Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff May Need to Have Some Kind of Mental Evaluation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet fuzzy Christ.

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

while instead, I was knitting with this:

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

I am itchy just thinking about it.

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

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

Creampuff Proposes Some Pie

Attention GTA Dwellers and Lovers of Delicious Pie,

Last year Katr and I bought a Thanksgiving apple pie from Pie in the Sky, which is an annual fundraiser that helps the Toronto People With AIDS Foundation provide meals to people living with AIDS.

It was, without a doubt, the BEST EFFING PIE I HAVE EVER HAD.

Last year, our pie purchase was a little last minute and I did not have time to adequately alert all you pie-lovers. But this year . . . this year, you too can get in on the hot pie action. And you SHOULD. Here's part of the official spiel:

Toronto 's top bakers, pastry chefs, caterers and celebrity chefs bake a variety of delicious pies (apple and pumpkin this year) that are then sold for $35. By purchasing a pie, you make it possible for Food for Life to provide 10 meals for someone homebound with AIDS.
 
I really feel like this fundraiser sells itself. A mere $35 provides 10 nutritious and tasty meals to a person living with AIDS in our community?? AND you get a gourmet PIE?? Bring it ON.

Pie in the Sky runs from October 5-6 (the dates the pies are ready for pickup), but ordering has already begun! You can pay by cash, cheque or credit card and there are a variety of convenient pie pick-up locations throughout Toronto.
 
How do you get your hands on one or more of these delicious pies? Well, my lovelies, you're in luck. My dear friend Charles just happens to be the Head Pie Peddler - he's not the Peculiar Purple Pie Man from Porcupine Peak, but he IS queer and occasionally wears purple. And he has created a special e-mail address just for you guys to contact him for pie: [email protected]

Just drop Charles a line with your name, pie preference (apple or pumpkin) and some contact info and he will be thrilled to set you up with your preferred payment option and pick-up locations. Tell him Large Marge sent you.

As for me, I've signed up for another apple pie this year. I've also volunteered to help distribute the pies, but I haven't heard back yet. Do they have enough volunteers already? OR DO THEY NOT WANT ME NEAR ALL OF THOSE DELICIOUS PIES?? History will decide.

Free Porn "Podcast" for Creampuff

I can only assume Lex was referring to this incident when she suggested I "locate neighbours for late night peeping" in a comment she left recently. Lex makes great suggestions and I was eager to comply with her request.

Unfortunately, our window is distressingly far away from any of the surrounding buildings in our 'hood - which is great for wandering about pantsless but not so great for catching your neighbours "in flagrante" (that's Latin for "scronking"). So I gave up on experiencing any further amateur porn.

This weekend, Katr and I returned home from a rough day of shopping and hanging out on a patio. We were puttering about, putting things away and that's when we heard it. A kind of feminine sighing and also, moaning. Hmmm.

We quickly determined it wasn't us. And our t.v., for once, wasn't on. Through the process of elimination, we pinpointed the source. It was our neighbours. And they were gettin' biz-izzay.

The sighs began in a pretty G-rated kind of way. Like perhaps the young man was giving his lady a nice massage or a first rate back scratch. It didn't take long, however, for the family show to get X-rated. As our neighbours' lusty cries increased, Katr and I looked at each other like shocked and titillated twelve year olds who'd sneaked into a screening of Animal House. And then we did what any two people would do when they heard their neighbours engaged in a private, intimate act; we turned the fan off, opened the window wider and settled down with some fruit leather.

It was pretty standard, as afternoon delights go. No creative dirty talk. Light spanking. Our particular favourite was the indignant screech the young lady let out when her swain attempted something ass-related. Come on, Josh - she no likee! It was all over before we'd finished our snack. Then we smelled cigarette smoke and heard them fire up the Justin Timberlake. JUSTIFY! Hot.

After we'd finished our teen giggling (and our fruit leather), it occurred to us that if we could hear our neighbours getting it on, they could certainly hear US. Heh heh. Huh. So I put it to you folks - does the possibility of someone listening in on your, uh, quality time, make you clam (ha ha) up or does it make you more exuberant? Or do you just crank Sir Justin and get down to it? JUSTIFY!

