Celebrate

Let's celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere.  Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet's stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with.   Jason  is still puny, but didn't die.  Yet.  So Celebration.

Not last, Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail.  This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was  Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors.  He is, as his people would say, a mensch.

The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.

Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams' play and was not answering his phone.  I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim's building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It's possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don't know how all that went over.

I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.

Also, chez peenee's back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.

So celebrate.  Now is the time, this is place.

In Which a Small Cat has a Big Time

I was returning from taking the trash out and in the tiny, tiny window of opportunity when the house door and the garage door are both open, Saki, the adorable and evil, but mostly evil, cat made a break for it.

I gave chase (always such a good idea) but tripped and fell, scratching both palms and banging up my knee.  By the time I had righted my creaking old self, he had disappeared.

I wandered up and down our tasteful and quiet street, making the the little "tch tch" noise that is the only thing he ever pays attention to, but sort of hopelessly.  Our neighborhood has big stretches of wild, open canyon and I figured he was off paying the coyotes a visit, and, really, what are the chances of finding a cat in the dark?

One of my neighbors popped up, a sweet lady who, I'm sure, is not responsible for her Crazy Hair, and offered to help.  She asked what "her" name was, I told her "He probably thinks it's 'Get Off the Table' cause that's what he hears the most."  She didn't seem to get it, so I relented and explained it was really Saki, which she allowed was a cool name.

We shared lost cat stories and she looked around for a while in the most inept manner possible until I finally thanked her and sent her on her way.  I leaned against the garage door, mentally composing flyers:

LOST CAT

No collar

No brains

Answers to absolutely nothing.

If found, approach with caution.

I was already comforting myself with the realization that at least I wouldn't have to worry about finding to someone to take care of him while I was in New Orleans when he scurried back in, his tail huge, as big around as it can get, so it would seem he had run into some adventures.

Serves him right.  I want it clearly understood I did NOT greet him with baby talk and chin scratches.  Maybe a little.

Spring

Perhaps you heard?  Sunday, April 20 was both Easter (as I like to point out, a Jewish fairy tale about zombies celebrated with symbolically ritualized cannibalism.  Fabulous) and also the highly unofficial holiday of 420, which for reasons no one knows celebrates marijuana.

I don't really care one way or the other about either of them, in fact, I had forgotten this was Easter until Friday when I was trying to make reservations for brunch.  My biggest complaint on Sunday was that the confluence of both meant that every idiot in town whose driving was impaired either by religious fervor or dope, or both, was in my way.  There is an intersection where three streets cross and some buffoon attempting a left turn had some crisis of confidence and just gave up, sitting in the middle, blocking the rest of us.  Maybe it was an art piece, there's lots of those around here.

On the brighter side, the brunch was just charming and included an ice cream cone for dessert and I found a great couch for the New Orleans house.

Also blooming right now is my beautiful, beautiful cereus, so yay for spring and all that.

On the Prowl

Secret Agent Fred and I walking down Market Street in the Castro, talking the talk: "Nice people call it anal rape...."  What do people overhearing us think?  One wonders.

Fred and I have re-entered the world of The Rock n Roll Lifestyle, which is pretty fabulous, but difficult to accomplish anything in.  I stayed more or less in bed for 20 hours a day for several days over the last weekend, fending off all sorts of attempts to lure me out.  When I finally turned to on Tuesday, I had an astonishing stack of emails and stuff to deal with.  I had seen something from my tax guy that was something about filing an extension.  When I got around to opening the attachment, it turned out I needed to cough up $3,000 to the state by April 15, which was that day.  Luckily I was able to stop squealing long enough to notice I could do it online, and I did.

Fred and I did manage a very productive day last week.  We went out decorating shopping, looking at tile for the bathrooms in New Orleans and then couches.  Tiles were a big success, couches less so.  When did Room and Board turn into an expensive version of Ikea?  The only couch they had that I liked was the one we already have here, and I'm very conscious of the fact I seem to be replicating my house here at the one in New Orleans already, so no.

We also hit a sort of antique mall and found a lovely little orange lamp and then a weird gallery where I found a lithograph we're both wild about.

When I got them home, I realized they're perfect in the living room here, goddamit.  This happens a lot, I try to pay attention to the New Orleans house and suddenly I'm redecorating San Francisco.  So very not productive, but now I have lovely addition to my living room.

House Party

Oh, hello, there, how nice to see you again.  I had to dash off to New Orleans last week to meet up with the architect handling the plans of the renovation of my house there.  I was sort of dreading this, in part because my previous experiences with architects have been very much of the "I am an Ayn Rand sized diva and you had best watch out" type of soul withering punishment, and also because I assumed all the ideas I had for revamping the shabby little joint would be kicked to the architectural curb.

Instead, Katherine, Queen of Architects, was supportive and interested, complimentary about my ideas and made all of them work and improved even the most crack pot ones.

So now, demolition is proceeding with speed and my friend Stephen, who is running the project, and whom I think we can refer to as Sister Mary Legs in the Air from now on, is a genius.  He's very practical and so energetic about getting this crap done, I have to go lie down after watching him dervish around, ripping and tearing and nailing and all kinds of other butch things.

He and my friend Magda whipped up a pair of temporary gates from some scrap fencing in an afternoon.  This was after some riff raft had busted into the house the night I got in town, so some more secure access seemed like a good idea.

I also had dinner with Jason from Night is Half Gone who was down with pneumonia just a couple of weeks ago.  Everyone should go tell him they wish him well, although I have to say the whole story sounded suspect to me.  He just happens to have pneumonia the night my house is burgled and then is up to (not particularly outstanding) dinner and drinks on the town?  Hmmmm.

Anyway, photographic proof:

Before

After.  Or actually, during.  We'll see about after in a few months.

Also, Saki has sort of tentatively decided the cat tree is not an instrument of torture from the devil.  Sort of.  Yay.