A Partial List of Really Cool Names for Our New Cat Which R Man Rejected Out of Hand

Bitsy
Bootsy
Blasto
Franz Ferdinand
Aaron
Jen and Aaron
Tex
Buddy
Buster
Tiger
Stripedy
The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman
Grr
Get Off the Table
Oozums
Neely
Judy

Young People Today: The SHOCKING Truth

Super Agent Fred reveals that he and a gang of other local miscreants spent Friday evening in a Karaoke bar covering Hotel California and even the Captain and Tenille. One doesn't know whether to feel pity or disgust.

Cat Man Do

It's been almost two years since our much beloved cat Maggie died. We've talked about getting another cat, not as a replacement because Maggie simply could never be replaced, but just to have a cat around the house. I missed being greeted when we came home; I missed the weight on my lap as I was reading; I missed being bumped into by an empty little head. We kept stalling, knowing what a commitment we were staring at. One of the hurdles was the carpet in a bedroom where Maggie had peed when she got old and feeble. We figured a new cat would zero in on the spot and we just didn't want to face that.

So this morning, I leapt form bed at the crack of noon, hauled all the furniture out of the room and we ripped up the rug. Fortunately, sort of, there was Congoleum (the sheet vinyl flooring of choice thirty years ago) under the rug, not very pretty, but better than the plywood sub-flooring everyplace else in the house and, more importantly, impervious to cat pee.

Then we went cat shopping. Wheee! First to Animal Care and Control (aka the pound) and then the SPCA. We must have seen at least thirty cats and wound up picking the very first one we had seen. He jumped in my lap when we went into his little cell and was immensely charming. He's tiny, which we both like, three years old and a tiger stripe, but more yellow than the usual orange or ginger. The people at the cat jail had named him "Kris," a name which has to go. We plan on calling him "Zim." R Man nixed my many other proposals, including Bitsy, Cowboy and Elvis. I don't know why.

He has to have his lovely little nuts clipped this week (yow. I'm trying to not empathize too much.) and then we pick him up on Wednesday. I can't wait.

Inside mrpeenee's Closet

It unsettles me whenever I realize I retain some vestige of straight boy-ness. I adore decorating, have firm opinions about women's shoes and have no gag reflex whatsoever - gay, gay, gay. And yet, because I sprang from a world of heterosexuals (rather like being raised by wolves) I still have some trace of that culture. Specifically, I maintain a passionate hatred of clothes shopping that would rival that of the most committed breeder boy. The entire process irks me and is why I have a wardrobe that can only be described as skeletal; it looks like an Amish farmer imitating an IRS agent. I have one pair of black leather shoes to wear to work, a pair of Converse tennis shoes for all the rest of the time and a pair of nice leather shoes I wear to funerals, and you had better be a pretty good dead friend for me to break them out. I had one belt I wore every single day until R Man gave me a new one for my birthday and took the old one away. All my shirts and pants come from Costco, I was beyond delighted to find out I could buy khaki pants and a five pound tub of salted cashews in the same place. The fact that they do not allow you to try on the merchandise is fine with me. Dealing with dressing rooms is one of the aspects of clothes shopping I like least; that and dealing with salesmen. I never feel as frumpy as I do when confronted with some clerk who probably makes a great deal less money than me and yet looks like I should be parking his car for him. All this means I have plenty of room in my closet, which is good considering how much room my porn collection takes up.

That's why I'm fascinated with haz-mat bunny suits, those fabulous one piece costumes worn by workers scrubbing down Three Mile Island. I'd love to get away with having one as my daily ensemble. I always like footie jammies and these just take the concept to a higher plane.

mrpeenee Goes to Hollywood

Have you seen our new biopic?

So I'm a Genius. So What?

I got this from Are You There Blog, It’s Me Stephen He’s a bad influence.

You have a Sexual IQ of 160
When it comes to sex, you are a super genius. You have had a lot of experience, and sex interests you so you know a lot about it. You pride yourself on being a source of information and guidance to all of your friends.
'What is your Sexual IQ?' at QuizUniverse.com

Spring's New Look

Going downstairs to stir the beans, I passed a mirror (rarely a good idea) and realized that I was wearing my favorite ratty old flannel jammie pants, which are a homely maroon plaid, and the brown and green striped shirt I wore to work this morning. Fortunately, I did not wear the ratty plaid pants to work, but it was probably a near miss. The ensemble is very striking, but not in a good way. It's not that I have no taste (well, maybe it is) but rather that I just don't care. However, I do know that were the house to catch on fire, I would think long and hard before I would run outside in this costume.

