Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Hopes to be Amazed

Katr and I, along with my speculative re-enactment actors Reol and Rebe and some of the Hysteria Festival's other fine female performers, were in beautiful Montreal this past weekend, enthralling the locals with Anne and Diana Were TOTALLY DOING IT and my own unique brand of shitty Western Canadian patois.  We had such a fantastic time - the Edgy Women Festival folks were terrific hosts, the audience was enthusiastic, the bartenders poured generously, the post-performance dyke dance included such nostalgic hits as "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" and "Pump Up the the Jam" and, between what seemed like the entire audience lighting up as we took our final bow and the constant indoor fumage every other place we went, I feel I managed to get my full decade's worth of nicotine in. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Ticking that off the list right now. I may have to go on the patch.

We arrived home yesterday and in an effort to prolong the delightful Frenchosity of my week, today I purchased a few fruity items, a big jug of Tide Free and this chocolate bar at the Fresh Mart:

I  know. It looks good, doesn't it? Plus it says "1848" on it. It's historic French chocolate. HOW COULD I BE EXPECTED TO RESIST?

When the bill for my fairly meagre collection of goods came to $34, I chalked it up to the high cost of laundry soap and went on my merry way. It was not until I unloaded the groceries in the kitchen that I happened to look at the price tag on the historic French chocolate. It cost $7.99. That's before tax. WITH tax, this is an $9.18 bar of chocolate.

I like fine things. But as a person without a particularly steady income at the moment, I do try to make discriminating, fiscally responsible shopping choices. And at this point, if I'm going to spend nearly $10 on a BAR of CHOCOLATE - from the goddamn 24 HR FRESH MART - I want it to:

a) be big enough to sail to China on;

b) have a golden ticket in it, as well as gold nuggets, and basically be a whole bar of gold;

c) pay skillful and loving attention to my nether region for several hours; and

d) pick up my goddamn nicotine patch from the drugstore afterwards.

Needless to say, the chocolate bar has done none of these things. It's just sitting there, in my cupboard, being expensive. My question is: what do I do now? Eat it? Bronze it? Whip my pants off and wait for it to work its magique délicieuse? What if it's so delicious I bankrupt myself buying bar after $10 bar? Or worse - what if my $10 bar, with its orange pépites and delicately crushed hazelnuts, just tastes like gritty, gritty ass?

I need some time to think. Suggestions are welcome. Thank you.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Sixth

In which Creampuff remembers that before her birthday and her grandfather knockin' on heaven's door and the knitting . . . oh, the knitting . . . she was in the middle of something. Back - to IRELAND!!

Belfast! At last! Fresh from our train ride with the champion ballroom dancers, Jeba and I found our way, with relative ease, to the hostel. Jecr, the blushing bride, had been kind enough to make reservations for Jeba and I at a place called "Arnie's", which was quite comfortable, full of hounds (I mean actual dogs, not jerks) and was a cash-only institution.  This caused a minor financial crisis for Jeba, who had limited cash and also didn't know the PIN number of her credit card. Her dramatic note, scrawled in the margin of my journal entry for that day read "I was doing okay until we got here and I got fucked. By Arnie."

Having settled into our room, I hastily called the bride. The wedding was, after all, a mere day and a half away. Surely there must be drama to get embroiled in. Intrigue! Tears! It was my first time as bridesmaid and I was ready to support.

Me: Hi! We're here! And we're READY FOR ANTHING.  Crazy relatives to be managed? Last minute flower emergency? Cold feet?? We can handle it, Jecr! Just point us in the right direction!

Jecr:  Lovely. Well . . . why don't I pop 'round and pick you up and then we can go back to my place for a little visit.

I hesitated. Was this code for something? Clearly it was - she just couldn't talk about it over the phone. Poor Jecr.

Me: (sympathetically) Suuuuuuuuuure. You pop on 'round. We'll be here.

Jeba jostled my elbow.

Jeba: (stage whisper) Ask her about laundry! I'm starting to smell myself!

Me: Oh, Jecr, we wanted to do some laundry sometime tomorrow - before the rehearsal, of course! What time is that going to be?

Jecr: Rehearsal? Ha ha. Are you doing a show?

Me: Ha ha ha. Your wedding rehearsal, silly.

Silence.

Me: You . . . ARE having a wedding rehearsal . . . aren't you?

Jecr:  Pffft.

