Creampuff Revolution

Creampuff's Fourth Sock Only Took Three Months

Warning: This post contains some obsessive photos and detailed descriptions of my knitting. The dog may make an appearance.

As some of you may recall, learning to knit socks was one of my New Year's resolutions this year (along with "learning to drive" - HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Yeah, that's going well.) After overcoming some adversity near the beginning of my sock journey, I managed to successfully finish my first pair of socks by April. But I held off on posting pictures, because I wanted to knit Katr a pair of socks too! And then I could take a photo of our chubby feet in our handknit socks! Because I am a dork! 

I started Katr's socks (using Bird of Paradise yarn from Sundara Yarn's Petals Collection) in April and finished the first one fairly quickly. Mindful of the dreaded Second Sock Syndrome, I immediately and smugly cast on for the second sock. That was in May.

My near total cessation of knitting coincided with my near total cessation of blogging this summer and I have no one to blame but the dog. Fortunately, I did not cease to READ blogs and it seemed like you other knitters were turning out finished items left and right. Several of you, in fact, posted pictures of your latest accomplishments just last week and after all that eye candy, I was so jealous that I couldn't take it anymore. So with fresh determination, I took up the sock again this weekend and several hours of crappy tv later, lo, it was finished! What the fuck happened with the toe seams? Good question.

Behold: 

 On the left - my right foot clad in my first sock. On the left, Katr's left foot, modelling the newly completed sock. Yes, yes - our feet are creampuffs too.

Katr said I should take a shot just to prove there were two complete Bird of Paradise socks. Oddly, I suppose I thought you'd all take it on faith that I had also finished both of MY socks:

A close-up of the carpet, my slip-stitch ribbing action and screwed up Frankenstein toe seam:

And finally, the dog getting some action from the duck and modelling the finished Bird of Paradise socks:

My god, you two - GET A ROOM!!

Now that I've finally finished that fourth sock, I am back on the sticks with a vengeance! I'm touching the stash! I'm coveting patterns! I'm thinking of getting back on the giant poncho. I'm already several inches in some sparkly action with the two balls of fun on the right. And speaking of balls of fun, a certain Padu had better get me his measurements if he ever wants his birthday present.

Elves Don't Appear to be Planning Creampuff's Gay Wedding

I know it's ridiculous, but somewhere deep down, I really thought that if we hired a caterer and booked the hall, all other wedding planning and implementation would be carried out by elves. Maybe gay elves who look like Scott Thompson and also pay for everything.

It's not so much that I don't enjoy planning the big gay wedding, 'cause that part is fun! It's the actual doing of things that's holding me back a little. Because I am a lazy, lazy person.

Fortunately, Katr and I included a "day of big gay wedding stuff" on our whirlwind visit to Toronto last week and we managed to pack quite a bit in. We started by meeting our caterer for a tasting and I had to have a private moment with the wild sea bass skewers marinated in saikyo miso. I think the caterer was a little taken aback by our expressions of delight. I guess they must have sounded kinda dirty from the kitchen. We nixed the things that tasted like ass and signed off on the evening's delicious menu. Check!

Then we moved on to flowers, which went less well. So, uh . . . hopefully there will be some flowers and stuff. Hmmm. Semi-check!

We rounded out the day by meeting and immediately booking the photographer the Viscount of Knockers recommended, so I'm looking forward to lots of cleavage shots. I knew she was the right photographer for us not only based on her lovely portfolio, but also because she took it in stride when I told her that every photo of me on the big day had to include me making finger guns. That's the sign of a professional, people.

We were about to leave the area, feeling heady with accomplishment, when we ran into my friend Bejo and her camera on the corner of Queen and Dovercourt. "Hey!" she exclaimed, "Are you here for Cathy's thing?"

"What thing?" I asked. 

"She's crawling on her hands and knees from Kensington to the lake in her wedding dress to get divorced today! Come on!"

Who could say no to that? Well, Katr could, because she had a meeting. But I stuck around and chatted with folks as Cathy crawled into view with her entourage.

I don't know Cathy well, but I took a great writing workshop from her once and I'm a big fan of her performance work and her now ex-husband Steve did the sound design on a show I directed years ago. Plus he introduced me to one of my favourite words: "squoze". As in:

Steve: I was sitting in [name of restaurant withheld] and I felt a mouse run up my leg. So I clapped my hand down on my pants and caught in it there. Then I thought "Now what?" If I let go, the mouse would run up to my junk. The thing started biting me and I made instinctive decision. 

Me: What did you do?

