Win Some, Lose Some

Did I forget to post anything over the last week? O my gosh, how embarrassing. It must be my life as a trannie secret agent pirate is so absorbing I just forgot.

R Man is doing much better with his silly old cancer. He had his last round of chemo yesterday and we should know in about four weeks how effective it all has been. I certainly hope it's been worth it. We had three fights in one day last week about his not eating; I pointed out, vigorously, swallowing Vicodin does not constitute eating. Am I right or am I right? Anyway, he's in better spirits and somewhat more energy than then. He has chemo-induced anemia and with it, no energy and no appetite, but starting on Tuesday, he's felt much better and eating much, much more. He still only weighs about the same as a plump 12 year old girl, but he had seconds on the split pea soup the other night, so yay.

It was rather delicious soup, I must say. I'd made a ham last weekend and saved the rind so I boiled the hell out of the rind in chicken stock to make a base for the soup, fished out the now icky residue and dumped in the split peas (yellow, because they're more dainty.) With chunks of left over ham diced into it, it was some tasty.

About a year ago I went looking for a Night Blooming Cereus. They have the most spectacular scent known to man: heady and sweet without being cloying. One of them blooming in a backyard can perfume a whole neighborhood. Plenty of people raise them outside in pots, bring them in when the flowers get ready to open and have a party for all their friends to smell it. Surely you've been invited over to smell somebody's cereus.

Anyway, the one I snagged was sturdy and I was thrilled when it swelled with two big ass blooms that opened this week. They're stunning, but a) they're pink, which I had never heard of in a cereus and b) they have NO SCENT. Motherfuckers. I'm trying to hide my disappointment from the blossoms, cause I don't want them to feel bad, but damn.

That Time of Year

Is there any among us not aflutter with excitement over the 2010 International Nude Houseboy Olympics? I think not.

Personally, one of my favorites is the sculling event scheduled for as soon as I get around to it in the Chez Peenee bathtub and natotorium. The thrill of hearing the coxmen's cry of "Stroke, stroke...," I just adore it.

Do feel free to let us know what Olympian events are percolating in your neck of the woods.

Flowers and macancheese

R Man's sister (the good one) came out to visit this last week and was wonderful. She helped out, took him to the doctor, made soup; in short, a real jewel.

Part of the visit was a lunch party with some old friends while she was here. I picked a bunch of flowers from the yard, which was gratifying.

I made a ham and the most fabulous macaroni and cheese. I would have saved you some, but I ate it all. Yummy

Quoth the peenee "Nevermore"

God love her, a woman I work with is inflicted with the dread Ornamental Punctuation. Specifically, quotation marks. She uses them as substitutes for underlining, or for emphasis, or who knows why; she flings them around like glitter, I believe she thinks they’re pretty.

Two actual examples:

“No” food allowed

Place documents to be shredded “here”

While I’ve been unavailable the last few weeks with train trips and chemo visits, she offered to help out with the quarterly calendar. And she did, immensely, but she also stuck in the following little jewel, which I just happened to notice moments before I was preparing to send the whole thing off to the printer:

Reasonable arrangements for persons with “disabilities” will be made, if requested at least 2 weeks in advance.

This woman is the most earnest creature to walk the face of the earth, so I know this was not an effort at irony. At any rate, I was not being ironic when I deleted the quotes. And now the calendar is at the printer, yay.

Brink Back Infomaniac.

Darlings, let me share our outrage that the fantastical realm of Bloglandia could disappoint us all so much. First Cafe Muscato is abducted or deported or lured into the fast life of taxi-dancing or whatever, and now MJ, over at Infomaniac, has been "removed." What a terribly ominous verb, sort of like "disappeared." Against her will, no less.

Why on earth would Blogger take exception to Infomaniac? Of course it's vulgar, childish, coarse, obscene, tasteless and tittalatific (I made that up. Do you like it? Spellcheck hates it. Yay.) but that's part of the old girl's charm. In fact it may be all of her charm. In any case, I do not want Blogger deciding what I can and cannot read. The point of a blog is to just spill your guts, inner-most thoughts and humpy guy pix online

and if anyone wants play along, great. If not, you can always go back to stalking the ILoveClayAikens.com site.

MJ had recently told everyone to zip it wile she watched some sports abomination, scratching her privates and farting. I suppose this will teach her, but I hope for the immediate return of the shrill harridan. I miss her already.

Part of my protest has been to update the look of my own blog, sort of like getting your hair did to show support of the plight of jewish lesbian sharecroppers. I hope you like it.

Sex and the Madamism City

We had yet another committee meeting this afternoon as a wrap-up to the big conference I was part of in May. We're all sort of burned out; two-and-a-half hours and the only consensus we could reach was that Sex and the City 2 was a mistake exceeded only by Kim Catrrall's work.