Downward Your Own Damn Dog

I do not play well with others. The last time I attended a yoga class I was a star until the next day when my back was so screwed up I was crippled for the better part of a month. Also, in those classes, the teacher will say something like "Put your right hand on your left knee" and I freeze. Which one is my left hand? Where is my knee? Wait, wait. And then I fall over and start crying.

Consequently, I do my yoga (and what is the correct verb for yoga? Do? Practice? Perform? Interpret? Whatever.) I do my yoga all by myself in the Quiet Room at my YMCA. The Quiet Room is perfect for me, no hearty jock-types yucking it up or overly spandexed young ladies thrusting in my vicinity. Just me and those like me, stretching and creaking and being left alone. People occasionally read the paper in there in between their crunches. Just what I want, a gym that has the ambiance of a small branch library. I tore my hamstring a couple of years ago and it still hurts sometimes, so it's nice to have an environment where mediocre physical ability is no big deal.

This is so Not Me.

B-52s Beefcake

Hey y'all!
Last call!
Last chance to dance!
Do a white hot shimmy in a Lurex™ gown
Shimmy shimmy! hot! shimmy shimmy!
Twist the tornado in the lasso
Shake it honey! shake! shake it honey!
On the hot corner, steamin' it up
Shimmy shimmy! hot! shimmy shimmy!
Tragically hot, show what you got
Shake it honey, shake, shake

I have been so very groovin to the B-52s new album. It's as fabulous as their best from the old days. The girls are in great voice and Fred.... All I do all evening long is squeal along with him and rock. The houseboys are amazed, they apparently didn't believe I even knew what a groove thang was. Well I showed them. They were so impressed, they held a Shangalang contest to see who would be my dancing partner. The winner, above, Thelia Octavius. Congrats.

Entre Nous

I adore this picture of me and R Man that Super Agent Fred took this weekend.

Deco Report

While I'm sharing decorating news, here's an update from my bathroom renovation completed sometime in January

First, before

and then, after
Fabulous glass tile

Fabulous faucet handle

Fabulous mirror and new lights.

Lasagna Night

I was a half hour late meeting R Man after work tonight because a crazy lady had involved me and my boss in a marathon conference call about something or the other at work for two fucking hours. This is a woman who, if I see her waiting for the elevator in our office, I will duck into the other hall and hide until she goes down rather than share an elevator with her. Anyway, R Man, goddess love him, felt sorry for me and took me out for Italian food and I lucked into the most delicious chicken lasagna ever. Ever. So now I'm in a cheery mood. With any luck, crazy lady will fall into a hole and never be heard from again, or at least, I can hope so.

When we got home I was able to admire the new bookcase we had delivered this weekend for R Man's room. Here it is, complete with white tulips and alabaster lamp cause we're, you know, gay.

What Attention Span?

Is it remarkable that neither R Man nor I can remember when he gave me my wedding ring? It seems like it to me. We're both vaguely sure it was quite a while ago, maybe 1990. I remember it was a Christmas present, one I had asked for specifically, and it came in my stocking. Sweet, huh?

It certainly means a lot to me, an announcement of the permanence I feel with him. A former fuck buddy took exception to it and asked me to take it off while we were going at it. I refused and he was annoyed, but not as annoyed as he was when he found out I take it off to make biscuits. I tired to explain there is a profound difference, to me, between the symbolism of removing it to fuck and the practical demands of avoiding scraping dried up dough off it, but he wasn't having any of it. That might be one of the reasons he is a former fuck buddy.

In other mrpeeneee news, we went to Foreign Cinema for lunch again Saturday. I love that place, great, great food, and look what a cute waiter.


Here's his butt.


This is part of my vast collection of attempts at taking my own picture where my pointy little head winds up squeezed into one of the corners of the frame. It's art.


Lastly, our ceanothus is blooming and dazzling.

Cat House

Proving that we truly are Old Queens, R Man and I are still in mourning over the death of our much beloved cat, Maggie, two years ago. She was tiny, the runt of her litter we suspect, and not very bright, but she was smart enough to run our home with an iron paw.

To alleviate some of our nostalgia, our friend Super Agent Fred occasionally spends the weekend with us and brings his charming, charming cat. We call it Going to Visit Granny. Assizi is terribly friendly with a beautiful coat that looks like a mountain lion's fur. Like all really cute boys, he seems aware of the hubbub his ravishing good looks cause without being concerned about it. Another friend of Super Agent Fred's cannot remember Assizi's name and consequently refers to him simply as Steve. It's a nickname that seems to suit his manly appeal, like Steve McQueen.

