Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff Enjoys Holidays, Reveals Mystery Knitting

Happy Boxing Day! Finally, a holiday we can all agree on! I hope all of you had a lovely celebration, whether you exchanged gifts and had a feast with family or whether you sacked out with Battlestar Galactica and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. Huzzah!

I myself had a really delightful holiday week. To kick things off, my best friend Padu came to visit for a couple of days and ended up modelling some of my keen knitwear! And then Katr's brother Drtr came to visit and did our bidding endlessly! And then we took the ferry over to Victoria and I finally got to see my parents' condo! And my cute and hilarious grandparents were there and my brother and my cousin and his girlfriend came over and she brought a pie and DAMN, it was good! And we had Christmas nachos on Christmas Eve and opened all our gifts and even though we all promised to go easy on presents this year, we all made out like bandits! Just like Jesus! And my parents kicked off all the fun by making an unexpected and very sweet and generous donation to the Creampuff Gay Wedding Fund! Sweet Lavendar Lord! Thanks, Mom and Dad!

Seriously. It was a whirlwind of deliciousness and exclamation points and it's taken us nearly two days to recover. And then Katr's mom is coming tomorrow night and the fun starts all over again! Which reminds me, we have to go shopping tomorrow - we're almost out of eggnog.

Anyway, on to real reason for this post: the knitting!

I learned to knit one year ago yesterday and this year, many people were recipients of my occasionally lumpy but always well-meant knitting. In my beginner's zeal, I tended not to notice when the giftees did not appreciate or even acknowledge the hours and expense their knitted gift cost. Katr noticed, though, and she has a running list of people I am no longer allowed to knit for. Thanks, baby!

Of course, all of the holiday knitting recipients were so gleeful that they will all be getting knitted goods for years to come. Whether they want them or not.

Mom's Scarf

I tried a bunch of different patterns with this super-soft, cream-coloured, crinkly acrylic yarn (Mom's allergic to wool) but the thing just looked like ten kinds of ass. I eventually settled on this basket-weave-y look. Mom thought it was a winner. Score!

Katr's Shawl

This summer, my mom took me to a yarn store in Edmonton where she had spotted a stole/wrap/shawl that she thought would look great on Katr. She and I put a bunch of different colours and textures together and she commissioned me to knit it! We figured I earned about $0.50/hr. Not my usual rate.

Here's Padu as "The Virgin Mary, If She Was a Dude Wearing Katr's Shawl". He looks so coy. What is he hiding? The Son of God? Or a pack of smokes? History will decide.

Drtr's Brave's Fan Scarf

Katr's brother Drtr, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, is a huge fan of the Atlanta Braves. And I'm a huge fan of his! And he's been pretty excited about the knitting. So I made him a scarf in the Atlanta Braves colours. Jealous?

Padu sure was. 

Mom's Dishcloths

Again, when I was home in the summer, my mom handed me a ball of lime green cotton that she thought would make nice dishcloths. She thought that perhaps I could teach her to knit them! And then she thought that maybe . . . I could just knit them myself. So I used them to experiment. The seed stitch was disastrous, but the other two turned out okay.

Let's take another look at that fine fishtail technique:

Katr's Subtle Hint Scarf

Katr saw me knitting this scarf earlier in the fall and fell in love with it. She kept mentioning it, you know, whenever she saw me knitting, or whenever she saw scarves, or whenever she saw things that were blue. And so I gave it to her! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah! And then I gave her the scarf too.

New Yarn

The best thing about holiday gift giving is that sometimes you RECEIVE things that are knitting related. Like this luscious baby alpaca silk  and 6.5mm bamboo needles from my brother. Nice eye, young man. Nice eye.

And then my mom got me this pile of blue Shetland Chunky Tweed and a pattern for a very fetching shawl. For ME!! I have been touching it lovingly all the afternoon. Don't judge me.

I was so pleased with myself over the sheer amount of holiday gift knitting accomplished that I failed to notice that all my knitted holiday gifts were either scarves or scarf-like. Since this is my first year at it, I feel that this is allowed. However, next year, I will have to knit it up a notch (See? See what I did there?) Next year, look for more hats and mittens and yes, that's right - SOCKS. This year will be the Year of Socks!! And perhaps learning to drive. Huzzah!

Gay Wedding Bells for Creampuff

Ladies - gentlemen - get your frilly seafoam green outfits primed. Katr and Roro are getting married!!

