the sticker people. To raise money for all the great things that go on at Pride, the Pride Toronto folks set up little donation bins where you can pay a twoonie and get a gay pride sticker. The last time I went to Pride, the stickers had the Pride logo on them and they read “I paid my twoonie, now leave me alone!”

THIS year, things had gotten far more complicated. There were SEVERAL different stickers to choose from, which led to the aforementioned identity crisis. “Family Pride", “Str8 Pride” and “Boi Pride” were out of the question, but what the hell’s the difference between “Girl Pride” and “Dyke Pride"? Did the bear-admirer in our crew dare to wear “Bear Pride” or should he stick with “Single Pride"? Or would that come off as too needy? WHAT WERE WE SAYING WITH THESE STICKERS?

The friendly girl doling out the stickers refused to get involved. She seemed like the kind of girl who prefers not to label her own sexuality, let alone ours. I suppose that if we’d gone with “Gay Pride” (I didn’t see a “Lesbo Pride", oddly), we could have avoided controversy altogether, but that seemed lame. After an embarassing, yet necessary, amount of hemming and hawing, an assortment of “Girl Pride” and “Dyke Pride” stickers were chosen, while the non-girl/dyke with us eventually decided to eschew his “Single Pride” sticker for his far more interesting t-shirt, which read “Personne ne sait que je suis gai.” ‘Cause everyone loves a bilingual queer! “Oops, je m’excuse, est-ce que ca c’est vos nuts?” Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaah!

Anyway - the stickers were worn and then discarded, but the trauma of having to label myself with someone else’s words remains. Never one to complain without offering a solution, however, I’ve figured out what I’ll do next year. Always one to support Pride, I will happily pay my twoonie, but I will design my own damn stickers. They will read “Creampuff Pride” and I’ll be taking orders in June.

Comments:

1. Yea! After a great weekend, we’ve been back in the Land O’Oppression for almost a week now (ugh!), anxiously awaiting the next blog post to process the experience for us. Just so glad to see that it didn’t say “Pride was great, except for these obnoxious guests….” On the other hand, you knew we’d read this, so I guess we never will know the truth, now will we?

   Thanks again for a great weekend!

   Comment by Beth — Sunday, July 3, 2005 @ 7:54 pm 

2. It was our pleasure!! And allow me to assure you both that even my SECRET blog didn’t start with “Well, these jerks came up for Pride . . .” We look forward to future updates from the Land of Oppression and we cherish the Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi that land produces. Thank you, guys. Thank you.

   Comment by Rose — Sunday, July 3, 2005 @ 11:18 pm 

3. well, after virtually stalking you all weekend…i swear i wasn’t!!! I have to say i completely agree with the sticker issues…i chose not to put my money there simply because i couldn’t decide which one to choose! I did however, put my money to good things…like a hat i made my mother wear a few days later…it said only PRIDE 25 in pink on pink, and i had to convince her that it simply meant i’d been there, not that it meant anything to anyone we walked past as i showed her around the islands…oy! my beef was the $3 water you had to buy if you got thirsty at any of the stages, because you were forced to dump out or garbage your own water bottles….but overall, as a first timer it was an awesome time and thanks for showing me some of the ropes and i’m sure we’ll see you around come Hysteria season!

   Comment by Suzie — Monday, July 4, 2005 @ 5:25 am 

4. Alls I can say is that the French shirt got me more looks and action than the “Single” Pride sticker did.

   Comment by Drew — Tuesday, July 5, 2005 @ 5:26 am 

5. I totally want some of those stickers.

   Comment by Chezza — Friday, July 8, 2005 @ 2:46 am