To this day, Jecr remains the most laid-back bride I have ever had the pleasure of bridesmaiding for.  Any more laid-back and she'd've been in a coma. And guys, I don't think she was secretly panicking and putting on a brave exterior; she was clearly very pleased to be marrying Roch, but seemed genuinely unruffled by the whole bride experience. I was more ruffled than Jecr. And all I had to do was show up.

In the absence of the anticipated chaos, we hooked up with Caho, the other Canadian bridesmaid and had some leisurely tea with Jecr and her wry and humourous mother Frcr, while we helped to open, catologue, covet and, it must be said, occasionally mock the wedding gifts. We unpacked our bridesmaid's dresses to shake the wrinkles out and tried to figure out how to keep the cats from chewing through them before the big day. And then Jecr gave us our wings.

They were simple, the wings. Just some white nylon stretched over wire with silver sparkles as "feathers" and long silver cords hanging off each wing with a tinkly bell at the end. They were very light.

We strapped 'em on.  The wings, I mean.  They bobbed when we walked (still the wings) and the bells tinkled a little.  "Cool," said Jecr and nodded approvingly.

As we all got ready to leave for the evening, we asked a few more questions about the actual wedding, which was taking place the day after next.  The answers were alarmingly vague. We knew the wedding was at Belfast City Hall at 2 p.m. the day after next. We knew we were wearing wings. We knew that Roch's sister Cach would be the third bridesmaid. That was about it.

"Well," we said, as we prepared to leave, "is there anything we should do . . . tomorrow?"

"Well, the two families are having dinner and then we're all gathering at this pub. We should be there around 8, so you should meet us there."

Jeba and Caho's boyfriend Barty brightened when they heard about the pub.

"Oh, by the way," Jecr said to me on our way out, "Roro, you are chief bridesmaid. So you must sit at the head table and be in charge of the wedding rings and make a speech. Okay, see you tomorrow then!"

Oh my god. YEEEEEEEEEEEAH! That's right! My first bridesmaiding gig and I totally make "chief"! I was pumped. Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!

Wait a minute. Speech?

Creampuff Knitting Therapy

Warning: This post contains pictures of my knitting. Multiple pictures of very few items from different angles.  If you don't give a wet slap about knitting . . . HA ha!  Too bad.

Hey, thanks everybody for all your kind wishes and comments this week about my grandfather. We had two visitations on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday and everyone had stories to tell about my grandpa, mostly relating to how:

a) He would NEVER allow ANYONE to pass him on the highway;

b) He really liked to wander around all day in tiny bikini briefs, particularly at the cottage in the summer;

c) Some of these briefs were leopard print; and

d) Several leopard print brief-wearing incidents were captured on film.

My entire family has now decided that we should ALL have pictures of ourselves in leopard print bikini briefs displayed at our visitations. I guess I'd better get knitting some.

Some people turn to drink when they're in mourning - others turn to knitting. I managed to finish a couple of items over the course of the week, bringing my "Finished Object" count up to four and am feeling quite smug. Here, in no particular order, are the three things, besides Maja's scarf, that I have actually finished.

Katr's Scarf

This is the scarf I started in knitting class - I had to take a break from it in order to finish Maja's scarf in time for her birthday.  Katr's only stipulation about the scarf was that it should be long - long enough for the full neck wraparound + under coat torso drape. Well, it's long - in fact, with the fringe on it, it actually peeks out from the bottom of her coat, like a prayer shawl. Kicky! The photo doesn't really do the colours justice, by the way - hence the close-up. I know, I know - it's like you're wearing it!

    

Caho's Bag

It was my friend Caho's birthday in February and I decided to make her a bag! Which I have yet to mail! I was careful to pick colours that I thought she would like (although I realized later that the green and the orange are the colours of the Stitch n' Bitch cover. Hahahahahahaaaa!  Ah well - originality is for pussies). I started out using the "Zeeby's bag" pattern from Stitch n' Bitch but ended up kinda making up my own pattern.  That's why it looks like the gusset (the brown part under the orange part) is eating the rest of the bag.

I am particularly proud of the front flap of the bag, as it was my first attempt at decreasing and I basically made it up. The closure on it is a snap and the snap cover is actually a charm off a bracelet I bought at the Farmer's Market in Monterey.  I am, in fact, so proud of the front flap that I took a close-up.

I also took a close-up of the closure. Because I am obsessed. And I also took a photo of the back of the bag, which is green instead of orange.