And now for the Creampuffs Are Getting Gay Married FAQ:

FAQ: Roro? Getting gay married? I thought you always said that the great thing about being gay is that you weren't expected to get married. And that even if you COULD get gay married you wouldn't! Because queer people should be creating their own rituals and striking down oppressive social mores!

Q: Well, I changed my mind, for a variety of reasons that I'll no doubt elaborate on in later posts. But yes, on the one hand, as a queer person, I DO find it problematic to be participating in and perpetuating a heteronormative ritual which has historically cast women as chattel BLAH BLAH BLAH look at our RINGS!!

Katr's Ring:

My Ring:

Q: Roro . . . is that a plaid flannel pillow case underneath your ring?

A: Actually no, that's my wedding outfit. HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAA! No, seriously, it is.

Q: Soooo . . . who proposed?

A: Officially? I did. And since we'd already gotten our rings, I proposed via a new video iPod instead! And I had it engraved. It says "Marry Me!!" on it.  More an imperative than a request, but I wasn't taking any chances.

A: You proposed with an iPOD?? Isn't that kind of . . . impersonal?

Q: Well, she's been DYING for one and she LOVES gadgets and it was the first time I really surprised her with anything and she totally cried. HA ha! So I feel like it worked out okay.

Q: Soooo . . . if you proposed, does that make you the man?

A: Yes. Yes it does. I am the man.

Q: Have you told your parents yet?

A: Yes - because there's nothing like finding out your kid's getting hitched because you READ IT ON HER BLOG.

Q: What'd they say?

A: Well, they think that Katr is the Second Coming (and hey, sometimes she is! If you know what I mean. And I think that you do) so they were totally thrilled. We're seeing them for Christmas this weekend, at which time my father plans to have The Talk with Katr - the same talk that my mother's dad had with him when my parents were getting married. You know, about her roles and responsibilities as my spouse. Plus - and he would never say this - my dad is itching to get rid of these dowry goats he's been keeping for me. Num-Num keeps chewing on his files.

Q: Did your mom immediately call her 4 sisters, 2 brothers and her parents to tell them the news?

A: Since I've always gotten the news of my cousins' (I have 16 first cousins, 14 on one side, 2 on the other - Dad's family is not so Catholic) weddings secondhand, I assumed that the aunts disseminated the news. I learned on Sunday that, in fact, it is de rigueur for the person who's getting married to call everyone. And so that's how I, Roro, Phone Phobic, spent all of Sunday evening on the phone telling all my mostly-Western-Canada-living, church-going aunts, uncles and grandparents that I was getting gay married. My dad's family? One phone call. My mom's? Seven. You'd better believe I called my lesbian aunt first. But of course, they're all totally coming. Because they're effin' AWESOME.

Q: Why do you keep saying you're getting "gay married"? Isn't "gay married" and "straight married" the same in Canada?

A: Yes, yes it is. But saying "gay married" is funny. So zip it.

Creampuff Becomes Second Life Widow, Is Consoled by Cookies

So my main squeeze got herself a Second Life this weekend in preparation for CaseCamp Second Life, which she was helping to organize.

Far be it for me to dis anyone for getting all hot and bothered over Second Life - we all know that I could have squeezed out the Great Canadian Novel in the time I've spent playing frikkin' Neopets, which is like Second Life for eight year olds. My own interest in Second Life was actually piqued a few weeks ago when a hip young Second Lifer I met at a real life event (I know - with actual PEOPLE! Who DOES that anymore??) suggested that I stage a reading of my latest lesbonic historical fiction play in Second Life; apparently many people's second lives involve corsets. Mmm. Corsets.

But this week, as Katr set up her sexy avatar, shopped for a special outfit with "Linden Dollars" so that she wouldn't look like a hick at CaseCamp, ran into a friend "in-world" and chatted the afternoon away, I became concerned.

Firstly, Second Life's parallels to the prophetic works of science fiction genius William Gibson (Idoru, in particular) are freaking me right out. Gibson - how did you KNOW??

Secondly, because Second Life assumes that we all secretly yearn to be hard-bodies, pretty much everyone there looks like Lara Croft, even the guys. BLARG.

Thirdly, I realized that Katr's potential avid interest in Second Life could really take a toll on Katr's "paying attention to Roro" time. Unacceptable.