All I know is that if our neighbours were listening in last night, they would have heard me yelling "Fuck, fuck! Oh, sweet Jesus Christ! Oh my GOD! Ungh!" after I bashed my shin into our goddamn platform bed in the dark on my way back from the bathroom. My whole leg is black and blue this morning. Stupid bed.

Creampuff Enjoys Matters Historical

I'm a sucker for things historical. Slap an historical-sounding word front of it and I will be there. Historic Fort York? That's me with a musket. Lady Whosits Antique Spittoon and Nail Clipper exhibit? I'm first in line. Ye Olde Deepe Fried Mars Barre? Don't mind if I do!

I am locked in an eternal romance with the past; the romance part means that I can choose not to think about how people had a disturbing and constant level of b.o. and crapped in pots they kept under their beds. Actual history interests me too but sometimes I prefer to make shit up rather than rely on "facts". Facts are for the weak.

So when Katr and I were on our jaunt to the yarn store last weekend and zipped past Vancouver's historic Gastown on the bus, I knew I would have to visit. So yesterday I borrowed Katr's camera and walked down there to suss things out.

The first thing I noticed as I wandered towards the edge of Gastown is that historic Gastown is nuzzled right up against historic Cracktown. As Katr and I happened to spend some quality time at the epicentre of Cracktown waiting for a bus last Sunday, I wasn't worried. In fact, I was contemplating how extremely stoned people are probably the only people I can outrun when an older lady walking in front of me clutched her map, stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk, loudly exclaimed "Judy - this is the BAD AREA!" to her quilted jacket companion and then looked around fearfully. I heard Judy's sharp intake of breath as her friend pointed out a single drug addict quietly loping along on the other side of the street. "Get over it," I thought, "it's not like he's licking you."

And still savouring that smug feeling of touristic superiority, I took this picture:

I know, I know - even with a great camera, I'm still kind of a crappy photographer. This is one of those cool wedge-shaped buildings that invite you to poke your head into the alley behind them and discover magic shops and musty bookstores. I poked my head around and found a guy whizzing against a dumpster. I did not photograph the event.

But I did take a picture of the shop front on the first floor of the wedge-shaped building:

That's right - an ANTIQUE store. I hung out in there like a bad smell. Just trying to evoke the period.

My second stop was at the historic Gastown Steam Clock. The clock is supposed to run off steam from the city's underground pipes, which is cool and it was designed in 1875, which is also cool but it was actually built in 1977 and now runs on an electric motor, emitting steam just for show. 1977?? ELECTRIC MOTOR?? We're lining up to take pictures of something that's the same age as my BROTHER and doesn't even run on STEAM?? Naturally, I took a photo:

You can see the steam coming out of the clock. Jealous? While I was there, I took a photo of the historic Starbucks across the street:

My Olde Tyme Pumpkin Spice Latte was just like Great-great Grandma used to make. Also, it perked me up before the inevitable trip to:

That's what Canada is all about, people - hockey, maple syrup and salmon. I think the Starbucks may also have had a gift shop but my batteries were low. But not too low to get a shot of this:

Turns out Gastown is not an ideal place to take photos of the ocean or mountains, so this fish fountain is as close as I got. I'm hoping Katr and I can get one for our foyer!

I thoroughly enjoyed my stroll through Gastown's touristy cobblestone streets, reading historical plaques and even saw some non-tourist looking places. No yarn stores though. FOILED. Next time I promise ocean and mountains. In the meantime, I'd better get started on this Ye Olde Deepe Fried Mars Barre. 'Cause gang, it's not gonna eat itself.

Rainy Day Creampuff

I'm in a new city! A city surrounded by mountains and ocean! A city with a rich history! And so I present to you - more pictures of my knitting! Huzzah!

Sorry guys - it's raining sheets outside and my trip to Gastown's been put off until my shoes stop making that squishing noise.