Poor Kim (who I actually like) looks like she could use a squeegee on her forehead now.

Surely that was not the result she was shooting for.

Get Back to Work, Slacker

Work. Hmm. Whose idea was this? Between my R Man's chemo and our wild railroading adventure, I haven't been in the office very much for a while so being back these last couple of days has been almost refreshing. Almost. Certainly, I am not so lost to sensibilities that I enjoy listening to the pubic kvetch about the free classes I organize for the ingrates, but the mind-numbing familiarity of it all is sort of soothing.

So I was looking for an picture of a ball and chain to illustrate this quandary and ran across this:

Is that a Real Person with a Vagina Girl on the right? (I realize it appears to be a Real Girl sans Vagina on the left, but that's neither here nor there.) Could there be a less likely looking couple? And could she hold onto such a cutie without a chain? Inquiring minds want to know.

Enlightened Cherries with Chops

So R Man and Urban Street Pirate are in there watching a video lecture by Eckhart Tolle on spiritual enlightenment, R Man because he is seeking enlightenment and the Pirate because he is the sweetest soul on earth. I was invited to participate and when I saw topics included "Moving Beyond Thought" and "Accessing the Power of Now," I asked that they let me know when he got to the part about "Git Down You Funky Motherfuckers." I was then invited to leave. It happens.

It happens a lot. R Man wants to understand the nature of his being, I want to watch porn, the cat wants to play with string; there are many paths to nirvana.

Speaking of which, for dinner I'm making thick-cut pork chops braised in merlot with fresh cherries. Pitting cherries always leaves behind a scene the looks like something out of Dexter, but it's worth it.

In general, I'm leery of kitchen implements which only serve one purpose, but I'm willing to make an exception for cherry pitters because wielding them is so darn amusing.

The other houseboys told Eban Horalius the pitter was sex toy and made him cry. Honestly, those boys.

Home Again, Home Again

Oh, ma petit baguettes, we're home. What a lovely trip, but before I get down to griping about getting sick, bad food and fat fellow tourists, let me answer the questions burning on everyone's lips: How was Thombeau? Charming, ebullient, pixie-ish, totally the most fun to hang out with you could ask for. Other adjectives would include sweet, self-effacing, and smart, but you can probably tell that from his blogs.

Plus, as a bonus, he threw in his way cool and very leggy friend who signs her comments on Fabulon and the Chateau as Maggie the Cat. We had a wonderful and all too brief time in a bar Maggie recommended (she seems like the kind of gal who would be an authority on the best bars wherever she might find herself, and I say that with deep admiration.)

Diane von Austinberg joined us and kept Jessica company while Thombeau and I discussed the mysteries of blogging and gossiped about you. Both Thombeau and Jessica were filled with vastly amusing stories, I just wish you all could have shared in the good time.

So, back to the blow-by blow, and I do mean blow. The train from here to Chicago was just what we wanted. We had a teeny little room.

A lot of the scenery tended to look like archeological remains of a lesser civilization.

But some of it was lovely.

It was all very relaxing since there is NOTHING to do but stare out the widow and nap, two occupations I happen to excel in. The food was vile, they screwed up my grilled cheese sandwich, which takes real dedication. We finally skipped the dining car and grazed ont eh snacks I had brought along.

So either their attempts to poison me were successful or the snacks didn't agree with me, but I arrived in our very nice hotel room, greeteed Diane and announced she had to leave so I could proceed with a vigorous round of puking. Food poisoning. I spent the whole evening levitating between the bed and the toilet and wishing you could euthanize yourself through an act of self-will. God knows I tried.

The next day it was all gone, lalalalala. Diane and I walked down to Millenium Park and the Art Institute for lunch, so beautiful.) We hooked up with Thombeau and Maggie the Cat; drinks, laffs, aimless walks. Saturday we tried to go back to Millenium Park and the Art Institute, but R Man got sick, poor lamb, so we stayed in and had room service.

Let me mention here what a wonderful friend DIane is. She came all the way up to Chicago and we did absolutely nothing. She was very cool with that, so yay for old friends who love you.

Everyone else left Sunday morning, but we had most of the day to ourselves, so we finally got to the Institute and the park where they had planted out the most spectacular swathes of purple flowers. I don't what they are, they have square stalks like mint.

Then it was on off to Annapolis and a visit with my in-laws, over which let us just draw a discreet veil, noting only that I suffer as do the martyrs of heaven. I will mention one of the highlights of the trip was hiding from them in their backyard, lying on a cushion in the grass, soft warm Southern afternoon staring up at the sky through the branches. That was nice.

Anyway, glad to be home and back in the blog.