Gotta Go

For the second year in the row, our agency is giving us two hours off early today. Typically, we have always had this tiny little perk for the day before big holidays like Thanksgiving and Labor Day, but getting off early for Good Friday seems very odd for a federal agency. They do know Easter isn't a federal holiday, right? Right? Not that I'm complaining at a short day. Yay, in fact. So how come we don't get this for Buddha's Birthday, and Ramadan, and what about Gay Pride?

Five of us were standing around the kitchen discussing this and it came out that four of us are not Christians (it's San Francisco after all.) A buddhist, two jews and me. The token Christian lady seemed incredulous. Obviously it had never occurred to her that she worked in an office of heathens. It seemed sort of comforting to me.

Present Tense

You know the most insurmountable part about being a slob? It's the fact that I don't care. When I was four years old, my basic costume was a tee-shirt, a pair of jeans and tennis shoes (in the south, they are universally referred to as "tennie shoes.") Fifty years later and my preferred outfit is the same, only the sizes have changed. That's why R Man will buy me presents that try to make me dress myself more like an adult, perhaps an adult who has a responsible job with a federal agency and occasionally has to look like he can actually button a shirt.

For my birthday, he came across with three lovely shirts, two subtle stripes and one very severely plain white linen that would make Lawrence of Arabia swoon, it's so cool. I should mention I do have dress up clothes I wear to work, but I am so deficient at shopping, they comprise a very limited pool. I'm sure my coworkers can tell the day of the week by the shirt I come in wearing. The slate blue with small black checks? Must be Thursday. So three shirts is no small gain.

Also, in birthday news, we have a quince miracle. Quinces are tough ass flowering shrubs with flowers that look like cherry blossoms on steroids. I planted one (called a Texas Scarlet in honor of my heritage) years ago even though I had heard they don't like to bloom where winters are warm. Places like, oh, San Francisco. Never the less, I persevered and was rewarded with a scraggly bunch of twigs with vicious thorns and no blooms. But lo, this, year, ON MY BIRTHDAY, I looked out and there was the most beautiful quince blossom any queen could ask for. What could be sweeter? Short of a Brazilian porn star, I mean.

Partners in Poo

I was going to put up a post about the importance in long time companionship of partners being willing to listen to each other’s news bulletins about their bowel movements, but I just can’t. Recent semi-frank conversations with other old couples secure in their partnerships reveal that this is truly the underlying key to a life lived together in harmony: poop chats. For those of you out there whining about being single, you might want to bear that in mind. You get hooked up and suddenly euphemistic heavy conversations seem to be part of the territory.

I just thought I’d warn you.

Grease Revenge

Who knew eating fatty junk foods was a learned ability, a talent that had to be developed and which could be lost? Did you know? I didn't know. As I mentioned R Man and I have abstained from eating fatty stuff since his heart surgery a year and a half ago. My plans to celebrate my birthday with a lunch of chili hot dogs with mayo and cheese was going to be a rare exception, and one to be savored. And, in fact, we did just that, but you know what? Chili dogs? No big deal. Certainly not the epicurean delight I remembered. Plus about twenty minutes after I stuffed them down, I felt like I had been smacked by a baseball filled with Crisco. I tried to disguise the chili induced coma as a birthday nap, but really, I just can't handle it. So now, I can't drink liquor and I can't eat junk food. What's left?

I suppose I have to get a grip here. Houseboy Jurgen Morpheus has taken to wearing all black in mourning for my deceased junk food capacity. Not such a good idea.

Vin

I know the Diesel man is not everyone's cup of muscle tea.


They're wrong.

Bon anniversaire

The ever charming Donna Lethal has sent us a Happy Birthday greeting on the wall of our Facebook page (a sidenote: I have no idea what Facebook is or does. I signed up for it and now it keeps bothering me.) Thank you Mme. Lethal

Yes, it's true, mrpeenee's birthday is Sunday, April 5. Yay. I will be 54 years old. Actually, I can now leave out the exact number of years and simply render that statement as "I will be old." Do I care? No. Honest, I don't. Many, many of the friends I started out with are not here now. Dead, doncha know. Since this is the only alternative, I'll take it.

To celebrate, I have a shiatsu massage lined up for Saturday night. The evidence that I'm old is not that I will not be chasing boy butt on that night, but that I am looking forward to having some guy poke his elbow into the knot between my shoulder blades MORE than I would any boy butt I can think of, even the one in the post below. Sort of.

For my birthday itself, R man, Urban Pirate and I are planning a luncheon blowout of hotdogs with chili. Since his heart surgery a year and a half ago (how time flies when you're not dead) R Man and I have been very virtuous about avoiding fat, so no hot dogs except for special occasions. We'll also go out for Thai food that night. I assume I will spend April 6 burping, but it will be worth it.

Wheee.

I'm still feeble enough to justify working half days.  I came home after lunch, tried to take a nap, but the cat will not get off me and I can't sleep under him, got up and started reading the blogs, only got as far as Fabulon, realized I have my jammie pants on backwards.  All this without drugs!  I must be improving rapidly.
random, arbitrary naked guy, cause I feel like it.