As some of you may recall, my childhood best friend Chma got married last fall and I was elated to send her a giant polyester poinsetta as a wedding gift. Clearly, the poinsetta was an aphrodisiac, for Chma was soon in the family way! And she's due around now! So, as I type, she and the hubs (Jode) may already be cradling their little bundle of joy. And if my package got there in time, they may have wrapped their offspring in:

Chma's Baby Blanket

I was totally gonna do the Big Bad Baby Blanket from Stitch n' Bitch, but Chma casually mentioned that she was knitting herself a sweater from that book. FOILED! So I searched for another blanket to make and found this free pattern over at Major Knitter. This is what the blanket's supposed to look like:

 

I wanted to make mine out of cotton in case the kid takes after me and is allergic to everything. And I wanted the colours to not bore the pants off the kid - 'cause bad things happen when babies run around without pants. So here's what my blanket looks like:

It's a good thing I ignored the "knit with two strands held together" note, because then this blanket would be more like a restraining device than a lustrous, snuggly treat. As it is, this blanket, she's heavy, like the lead apron they make you wear at the dentist when they take an x-ray. Not that that's a bad thing. The heavy apron is my favourite thing about the dentist. Will my blanket help make Chma's baby less frightened when he has his first dental visit? Or will Chma and Jode's dog Lola claim the blanket before the baby even has a chance to spit up on it?? History will decide.

Now if only we could see the blanket wrapped around an actual baby . . .

Creampuff Does Not Know What to do With Herself

Ladies and gentlemen, the long drought has ended. It's been 94 days, the 87% True Fringe tour is over and with its cessation, so too does Creampuff cease  . . . to wear pants. Fly free!

So, uh . . . now what?

This move to Vancouver has been, to quote playwright Stewart Lemoine, disorienting in a really immediate and gratifying way. It's easy to wrap your head around the IDEA of being in a new place but it's those little realities that conspire to either delight you or trip you up. Stuff like:

*Wanting to cash a cheque/mail a gift/go for pancakes/get some sweet, sweet liquor and realizing that you don't know where the bank/post office/best cake house in town/closest hooch shop is.

*Craving chocolate and finding a Purdy's. PURDY'S!! Where have you BEEN all my life?

*Hearing a weird little yipping sound and wondering if it's your new shoes squeaking, until you look down and realize you've stepped on one of those tiny, tiny Yaletown "dogs". Sorry, Mookie.

*Forgetting to put on moisturizer because, it's, like, moist enough here already.

*When you see a Starbucks and think "I see a Starbucks", by the time you've finished the thought, there's another Starbucks.

Crazy stuff, people. So what grounds a girl when she's feelin' all liminal and shit?  That's right - KNITTING.

Yesterday afternoon, Katr and I took an exciting trip down Main Street to visit Three Bags Full, a new yarn shop that just opened. It's lovely in there; friendly staff and yummy fibre. I picked up a couple of exciting new things and Katr bought me a couple of knitting magazines - knitting porn, if you will. I spent some time alone in bed with them last night. It was . . .  ahem . . . nice. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Chgi's Birthday Scarf

As long-time readers may recall, Chgi and I stopped on our way out of Toronto to buy yarn for a birthday scarf that I would knit him as we drove across the country. The scarf, like our trip, had its ups and downs, but in the end, I must say it worked out nicely. I just hope that Chgi doesn't look too closely at the end of the scarf, where I ran out of brown and had to skip a couple of rows. Close call, my friends. Here is Chgi modelling the scarf. If you're wondering, he is also modelling his kicky street jive for "East Vancouver". HOT.

Jaro's Hairy Sack

Four months late, I finally presented my brother Jaro with the felted bag I made him for his birthday. Fortunately, he's just moved to Victoria, so he'll be wearing jackets to protect himself from the itchy hairiness of the sack. Unfortunately, he's just moved to Victoria, where rain makes wool real wet n' heavy. Enjoy!!

The Femiknit Mafia rocked my world by sending me a couple of toggles I could use for the closure of Jaro's itchy bag and here's a close-up of the toggle I went with. In person, it looked okay, but in this picture, the thing looks so poorly sewed it's like I did it with my feet. Clearly, I need to work on my finishing skills.

