Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff in Progress

WARNING: Post contains talk about, and photos of, knitting.

Last Saturday, I arose with a spring in my step, for Saturday was the day that I was to turn my first sock heel. I had knit 8 long inches of "practice sock". I had completed the heel flap. I had slept well the night before and was feeling a little cockly. I had my sock pattern, a step-by-step photo demonstration and online videos at the ready. I sat confidently down with my sock and began.

I followed the pattern closely and made it through a number of rows before I realized that the heel was not taking shape as it should. I was puzzled. Perhaps after a couple more rows . . . or not . . . I tried to keep my cool as I realized that, despite my many resources, the heel turning had somehow eluded me.

I would like to pause here to state, in defense of my tiny brain, that the pattern was written assuming you already knew how to turn a heel, the photo-demo assumed your pattern would tell you how to turn the heel and the video demonstration was mainly about picking up stitches. Obviously, I didn't get that far.

Clearly, I would have to start the heel over. So I unravelled a little. Then a little more. Then tried to start again. Then got confused. Then frustrated. And then . . . came then.

To describe my reaction as "a meltdown" would not be inappropriate. I am embarassed to say that there were tears. There may also have been a throwing of perfectly innocent needles. There was certainly an angry, vicious unravelling of the entire practice sock. The F-bomb was dropped repeatedly. It was a SCENE.

Katr happened upon the scene just as the vicious unravelling began. I imagine it would have been rather confusing for her - one minute her beaverancée is humming and spritely and the next, she is TOTALLY LOSING HER SHIT over a SOCK.

Katr rolled into action immediately. She removed me from the sock and from the room where the sock went to die. She didn't mock me. She comforted me while I recovered from my strange and unreasonable freak out. And then she offered to TAKE ME TO THE YARN STORE to buy more appropriate sock tools and yarn.

I KNOW.

It is like she loves me.

Sniff.

So later that day, Katr took me to the yarn store. And she bought me a new set of needles and a big ball of this:

which I have since turned into this:

I am entranced by the tiny stitches. Oooo, tiny stitches:

HEEL! My old nemesis. Soon I will turn you. For NOW, I have the proper instructions and I have practiced! HA ha!

While we were at the store, Katr also bought me these, so I could make her a sparkly scarf. I will gladly oblige.

In less dramatic knitting news, I have made some headway on the big chunky poncho pattern my mom bought me for Christmas. The pattern didn't come with a photo and I only saw the finished project once, so it's been a real adventure watching this thing come together. That SOUNDS sarcastic, but it's true. This thing is addictive. Also, the larger it grows, the more of my lap it keeps warm as I knit it. SCORE!

Yep. That's 100 stitches in Chunky Tweed on a straight needle. That shit was TIGHT, gang. Obviously, I invested in a circular needle shortly thereafter. And four weeks later:

Are you SEEING this?? I KNIT this!! Me! Come closer to the magic:

Clooooooooooooooooooser:

What concerns me are these "leaves" on the side, which, as you can see from the first poncho overview, are weirdly rumpled. I've been following the pattern religiously, so either they're SUPPOSED to look like that or I'm missing a page:

Maybe they'll "block out"? History will decide.

In "Finished Object but still mystery knitting" news, I have this:

knit from this:

waiting in the wings. Chezza, the longer it takes you to send me your address, the closer this thing gets to being MINE! ALL MINE!!

Creampuff Needs to Tie a Red Balloon To That

I knew that when Katr and I moved from Toronto to Vancouver, it would be an adjustment. Obviously, we would (and do) miss our Toronto friends terribly and trying out an unfamiliar city, while adventurous, can also be daunting. For all that, though, we felt that we were moving from one big city to another and that certain things would remain constants. Mainly, we believed that certain amenities would be as available in Vancouver as they were in Toronto. It came to my attention this weekend that I need to manage my expectations around some of those amenities. I mean, I recognize that I've gone from living an incredibly privileged life in Toronto to living an incredibly privileged life in Vancouver and that ultimately, I have NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT. Which is why I need to tie a red balloon to the following three items and just LET THEM GO.

1. Why are there no fucking garbage chutes in Vancouver?

In our old building in Toronto, there was a garbage chute and recyling area on every floor. Sure, if you had gigantic garbage, like a couch, you had to take it down in the elevator to the dumpster outside, but most of the time, taking the garbage out was a real treat. This set-up also made so easy to recycle conscientiously that you would not be embarrassed to look Al Gore in the eye.

At our current place, there is a garbage room on the first level of the parking garage. To get to the garbage room, you take the elevator down, pass through a security door, go down a flight of stairs, pass through another security door, drag your garbage through the parking garage, pass through another security door and then you're in the garbage room.