Finally, it seems that my brief investigation of Second Life has reignited my interest in becoming a social media anthropologist. You know, in First Life. Because I LOVE ALL THE LINGO.

Anyway, before I could really torpedo my entire day mourning over losing Katr to Second Life and obsessively reading lingo-laden Second Life blogs in case I need to make a What Dreams May Come-type run to rescue my love, I decided to check the mail.

Nothing jerks you back to First Life like a delightful package in the mail. A package! For me! From Kristen and her family in Nova Scotia! Thank you, thank you! Delicious cookies! Ornaments! Adorable photos of children! A DVD slideshow extravaganza! A holiday card with . . . heeeeeeeeeeeeeey. Is that a CAT? Catspiracy!! 

Here's what she sent:

There were three cookies on this top layer of the cookie tin, but I ate two of them immediately when I opened it. Because, uh, I know, from doing research for an article I'm writing about taking good pictures, that just one cookie would make a better shot. Yeah. Classier.

The tree cookie's whimsical sprinkles reminded me of how my mom used to make gingerbread cookies each holiday season and the whole family would sit around and decorate them. The best was the year I took home the "Most Creative Cookie" award for my creation, "Anatomically Correct Moose", in which I applied two brown M&Ms and a liquorice goodie to a moose-shaped cookie. My brother Jaro congratulated me on my "realistic moose junk". It was a proud moment. I think I was 23.

What? No pasta on the ornaments? Kids today . . .

 

For a catspiracy card, this is awfully cute. I especially like the little bird sitting on the pom-pom at the end of the cat's hat. How long do you think that little bird lasted once the sitting was over? "I have a present for you, little bird! It's a fabulous, all expense paid trip - THROUGH MY DIGESTIVE SYSTEM!" That's holiday gold right there, kids.

So thank you, Kristen, for the wonderful holiday treat. These cookies are all that are keeping me going. But I'd better go easy on 'em - I don't want to be busting out of my Second Life corset later.

Creampuff BYOFs

  It was a crazy weekend of packing up and moving and trying out the new bed (oh, don't get all hot and bothered. After a day's worth of heavy lifting, the first few minutes on the new bed went something like "Oh YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAH!! Boom chicka zzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .")

Sunday afternoon we were headed back to the old place, as Katr had some work to do and the information superhighway wasn't hooked up at our new place. Katr had gone to collect the vehicle and I was headed to the "garbage room" on the main floor.

And so it was that I found myself alone on the elevator. And in that moment of quiet solitude, I let one rip.

It was fabric-rendingly loud and impossibly lengthy and I quietly said "HA ha!" to myself. "I christen thee, elevator!"

Nanoseconds later, it occurred to me that I hadn't really thought this through. I was alone in a slow-moving box with a limited air supply and I'd eaten vegan just a few nights before.

As the fumes threatened to overwhelm me, I considered getting off the elevator but realized that I couldn't. Our new building has a crazy fob system which allows you to get to your own floor, the lobby and your parking level but not any other. I pushed buttons in vain for a few seconds before I was faced with a new horror.

Sunday was the day of the condo Holiday Party, which, as the elevator newsletter informed me, Dave, Nick, Diane, Linda and Peggy all helped organize. The newsletter promised the most spectacular tree the lobby had ever seen! The party was BYOB, but not BYO Stench That Might End Lives. The party was meant to start in just a few minutes. Sweet Fancy Fruitcake - was this how I was going to meet my neighbours?

The floors ticked by so slowly that I seriously wondered my olfactory crime had caused the elevator to slip into a rift in the space/time continuum. Each time I perceived a slight pause in the elevator's movement, I imagined the doors opening and the building's residents piling in, laden down with macaroons and fruitcake. I imagined they would smile at me welcomingly until they realized what I had BYOF'd. Then the smiles would fade. Perhaps the elderly might black out entirely. And then, once the elevator doors opened on the main floor and we could all breathe free once more, the strong would help the weak to a lobby couch and the po po would be called. And no one would offer me fruitcake. NO FRUITCAKE FOR CREAMPUFF!!

I was startled out of my flight of nightmarish fancy by the elevator stopping. "Don't get on!" I cried out as the doors opened, "SAVE YOURSELVES!!" No one was there. I had made it to the lobby. As the air wooshed in and my head cleared, I exited the scene of the crime as fast as as my trembling legs would carry me and made my way down to the garbage room. Which was empty.