I'm DYING to post pictures of some mystery knitting I recently finished, 'cause I'm pretty sure the 8 3/4 months pregnant recipient isn't following the ol' blog that closely. But in case she IS, I'm going to hold off 'til it's had a chance to actually get there. Because I'm not an ANIMAL.

Creampuff Cleans, Rewards Self with Disgusting Beverage

I haven't used a vacuum cleaner since 1996, when I borrowed the Winters College vacuum from the 3rd floor don to hoover my residence room before going home for the summer. I don't know who screamed more, the Hoover or me. I remember returning it to the don, who seemed perplexed.

Me: Here!

The Don: Umm . . . Ruth? (Ruth is not my name. The don had not bothered to learn my name, even though she was the DON and was SUPPOSED to know everyone's name AND even though we'd met several times in the hallway when I would emerge, furious, from my residence room in the wee hours to holler "Shut up, dons!" in the direction of her hard-partying room)

Me: YES?

The Don: Why is it . . . smoking?

Pause.

Me: It was like that when I got it.

Since then I've either lived in carpet-less homes or with roommates who didn't mind doing the vacuuming. I hate vacuuming. It's loud, the machine is heavy, the cord gets in your way.  Half the time the machine is so stopped up that you're not actually cleaning but are instead simply rubbing the carpet with a Bissell - it chaps my ass. I prefer cleaning toilets to vacuuming. But today, people - today I, Roro, new resident of Vancouver, Canada and horribly behind blogger, girded up my loins and plugged the vacuum in.

I'm telling you, I was like Donna Reed. But fatter and with more swearing.

The furnished apartment Katr and I are renting for now is very cute and in a trendy area but . . . wee. So wee that we have a double bed instead of a queen. Not a hardship for the svelte couple but for the creampuffs? Cozy. And yes, it's a little sexy to be right on top of each other - for about 12 seconds, which is when Katr was on the receiving end of my first accidental elbow to the schnozz, which she followed up by inadvertently clawing a section of skin off my leg with her marsupial-like toe claws. HOT.

The apartment is also largely carpeted. I was planning to ignore the carpet until civilization began to sprout up. And then I planned to beg Katr to vacuum. But today, when Katr made noises about the nasty state of the bathroom and Chgi offered me the option of a day light on Fringe stuff and heavy on whatever I wanted to do, my path was clear. I would clean the apartment. And as part of that cleaning, I would  . . . gah . . . vacuum.

In preparation for this task, I stopped at the local Shoppers Drug Mart, where I purchased this:

I suppose that the Fringe tour has caused me to miss all sorts of developments in the cola wars, but I was shocked that no one had seen fit to alert me to Diet Pepsi Jazz Strawberries n' Cream. As soon as I saw the label, I knew I was in for a craptastic beverage experience. And I COULDN'T WAIT.

I saved the vacuuming until last; even the toilet was meticulously scrubbed for several minutes as I avoided the inevitable. But eventually there was nothing else to do but crank the Eurythmics and haul out the Bissell.

I plugged it in. And then I spent about 20 minutes trying to remember how to get the upright vacuum to lean back instead of standing straight up (hint: there's a pedal). Then I spent a further 20 minutes trying to find the "ON" switch (hint: it's next to the leany backy pedal).

The machine roared to life and I proceeded to vigorously . . . rub the carpet with it. This thing picked up carpet detritus like I pick up chicks (i.e. not since 2003). The headlight on the front of it mocked me as it pointed out the same crumb again and again until I gave up and just picked the fucking thing up by hand. I knew that the dust bag was probably stuffed full, but I just got over my summer allergies and didn't want to experience them all over again by emptying the bag.

We all make choices, people. And today, my choice ended up being that I Swiffered the carpet. And it looks FABULOUS.

Vacuuming finished, I sat down to blog and enjoy my Diet Pepsi Jazz Strawberries n' Cream. As expected, it's totally gross and yet . . . oddly compelling. Will I buy it again?  WILL I VACUUM AGAIN? History will decide.