Making it such a hassle to take the garbage out means that people procrastinate until they have several bags of garbage and recycling and have to do one big trip. You can hear them, angrily clanking and dropping the F-bomb (no, it's not just me) in the elevator. Usually, between their apartment and the garbage room, a bag will break or an item will fall out. They will not pick it up, because they are angry and sweating. And then when I take OUR garbage out, I will trip on the thing they dropped. By the time they finally pass the security gauntlet, they are so annoyed (and probably late for something) that they just throw everything in the dumpster. A lot of people (and not just the people in this building) confess to not making an effort to recycle here. IN VANCOUVER. Al would be very upset and I don't blame him.

2. Why the fuck can't we get good food delivered in Vancouver?

Katr and I have simple tastes, really. In Toronto, we had three food delivery standbys: Swiss Chalet, Pizza Hut (I know, I know) and Holee Chow (I KNOW, okay?). When we were feeling REALLY flush, we'd order whole wheat tree hugger pizza from Magic Oven or Thai from Spring Rolls.

Here in Vancouver, there is NO SWISS CHALET. The closest one to us is in Burnaby, which is a 20 minute drive away. Needless to say, they do not deliver. What the hell?

Here in Vancouver, we can't find good Chinese food for delivery. I know - IN VANCOUVER. We literally live IN CHINATOWN. We've ordered from four different places and it's sucked EVERY TIME. And our STANDARD for Chinese food is HOLEE CHOW.

Here in Vancouver, Pizza Hut delivers. But there's only so much Hut a girl can have. GAH.

Vancouverites - we are open to suggestions, so - don't be shy.

I grudgingly admit that the lack of available delivery food is probably a good thing, as it encourages us to actually cook more. Which brings me to my next point.

3. Where the fuck is my grocery store?

I have been extremely spoiled in that every place I've ever lived in Toronto was within walking distance of a grocery store. Creampuff likes the grocery store. Other people go to record stores or clothing stores - I linger in the bulk food section and squeeze brie in the cheese aisle.

Our first place in Vancouver was close to two different markets, both of which enjoyed my frequent cheese squeezing. But after a thorough exploration of our current neighbourhood, I was shocked to find - NO GROCERY STORE.

Now, I CAN get really good fresh fruits and vegetables a few blocks away in Chinatown. I can also get really incredible tea and 8 different kinds of dried squid. But I can't buy a yogourt.

On this point, I know that I am just being a pussy. I can take a bus or the Skytrain to a grocery store and it really only adds half an hour to my shopping trip. I am, however, still trying to wrap my head around the lack of grocery store and my tiny brain is having a hard, hard, bitter time of it.

Today, though, the bitterness must end. The garbage chute issue will be not be changing anytime soon and we've signed a year lease so . . . I am getting over it. I'm sure that there are lots of places to order from where the food doesn't taste like ten kinds of ass and we just need to find them and so . . . I am getting over that too. And as for the grocery store - whenever we run out of Nutella and I'm daring to feel in any way petulant about having to go to the faraway store, I'm going to look out at our spectacular view:

and maybe have some peanut butter instead.

Creampuffs Share an Office

It's Day 3 of my beaverancée Katr and I both working from home. We're still engayged (thanks, Viscount!), so clearly things are going okay. We hit a couple of snags early on - the coffee cream went over to the Dark Side sometime Sunday night, so Monday morning's coffee was ruined - RUINED!! - and since our effing table from the Brick continues to be MIA, I'm still working on a T.V. tray table in our "office". But overall, the transition's been pretty smooth - and tomorrow, Katr's going in to the office, giving me the day to fill our bathtub with warm donuts and slide around while watching Firefly on the portable DVD with the Gina Torres parts on slow mo work on stuff.

It seems that the most important element in successful office sharing between beaverancées is open and honest communication. Communication about our space needs, bandwidth needs, phone needs, snack needs and random fondling needs. I am finding, however, that this need for open and honest communication poses a slight problem.

The thing is that Katr's communications are generally pretty simple and direct. Mine, on the other hand, are layered, like a delicious trifle, or like the Kaibab Limestone, Toroweap Formation, Coconino Sandstone and Hermit Shale that make up the top four layers of the Grand Canyon. I've been tracking our exchanges over the past couple of days and they say alot about who we are as people. For example:

I say: Would you like the last Snickers?

I mean: I would like the last Snickers. If you ask for the Snickers, I will give it to you. Then I will return to my T.V. tray desk with my Mars Bar and seethe. Later, when you ask me if I want some tea, I will seem distant.

