6

So this is mrpeenee's sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau's long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I'd make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man's death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I've never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I'm typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol' gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They're handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Dolls, Dolls, Dolls

I may have mentioned before I have a bad back.   Much badness of back, in fact.  I deal with it by complaining (the main reason for this blog) and lots and lots of daily vicodins.  Vicodin is a miracle drug composed of hydrocodone (yay) compounded with either Tylenol or ibuprofin (so very not yay.)  I alternate between the two to avoid poisoning myself because, well, because I don't want to poison myself.

Everything's fine until Walgreens fucked my refill last week and suddenly I'm left with only the Tylenol one and I'm reduced to taking half the dosage I usually do.  I was worried about some withdrawal nightmare like that scene in Lady Sings the Blue with Diana Ross in the bughouse. EEks.  But no, because I am apparently tougher than Diana Ross and Billie Holiday combined.  Or maybe I am not shooting heroin.  Could be.

Anyway, what actually happened was all the little aches and pains from being a crotchety old man rose to the surface; everything I've bumped or bruised or banged up has come back to haunt me.  Ow. Ow. Ow. Owowowowowowow.

When I meditate, I concentrate on each part of my body in turn, start with my head and work down to my feets.  Typically what little focus I can scrape up is distracted by random thoughts like

• Do I need more orange juice?
• How come the professor couldn't fix the boat to get them off Gilligan's Island?
• How hard would it be to spread a rumor on the web that MJ from Infomaniac is really a man?
• Is Saki scratching the leather chair?
• What's that noise?

Things like that.

Now, each body part has to compete with all the ouchie ones.  I'm trying to concentrate on my right shoulder and my left little toe chimes in to remind me I broke it thirty years ago falling naked down the stairs of a bathhouse in Seattle.  Shouting at it to shut up is one thing when I'm here at home alone with the cat, another completely when I'm in the steam room at the Kabuki spa.

Finally, after several very firm discussions with the pharmacist, I got all my doses back in a row and the sun is all shiny and I am back to slowly destroying my liver and kidneys.  Get to work, slacker bitches, that's what you're there for.

If I had more muscles, they would just ache more, so it all works out in the end.

Saki Time

When R man and I picked the Evil and Adorable Saki out of the lineup at cat jail (aka Animal Care and Control, aka the pound,) the technician there estimated his age to be about three years.  That seemed really unlikely to me, his face still looked almost like a kitten and his complete lack of restraint seemed very adolescent.

Our vet backed me up and thought he was about nine months.  Since that was April of 2008, we decided his birthday was July 7, 2007: 7/7/7.  What could be more lucky than a kitty who had moved from the streets to jail into running the lives of two middle age poofs?

So happy birthday to Saki, destroyer of white leather chairs, hogger of the best place in the bed, and absolute terror of anyone foolish enough to try and pet him.

I claim my cooing at him in my old lady voice "Who's the babiest baby in babytown?" is an attempt to civilize him.  In fact, I just do it to fuck with him and his air of general annoyance when I do so is payback for all the scratches, bites and scars I carry from him, the adorable little shit.

Get Jiggy Wid It

I've been more distracted than usual lately because I stumbled on a web site that allows you to create and solve your own jigsaw puzzles.  It's caused me to not only dig back through all my masterpieces stored on iPhoto, but to actually scan in older pictures as well.  I've found putting the puzzle together forces me to dwell more thoroughly on the picture than just flipping through a stack of them.  Like Georgia O'Keeffe said "to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   I had to Google that quote, I certainly couldn't remember it accurately.  For that matter, spelling her last name threw me.

So anyway, I've been "publishing" these puzzles so I could solve them (I found out later you don't have to make them public.  Like I care) and now other people are working them.  Doesn't that seem odd?  Like volunteering to watch other people's vacation slides?

You know what the most popular one is?

mrpeenee and R Man walking down Dauphine Street in the French Quarter some long gone Southern Decadence.  What?  These guys have never seen a man in lady's underwear?

And while prowling through all these vanished days with R Man is plenty poignant, there's also lots of regret about wardrobes that have evolved into the past tense.  "Man, I loved that tee shirt" comes up frequently.

I take as a given the cause of all their demises were grease drips down the front that no laundering would ever get out.  I'm a slob.  But my jigsaw working is really improving.