HA ha! I christen thee, Garbage Room!

Creampuff Field of Dreams

My lovely friend Mami and her equally lovely husband Cech invited Katr and I and another lovely couple, Li(no last name) and An(also no last name), to their home for a vegan dinner party Thursday night! It was my first dinner party in Vancouver and it couldn't have been more delightful.

I admit I was a little apprehensive beforehand. Despite the awesome, hilarious vegans I actually know, I always worry that vegans are without humour about their veganism and are judging my meat-acious, leather chair-having lifestyle the same way I usually judge their notoriously dry and crumbly "baked goods". As comedienne Dawn Whitwell says, "Vegans, here's a tip - just because it's SHAPED like a cookie . . . doesn't make it a cookie."

Also, when I am invited for a dinner party, my usual modus operandi is to offer to bring dessert, because then I can whip up a batch of my famous "things I bought at Safeway". In view of vegan dietary restrictions, however, Mami wisely suggested I bring a salad or vegetable. I was seized with panic and then mirth in the produce aisle Thursday afternoon when I drew a blank on how to make a salad. IT'S BEEN THAT LONG. What goes in it? Do vegans eat live hydroponic butter lettuce? Is there beef tallow in the dressing or worse - HONEY? A grocery store employee asked me if I was okay and I asked him "Does this misshapen carrot look . . . like rabbit to you?"

 Fortunately I managed to pull it together eventually (although I did leave out the butter lettuce) and Katr and I set out. Turns out I worried for naught. Dinner was really, really good (including the baking) and our hosts and the vegans were awesome and hilarious, like all the other vegans I know. And Mami and Cech's daughter is adorable (which, of course, we already knew).

I've known Mami since elementary school and we've stayed sporadically in touch over the years. My childhood memories of her mainly involve the summer she and I were the only girls at the Jewish Community Centre's Leader In Training camp when we were 12. The boys in the LIT were jerks, really mean jerks and Mami and I, who went to school with nice, respectful, funny boys, were totally shocked and bonded over it. Also, once (possibly the same summer) she and I went to Klondike Days (Edmonton's yearly carnie-fest and exhibition, which now has a different and stupid name) and beforehand, we met at her dad's bar (her DAD! Had a BAR!) which I thought was the coolest.

As reminiscing kicked in Thursday night, however, it was more sports-based than I had anticipated. Mami was telling me that when she ran into my parents at Chma's wedding last year, all the talk was of how she and I played soccer together in our youth. That's right. Me. I played SOCCER.

In fact, I believe I played community league soccer for 6 or 7 years and I seem to have blocked most of it out, though I do remember the one or two years my dad was the coach. He must have been a good coach, 'cause we didn't make fun of him, like we did our teammate Kaha's middle-finger pointing dad.

I remember that I played defence (less running) and was the GREATEST THROWER-INNER of ALL TIME, which Mami corroborated by re-enacting my legendary throwing-in skillz, complete with Bionic Woman sound effects. I remember I once scored a goal on a throw-in, when the ball bounced off the goalie. I remember taking a kick-off to the face from a hard-assed girl named Kyle, who seemed impressed when I didn't cry or bleed. I remember having a very confusing crush on the red-headed goalie named Karen. "Ooooh yeah," said Mami, "she was inTENSE."

All this soccer talk suddenly brought back some vivid memories of my first year playing soccer when I was six years old. I'm going to have to check on some of this with my parents, but I seem to remember my first year of soccer that our coach was this crazy rich mom from Quesnel whose daughter was on the team. She had big streaked '80's hair, wore lipstick and velour track suits and a lot of rings and had a GOLDEN WHISTLE. For half-time at our first game, instead of the traditional quartered oranges and water, she brought these weird marshmallow mini ice cream cone confections that really hit the spot, if "the spot" was your pancreas and "hitting it" meant "a severe over-production of insulin". By the end of the game, half the team was running about manically and the other half had collapsed due to dehydration. She was, obviously, kind of clueless. But hey - we were six! Bring on the marshmallow treats!

I remember my first year of soccer was lots of fun but we did not, as they say, have a good season. In fact, I believe our team scored one goal the entire season and it was on our own net. But our coach wasn't daunted and at the end of the season, the team went out to the Old Spaghetti Factory to celebrate and she gave us each ENGRAVED BRACELETS with the year and team name on it. Again - we were SIX. Even as a six year old who loved jewellry and spaghetti, I thought it was a little weird. Who WAS that woman?