Isaac's Hat

I was going to use Isaac's Star Trek name, as I do for everyone else on my blog, but I decided that babies have no need of anonymity. Also, his last name is hyphenated and the Star Trek version is "Islamc" and I didn't want to get into it.

This is the "Umbilical Cord" hat from Stitch n' Bitch. I knit it in hand-dyed Peruvian cotton a) because I liked the colour and b) because I was trying to impress Isaac's eco-parents. I took a picture of the hat next to my coffee mug, for scale:

I am a little worried that the hat might be too big for little Isaac, but luckily his mother sent out some photos last night and through the magic of Photoshop, I was able to test the hat out. I think it looks great on him:

I'm actually off now to deliver this same hat and also, buy a truck. My next project - definitely a truck cosy.

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 Birthday

Well, folks, I woke up this morning and was no longer 30. Which is cool, because now that I'm 31, it means I'm one year closer to 32.  I've always felt that 32 was going to be a strangely magical year. I'm not sure why - I don't remember being 2 and being 12 and 22 both kinda blew . . . but something about 32 feels good, guys. I'll let you know how it plays out.

In honour of my birthday (and because I'm really hungry. 'cause I'm waiting for Jeba, whose birthday is also today, to call and tell me where we're having co-birthday brunch), I thought I'd spend a little time reminiscing. About the great cakes I have known.

The Flower Cake:  My mom made me a cake in the shape of a flower. It looked like one of those '70's cartoon flower power flowers with a round centre and big fat petals.  I believe the icing was green and yellow and I loved it.  Not only was it delicious, but the fact that it was a CAKE? In the shape of a FLOWER? BLEW MY FUCKING MIND. I was five.

The Graffiti Cake:  I think this was actually my friend Juwi's birthday in junior high. Her mom baked a cake in a large rectangular pan, iced it with vanilla icing and then gave us all a bunch of different coloured icings and cake decorating apparatus and told us to go nuts.  We did. That cake was a mess - slanderous "J + A = 4ever" type messages, sheep, stick drawings of people we hated (it WAS junior high, after all).  It was awesome.  And then, instead of cutting pieces of the take, we each took a fork and dug in.  We all agreed later that it was "a very primal experience".

The Garrison Keillor Quote Cake: In my teenage attempt to buck trends, I informed my parents that I did not want "Happy Birthday, Roro" on my 17th birthday ice cream cake from Dairy Queen. They were cool with it. "How about 'Eat Me, Bob'?" my dad suggested. I was instantly taken with it. As the cake orderer, however, my mother was unwilling to call the nice Korean lady at the Dairy Queen and tell her to put "Eat Me, Bob" on a birthday cake. "What ELSE would you like on your cake?" she asked me. I had just finished reading WLT: A Radio Romance and chose the first quote from the book that came to mind.  WLT was pretty funny - but it did not in any way match the enjoyment I got from listening to my mother explain to the nice Korean lady at Dairy Queen that her daughter wanted a cake that said "Smells Like Death on a Bun." 

The 18th Birthday Cake:  For my 18th birthday, my cake said "Eat Me, Bob".

The Cheese Cake: On my 26th birthday, I was heavily into the protein diet. You're not really allowed sugar on this diet. I was, in fact, on such a roll with it that I informed my roommate Jesk that I did not want a cake for my birthday, as it might throw me off my insane diet plan. Jesk is a respectful lass, but does not believe in fucking with tradition. She decided that I must have a cake. And when I got home that day, she had put together a cake - out of cheese. By which I mean she had bought brie, gouda, cheddar and that foil-wrapped cow cheese, arranged it into a cake shape and stuck some sparklers in it.  I laughed at this cake until tears ran down my cheeks. And then I ate a lot of cheese.

The Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake is my cake o' choice these days. Dense - delicious - delightful. I have a feeling I may be experiencing one later this evening, when a certain girlfriend comes home from work. I don't want to put any pressure on you, Katr - but a cake with a Brokeback Valley theme would certainly make an impression. 'Cause nothing gets this birthday girl going like soft mounds. Uh . . . of ice cream.

Creampuff Gets Her Wings - Part the Fifth

In which Jeba and I take a frantic train trip, meet former U.S. champion ballroom dancers and - finally - get to Belfast.