Katr says: No, you go ahead and have the Snickers.

Katr means: No, you go ahead and have the Snickers.

I say: I'm having a little trouble with this template.

I mean: I've spent ALL MORNING trying to figure out how to get this stupid, PowerPoint-y arrow to disappear and it WON'T and I've read all of the help articles and it doesn't make sense and I HATE IT!! I HATE IT!! And if you love me like you say you do, you'll come fix it or at least be as upset as I am about it!! Plus I have cramps!! And I'd like you to bring me a muffin!

Katr says: Aw, that's frustrating. Here, I'm sending you a link that might help.

Katr means: Aw, that's frustrating. Here, I'm sending you a link that might help.

I say: Hey hey.

I mean: I've been writing historical lesbonic fiction all day. I've finally figured out how to avoid having each of the girls undo all 25 of each other's tiny mother-of-pearl buttons, take off their bodices, their overskirts, their hoopskirts, their petticoats, their corsets and their chemises before they can access each other's trembling loins. Wanna know how I did it? Two words: crotchless drawers. That's right. They're not only historically accurate but they're HOT. Take off your shirt.

Katr says: Little handsy today, aren't cha?

Katr means: Oooo - I bet my avatar in Second Life would look awesome with bigger boobs.

Do any of you guys see . . . a pattern here? Like, a pattern of some kind?

The funny part is that I assumed, in the past, that Katr's communications were as subtext-laden as my own. We've been together nearly four years, yet it is only recently that I have come to understand that I, in fact, am merely projecting this subtext. When Katr says "Boy, the kitchen is a disaster," what she actually means is "Hey, the kitchen is messy". She does NOT mean "WHY can't you keep the fucking kitchen clean, you lazy, free-loading, donut-bath-taking beaverancée?? WHY??"

Hmmm.

Clearly I have some issues I need to work out. And clearly this "sharing a home office" thing is going to lead to some much needed personal growth.

Now take off your shirt.

Creampuff May Have to Tone It Down A Little

As most of you know, I've been working from home for the past two years. While I do occasionally miss the companionship and intrigue of office life, I find that working at home suits me, partly because I like setting my own schedule - 

(7:00 a.m.: Work.

7:05 a.m.: Watch Dick in a Box video three times. 

7:15 a.m.: Watch Box in a Box video twice.

7:23 a.m.: Try to decide which one is funnier. Then try to decide if I am truly being objective about which one is funnier or if I'm being swayed by the Box in a Box singer's bodacious ta-tas. Hmm. Better watch them both again.

Noon: Lunch.)

 - but mainly because I don't have to wear pants and stuff.

The thing is that I've made working from home look REAL good to my girlfriend (or "fiancée" now, I guess - although, since we're getting gay married, isn't there some kind of "gay engaged" term we can use?  Preferably something with the word "beaver" in it? "Beaverancée"?).  As of Monday, my beaverancée Katr will also be working primarily from home! Both of us! At home! Together!

Obviously, this will be an adjustment for both of us. We'll have to share the phone and the broadband connection (Kate: Geez, this document is taking forever to download. What are YOU doing? Me (muting Dick in a Box video): Uh . . . nothing. Want some tea?). We'll have to be strategic about when we do laundry, because the washer sounds like a jet taking off. Until the effing Brick delivers the dining room table that's now A MONTH LATE, we'll be sharing a desk.

Also, I will have to try not to:

• Assume that just because Katr's finally home with me doesn't mean that her sole purpose is to spend all day, every day, laughing at my jokes, helping me with what I'M working on, fixing my technology problems and feeling me up;
  
• Drop everything to spend the day watching the Crossing Jordan/ CSI/Without a Trace/Law & Order (but never "Law & Order SVU", or, as I call it, "The Weekly Rape")/Any other crime drama my beaverancée hates marathon and knitting (Project Runway marathons are okay);
  
• Walk around with no pants on near the new webcam when Katr's on a video conference with clients;
  
• Sing at the top of my lungs and use stuffed animals to act out "Would You Light My Candle" from Rent;
  
• Blow the grocery money on blow and then say Nick Nolte mugged me and stole it (Sorry, Nick).

As Friday is my last day of "home alone" time, I'm also trying to figure out what to do tomorrow. It's not like I wait for Katr to leave every morning so that I can cover the couch in plastic, coat it in olive oil and slide around while watching The Matrix with the Trinity parts in slow mo. ("Why does it smell like Italian food in here? What's this on the remote?") But, you know - I feel like I need to have some kind of last hurrah. But what? A Homicide: Life on the Street marathon? An all-day daquiri bender with Nick Nolte? A knitting, pantsless, pie-eating trifecta? Or should I just cover the couch in plastic, coat it in Devonshire cream and watch Battlestar Galactica with the Katee Sackhoff parts in slow mo?