Anyway, back to the soccer glory days. Mami says we made it to the city finals in 1984! I have only vague recollections of this, but she had the hilarious team photo to prove it and whipped it out on Thursday night over Dutch Girl chocolates and tea. It took me a little while to identify myself in the photo. Ah, yes, that was me. The tallest girl on the team. I'd like to think my hair was in a ponytail but I suspect what I'm seeing there is the Grade 4 Mullet.

I handed the photo to Katr, who wanted to see if she could pick me out. I offered to give her a hint, as it had taken me longer than I thought to find myself, but she waved me off. She pointed me out right away, without hesitation and I was stunned. "How did you KNOW?" I asked, truly mystified. "Silly," she said to me, "I would know you anywhere."

And then I blushed.

Creampuff Re-gift

It's been all about the new apartment lately! New apartment, new apartment! I've barely had time to write these days, what with talking Katr down from the 50" flat screen TV, booking guys named Meredith to move our things, getting upsold at every consumer establishment when buying furniture and a host of other stuff that's FASCINATING to us but might make you want to CHEW YOUR FOOT OFF with boredom.

Fortunately, the winning combination of unpacking bits and pieces and rediscovering old treasures and feeling shortish on jack is bringing back some warm holiday memories. Memories involving re-gifting.

I would say that in my adult life, I am a mild to moderate re-gifter. But back when I was young and still reliant on my parents to buy birthday gifts for my friends, I was a notorious re-gifter. See, my mom used to be a school teacher and she would get all kinds of little gifts from her students at the end of the school year. Therefore, my and my brother's friends whose birthdays were closest to June often got gifts that were on a victory lap.

As my friend Juwi's birthday was the first of the school year, in October, she was the victim of several years of re-gifting. It didn't take Juwi long to catch on (Juwi: "Not that I don't love this plush Shamu, Roro, but tell me . . . when were you last at SEA WORLD?" Me: "Foiled!") and it became a running joke between us. One year, my mom received quite an unusual and extensive end-of-year haul and I spent the early fall telling Juwi that she'd be receiving an "Eskimo mobile" for her birthday.

Juwi assumed that "Eskimo mobile" was a euphemism for something. Hopefully for something GOOD, like smelly erasers, neon socks or the soundtrack of Cocktail. "Riiiiiiiight," she'd say, winkingly, "an Eskimo mobile. It'll go nicely with that Moose in a Can I got for you." Ha ha. Poor, unsuspecting Juwi. By the time she opened her birthday present, I was practically in tears with mirth. Juwi? Not so much.

"It's an Eskimo mobile," I told her.

"I see that, Roro," she said, as she held up the mobile, felted Eskimos dangling. "Well played."

She never did give me that Moose in a Can. Of course, that was back in the '80's. There's still time, Juwi.

Anyway, since my youth I've had a horror of re-gifting, or rather being CAUGHT re-gifting. This fear was rekindled a couple of years ago when my brother, digging around in my mother's "gift" closet for ribbon, came across some handmade organic soap he had given my parents the year before.

Jaro was LIVID. "HANDMADE SOAP," he said to me. "I mean, it's not like it was a BRUSH. And I found it in the RE-GIFTING AREA!!" Jaro set about plotting his revenge, which was basically wrapping the soap up again and addressing it to "Ungrateful #1" and "Ungrateful #2".  When my parents opened their soaps for the second time, they knew the jig was up. There was much mirth as Jaro got a guarantee that his two soaps would be used immediately. One of them went into the guest bathroom. And I strongly suspect that the other one ended up in my stocking the following year.

This year, we're trying to keep it simple, gift-wise, due to the aforementioned lack of jack. I don't know that any actual re-gifting will take place, in the traditional "passing an unwanted gift on" sense. But re-gifting in the "look, I found this old thing of yours in our storage locker!" sense may occur. OR the "old thing of yours" may show up as part of our yearly "decoy wrapping" ritual! Decoy wrapping and "gift tags as clues" - look for a discussion of these in my next post. Unless Meredith makes off with our stuff, in which case you'll be reading about how I had to explain the cops that "Meredith" is a guy. For reals.