The day after our Riverdancing drunk old ladies experience, Jeba and I had been planning to catch a lift from Galway to Belfast with Jecr’s future brother-in-law, Anch.  When we called to confirm our plans, Anch, a jovial fellow with a dislike of schedules, let us know that he'd decided not to leave until a day later and thus would not be arriving until the day before the wedding.  At an unspecified time. Or possibly the day OF the wedding.  He wasn't sure - but we were still welcome to catch a ride! Probably.

Since this was my first time as a bridesmaid, I assumed that I should be somewhere near the bride for at least two days before the wedding, to help deal with any wedding-related disasters.  I don't know what I thought might happen - that Jecr's cats might leave decorative turds on the cake or perhaps that Jecr and her mother Frcr might get into such a huge brawl that Caho and I would be left, at the eleventh hour, to figure out the bride's complicated, restrictive underwear. Regardless, I thought that showing up would be a good start to the bridesmaiding experience, so we told Anch we'd make our own arrangements.

Wary of Jeba and the bladder damage another cross-country bus trip might cause, Jeba and I bought tickets on the next best route, which involved taking the train across Ireland from Galway to Dublin, hoofing it across Dublin to from one train station to another to switch train lines and then heading north by train to Belfast. Unfortunately, the day we chose to do travel marked the beginning of a 10-week rail strike in the south of the country. We were giddy to learn that the train lines we'd booked on were unaffected but the agent at the train station warned us to get there early. Because with most of the train lines not running, EVERYONE IN IRELAND would be taking the same train. 

I don't know about you guys, but I . . . am a window seat person. In fact, when I do not get a window seat, I feel nauseated and claustrophobic and panicky.  The exception to this rule is if I am on a plane and have the aisle seat AND the middle seat empty. This, as you may imagine, rarely happens.

Travelling with Jeba generally worked out, because she is an aisle seat person. While I rush onto the conveyance at the first opportunity and jam myself triumphantly into a window seat, Jeba takes her time, preferring to board the vehicle at the last possible moment. Once seated, she often proceeds to mock my cramped posture, for chances are I've been sitting in my window seat for a good half hour before she gets on.  Jeba has never been able to fully grasp my panic at the idea of not getting a window seat - and I still feel that, clearly, her method of travel is insane.

We left Galway very early, got to Dublin no problem and managed to arrive at the other train station in Dublin nearly two hours before our train to Belfast was leaving.  We located the gate where our train would be boarding and I got all excited at being close to first in line - window seat for SURE! - when Jeba said: "Great! We have time for lunch!" And then she went and SAT DOWN to eat lunch!! At a table!! On a day when the trains in the south were on strike!! The line for our train was ALREADY FORMING! SWEET LAVENDER LORD!!

I really could not get a grip on the idea that Jeba preferred to have a leisurely lunch and read a magazine while sitting down instead of standing in line with me and four hundred of my closest friends for two hours.  She could not have shocked me more if she had informed me that there was a roving band of gypsies behind me and they wanted me to be their queen.  Fortunately I wanted to stand in line for two hours, so it all worked out.  And my early line standing paid off with a lovely four-seater with a table. Jeba congratulated my on the spoils of my sacrifice and I gazed at some sheep out the window.

We knew that we wouldn’t have the four seater to ourselves and I'd seen some of the yahoos in line.  I heartily wished for someone inoffensive to join us.  And that’s when we met Ken and Sheila.

Ken and Sheila were straight out of Strictly Ballroom.  Ken was a gregarious American with a Tanfastic membership and Sheila was a dignified Brit in a wide-brimmed hat and bright red lipstick. They were probably in their late fifties. And within minutes of meeting us, Ken and Sheila revealed that they were former U.S. Ballroom Dance champions. CHAMPIONS, people! They were a little stand-offish at first, particularly when they found out that Jeba is an economist, but they blossomed like giant, feather-trimmed chiffon skirts when they heard I was a "fellow artist" and began to discuss capital "A" Art with me enthsiastically. They told tales of travel and competitive triumph and the crazy fox-trotting world of ballroom dance. They spoke to Jeba the economist sternly about the need for more Arts funding. I could not look away as Ken waved Sheila’s hand away from opening her Perrier.  At first I thought he was just being macho but then it became clear that his main concern was that she might BREAK HER NAIL.  I loved these people.

I was, naturally, sad to see Ken and Sheila go when we reached Belfast.  They gave me their card, for their dance studio in California and exhorted me to visit. I never have - but I do still have the card. And one day, maybe I'll get out to Glendale, California and say "Hey, Ken and Sheila - you were really neat." And they will have NO IDEA WHO I AM.