History will decide. Or perhaps Syd will.

Creampuff Refuses to be Intimidated

I went to a local yarn store earlier this week in search of, among other things, new needles on which to knit socks. Year of Socks!! I have been to this yarn store before and enjoyed myself so much that I walked away with this loveliness, even though I knew I would be allergic to it:

I spent my first few minutes in the store pawing over the sale bin and peering at the sock yarn before I made my way to the needle area. And there I stayed for many a long minute.

The friendly yarn store clerk was busy with other knitters before me, but after awhile he came over and watched me fondling the smaller size knitting needles over and over. (I was trying to decide between bamboo and aluminium, but after ScaryBez showed us these - scroll down IF YOU DARE - I'm glad I went with metal.)

"Can I help you with something?"

"I'm learning to knit socks!" I said brightly, as I continued to bogart the needle wall.

"Ooh. Socks are hard," he said. But see, he didn't say it appreciatively, like "Socks! An exciting challenge!" He said "socks are hard" the same way one might say "Dog shit makes bad icing." The implication was that socks were not only hard, but also, in some way, DISGUSTING.

"Socks, are, like the hardest thing you can knit," the store clerk went on, shaking his head.

"Well," I said, slightly less brightly due to bewilderment at having sock knitting shat upon by a CLERK IN A YARN STORE, "I imagine that's what . . . makes them fun."

"Well, I guess so," he agreed reluctantly, "I mean, once you can knit socks, you can knit anything." But he looked me up and down while he said it, like I was proposing to climb Mount Everest in an iron lung. "Are you a tight knitter?"

"Does the Pope shit in the woods?"

Silence. He handed me a set of needles a size bigger than I wanted. And then he started in on the one ball of sock yarn I'd been carrying around to see if it spoke to me. (It did. What it said was "Why is this guy shitting on socks?")

The clerk told me that the yarn I had chosen was "pretty pricey" for a first project and suggested instead that I comb the sale bin for "something cheaper to practice on". Dude! Do I look like someone who doesn't have enough odds and ends laying around to make a practice sock? What if I'm buying myself a skein of "incentive yarn"? You don't know my life! Fuck you, yarn store guy!

You know, I expect to be treated like an idiot at Future Shop, because they think that's how best to sell gadgets to chicks. That's why I don't go to Future Shop anymore. But I didn't expect to be bullied out of socks by some guy at my local yarn store. What the hell?

I didn't buy any yarn. And I did buy the needles I actually wanted. And I eyed the guy warily as he rang my purchases up. What would he crap on next? Lace? Circular needles? SANTA CLAUS? I took my receipt and bid him good day. And later that night, when the mood was just right - I cast on for my first pair of socks. So you can suck it, yarn store guy. Suck it.

Creampuff Starts Off the New Year With a Bang! Followed by a Whimper. Then a Band-Aid.

It was a windy day in the city and after hours of trying to get my attention by flapping noisily, the vinyl cover on the grill on our balcony decided to make a break for it.

I looked up to see it heaving itself over the edge of the railing and instantly I sprang into action. I flung open the balcony door and leapt like a fat gazelle out into the wind, catching my foot on the doorjamb. As I tried to steady myself, a big gust of wind slammed the door. On my ankle.

Birds rubbernecked as I screamed the F word. Screaming was soon downgraded to a light whimpering as I limped over to the pile of vinyl, gathered it up and dumped it in the outdoor Rubbermaid bin. Then I came inside and had a little cry.

I suppose I was due a little pain, because so far 2007 has been good to me. First of all, in the last comment thread, Flippy made the brilliant observation that my site was actively discouraging indexing by saying, and I paraphrase the metadata, "Robots, fuck off!" Thanks, Flippy! You are a rock star! I investigated further and discovered that the tag was there because for some reason I neglected to choose the "Publicize this blog" option in Typepad when I switched over from WordPress. Yeah, that's right - for over a year now, you have all been reading MY SECRET BLOG. The secret? That I am a DOOFUS.