Springtime for Hitler and San Francisco

I have spent all day thrashing and being thrashed by schedules and news releases, trying to write a couple of press releases that translate our corporate cosponsors' weaselspeak into something the media might actually pick up. I finally wrestled the whole thing to the ground, shipped it out and walked outside only to discover the most beautiful day in history is unfurled out there. It's been sort of chilly and damp for weeks here and this sudden burst of springtime fabulosity came out of nowhere. Even by San Francisco standards this moment is particularly lovely; the air is soft and balmy and the sun is so sharp, the shadows look like xacto blades (Does anyone actually use xacto blades anymore? Except in that unhappy universe inhabited by Martha Stewart craft drones, I mean.)

I had been vaguely aware that the whole office is very quiet, which I was grateful for, but now I realize it was because everyone else has slimed on off out of here to enjoy the day. Well, count me in, bucky. That trail of dust is me, cause I'm gone, baby, gone.

Protest

Downtown San Francisco, where my office sits, is awash in protesters today. The Olympic Torch makes its only appearance in North America here today and after the chaos in Paris and London over it earlier this week, the cops here seem to expect riots. To avert trouble, they've abandoned the original course, which was along the waterfront near here and instead hightailed it over to Van Ness Avenue and now seem to be headed towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Since the the original route drew all the protesters down here, the approach to the Bay Bridge is all snarled up and now going off towards the Golden Gate has closed that, so all the main ways out of town are shut down. I am so glad I took the subway this morning. Free Tibet.

Modern Office Life, Take Two

There are times when the schmancy office building in which I toil suddenly turns into a dank, cold box, something out of Dickens. No explanation, no warning just suddenly I become aware that my hands are numb, my shoulders are hunched over and I am expecting to see my breath in puffy little clouds. That's why earlier this year I marched my self right on over to Walgreens and bought a blanket. It's a stylish grey and white plaid made of light weight fleece, but still, it's a blanket. I never feel like such a frumpy old cliche of a civil servant as I do when I'm wrapped up in my blankie, typing. A blanket. Dear god, take me now.

Birthday thanks

How sweet everyone was to wish me Happy Birthday, thank you all very much. When you're as old as me, you'll know how touching it is to have all you young things gather around reverentially. I think I'll start announcing it's my birthday more often, to sort of perk things up.

Thanks

B'day Blog

Bow down before me, bitches; today is my birthday. To celebrate, R Man showered me with gifts up to and including gaily striped socks and a pressure cooker. I really am thrilled. I took a birthday nap this afternoon and now we're headed out for dinner at Foreign Cinema, a joint that exudes glamour and high times like Gloria Swanson in heat.

Ah, the Baroque

We’ve had a very culture-happy week around here. On Wednesday we went to the symphony and on Thursday night you would have found us at the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra. PBO is one of the great joys of living in San Francisco, they focus on early music performed on period instruments. We had been subscribing to their seasons for the last couple of years and decided this year to try the symphony instead. Who knows why, the symphony here is well regarded and we thought it would be interesting. Instead, it was just sort of dull. The symphony is very solemn performances of mostly romantic composers, all very Mahler-esque and Brahmsian sweetness. Yawn.

PBO is a much more quirky affair, with weird instruments you’re not quite sure of (Sackbutts! Yay! Theoboros! All right!) and it’s in a amuch smaller, more charming hall. Unlike the sweet tinkling of the symphony, PBO is, in the words of our friend Anne, “screechy scratchy” and we love it. The audience, too, is more…uhm, individualistic. They all seem like elderly hippies taking a break from some right-on kind of consciousness raising to groove on Handel oratorios for a while. All the gay men there are futzy old Marys who wear big brooches pinning their shirt collar closed and huge ass rings on their index finger. Sort of a down market Karl Lagerfeld. I’m taking close notes for when I adopt their style for my own.

Anyway, we’re planning on abandoning our fling into symphony land to return to our people in the Baroque. Handel and Bach, open you golden gate, I’m coming home.

Modern Office Life

Am I the only one who, when trapped in a meeting with some gas bag who keeps yammering and yammering and yammering, long after anyone cares about whatever point they're bludgeoning to death, fantasizes about one of them tranquilizer dart guns they bring down big game with on nature shows? Am I?