Steve: Well . . . I squoze.

And so it happened that on the day Katr and I had our hors d'oeuvre tasting and ordered the big gay wedding flowers and hired an ace photographer, I watched Cathy Gordon and Steve Marsh get legally divorced in the basement of the building I'll be getting married in three months from now. It was quite sweet, really (photos of the whole day are here). They signed the papers and kissed before Cathy crawled off to her next stop and after saying goodbye to the folks I knew there, I hopped on the streetcar back to the hotel. I thought about synchronicity and how interesting it was that our wedding planning path crossed Cathy's divorce path that day and how lovely it was that Cathy had friends to hold the train of her wedding dre - OH HOLY FUCK, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO WEAR??

Yes, folks, this is the latest in many gay wedding panics. Now that we've left it so late, will we be able to find someone to make our creampuff wedding clothes? Fortunately, my friend Jeba has just spent the last two days stuffing my inbox with Vancouver creampuff designer ideas and some of them look extremely promising. I'll keep you all posted, but you can rest assured that at least we won't be getting married naked in a traditional Betazoid ceremony.

Yes, yes, it's true. Ich bin ein nerdlinger.

Creampuff Class

It was a pretty harried morning Saturday as Katr and I prepared to go to Toronto for a few days of workin'. As usual, I had left some vital chore, like packing, until the last minute. Katr, never the most relaxed traveler, was even more frumbly than usual due to some electronic mishaps and the dog - the dog knew something was up.

After his hilarious joke about storing our mail in the dishwasher was met with a lecture on what was or wasn't funny to stressed out creampuffs, my brother and his girlfriend wisely absented themselves and hung out on the balcony, where the sounds of creampuff bickering blended nicely with the calls of the seabirds buzzing our little outdoor cafe. The dog joined them. I didn't blame her.

Katr and I frumbled to the airport, grumbled through security and mumbled at each other in a surly manner as we waited at the gate. I had just finished my pre-boarding bathroom break ("What . . . is . . . wrong . . . with . . . this . . . TOILET PAPER??? GodDAMMIT!!") when I heard the gate agent call my name over the PA system. Great. What now?

I frumbled my way up to to the desk with my boarding pass. Dan at the desk was wearing a grave expression. I prepared myself to have to fight for my window seat. And then Dan said these magic words:

"Do you mind if I bump you up to Business Class?"

It may surprise you to learn that I don't spend a lot of time wanting to kiss dudes. But I nearly frenched this guy. The only thing that held me back was knowing that trying to tongue Dan the Air Canada employee would definitely give me away as a hick who'd never flown Business Class. And I am nothing if not sensitive about my hickishness.

"Sure," I answered nonchalantly, tossing my hair in so insouciant a manner that I nearly dislocated my neck, "that would be lovely."

"I see you're traveling with someone," he said, frowning at his list.

"Yes," I said, throwing caution to the wind, "can she come too?"

If Dan caught the whiff of hick desperation, he didn't show it.

"Sure," he said, "here you go. Have a nice trip."

I took the new boarding passes in my hands and felt a surge of power. I sauntered back over to a bewildered Katr, fanning myself with our new tickets.

"So," I said, when I got back to our seats, "how 'bout we fly . . . BUSINESS CLASS today?"

I swore I heard sweeping music in the background as Katr's eyes filled with tears. It was epic.

Business Class. It's everything the legends tell you. Spacious seating (so important to a creampuff). Quieter. No bad smells. Actual food plus free flowing booze for 5 hours. I hear some of the newer planes have personal entertainment systems and individual gumball dispensers; our plane was older and I didn't care. It was HEAVEN and I couldn't believe our luck. I kept humming "Somewhere in My Youth or Childhood, I Must Have Done Something Good" from the Sound of the Music, until one of the flight attendants gave me a look. While I had her attention, I waggled my empty wineglass at her.

I was careful not to betray my status as a first class virgin (worldly and sophisticated Katr has flown first class before) but I was clearly not alone. The dazzled eyes of some of our fellow Business Class passengers gave them away as first timers too. Also, how they kept asking the flight attendants how much the food cost and what the hot towel was for and how much IT cost. Ha ha. Plebes.

It was the first plane trip I've ever taken where I felt like I hadn't had to ENDURE the flight. I walked off the plane feeling fresh as a fucking DAISY. And I knew in that moment that I had been spoiled for "Economy Class" forever.

This conviction was reinforced by our hellish return trip, where we were jammed back in with the rest of the Great Unwashed on a plane so hot you could have grown rice. Stupid Sound of Music.