In the course of impatiently Googling myself long before Google would have had a chance to index anything, I stumbled upon Cream Puffs in Venice, a beautiful food blog with incredible food porn pictures. Seriously. I had to close the blinds and take a private moment. The whole thing made me want to sprinkle powdered sugar on myself and dab espresso behind my ears.  There are recipes too, if you are kitchenally inclined. I believe the Venetian "Cream Puff" (who actually lives in Canada) uses "cream puff" in the literal "A shell of light pastry filled with whipped cream, custard, or ice cream" sense, rather than in my euphemistic "delightful fat people like me" sense. Just to clarify. Anyway, it's lovely and I encourage the foodies among you to check it out.

Secondly, I was aided and abetted in my quest to become a sock knitter this year when my love (and hopeful future sock recipient) signed me up for the Petals Collection at Sundara Yarn as a Solstice gift! (Miss Sundara Yarn herself seems to be between websites at the moment, but her stuff is gorgeous, as you knitters all know - here's her blog). I tore into the package like a hoodlum but later, when the fondling was over, I took photos. They're a little blurry because my hands were shaking with excitement.

This month's petal inspiration, the lenten ROSE (Coincidence? I THINK NOT):

The actual sock yarn (photos never do yarn justice, but this comes pretty close):

The picture of the sock pattern. If I wasn't such a ham-fisted yahoo, I'd give it a go, but I think I'd better practice first. To the yarn store!

Thirdly, it's been brought to my attention that a kind reader has nominated Creampuff Revolution for The Lesbian Lifestyle's Lesbian Blog of the Year award.  Thanks, kind reader! I understand that the top five most nominated blogs will then be voted on starting February 2. My pomade-lovin' pal Curly's been nominated, as well as Ms. SassyFemme - so y'all should head over there and nominate YOUR favourite lesbian blog(s). That's where I'm headed - right after I dust this powdered sugar off. On the other hand, Katr might be home soon. And I DID buy whipped cream this afternoon. Hm.

Creampuff Wishes All a Happy New Year!!

Hope you all had fabulous New Year's celebrations, whether you went to a wild party or whether, like us, you watched other people's wild parties from your balcony with binoculars and took bets on which young lady would take her top off first. Woooooo! Fireworks and voyeurism - tasty!

I've enjoyed reading other peoples' New Year's resolutions the last couple of days and naturally, I have been considering my own. A short list follows.

1. SOCKS!

As I noted in my last post, 2007 will be my year of learning to knit socks. When I first started knitting, I thought socks were STUPID. And now I long to learn. And learn I shall! And speaking of learning . . .

2. Learn to drive.

Seriously. How did I not learn to drive this year? I got my learner's permit in August of Two Thousand and Fucking FIVE, I had no steady job and my friend Chgi and I took this truck:

 

across Canada on a 4487 km Fringe tour from July to September. And STILL - I do not have my driver's license.

Given the above conditions, not learning to drive clearly took some dedication on my part.  But to be fair, up until Katr and I began the "moving to Vancouver" process, the need, the HUNGER to learn to drive - not so much there. As the year progressed, however, my "driving only WITH MY MIND" status started to become a real hindrance and now, I'm deeply annoyed with myself. I can think of half a dozen times this past holiday alone when it would have been great if I could have taken our car, Chloe, for a little errand running or to drop people at the airport or to go drag racing down Granville Street. Also, when I was calling all my aunts to tell them Katr and I were engaged, I promised one of them I would learn to drive before I got married. I don't remember which aunt - but I bet that aunt will remember and will embarrass me in public if I haven't learned by then.

3. Be able to "search" my blog.

Creampuff Revolution is like Hogwarts. You won't happen upon it through some random search for "porn podcast" or "catspiracy" - you can only find it if you already know where it is. Something between my domain and my blog is fuckered up and this year, I am going to figure out why the fuck Google won't index my site. I've submitted sitemaps and whiny inquiries, all for naught.  Being like Hogwarts makes me feel special, don't get me wrong - but damn, I'd like to be able to search my own damn blog so that I can laugh at my own jokes from posts past. What gives, Google?

4. 30 minutes a day. At least.

We are SO getting a dog this year (breed undecided). And I don't know if you know this, but dogs need to go for walks! So that they stay healthy and don't shit in your bed! As much. By the time we get the dog, I don't want walking the dog a couple of times a day to kill me because I'm so pathetically out of shape. So I started my 30 minutes of walking/swimming/ bungee-jumping/extreme knitting about a week ago and already I feel brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed AND, according the Katr, "yappier". Yep. It's gonna be a good year, people!

5. Procrastinate less, accomplish more, eat more fibre to offset my genetic legacy of ass issues, continue my good flossing habits, actually make a liveable wage, blah blah blah.

Best wishes for 2007! May resolutions be kept, opportunities leapt upon and end-of-the-season eggnog consumed! By me! Could the year start off any better? History will decide.