One Less Blogger Blogger

Blogger, the site which publishes my blog, has decided my brand of smarm is not to their liking.  Since I am not interested in having some corporation decide what I can and cannot write or include, my reply to them is a simple "Go fuck yourself."

Since I cannot get motherfucking Blogger to automatically forward you,  anyone still interested in my scintillating insights and pictures of naked muscular youths can find us at

mrpeenee at wordpress

A Master of Distraction

 So this is the moraine of paperwork on my desk I'd sworn to get to this evening; some of it goes back to December.  Taxes to file, bills to pay, snark to snark.  But first I had to find the camera to take a picture of it and then Saki wouldn't get off the chair and then I had to go get some cookies and then I remembered that when Secret Agent Fred and I were watching reruns of RuPaul's season 4 Drag Race, I had meant to find a picture of Fred's favorite member of their Pit Crew, Shawn Morales.

So obviously I had to get all that out of the way and now Saki is back demanding I make a lap for him to sit on.  Who knows if, or when, any of the paper beast will be tamed.

And once again, Saki commandeers the good chair.  Am I supposed to file taxes standing up?

Boxing Day

Sorry I've been distracted, but I've been shipping off all kinds of goodies to New Orleans and my life has been an absolute whirl of packing tape and cartons and pissed off kitties who do not appreciate change, not one bit.

I have known for months and months that I would be sending all the furniture and knick knacks I've bought here so of course that meant I completely ignored packing until the night before the movers came calling to load up the Pod when I burst into a frenzy of relocation.

Have you heard of the wonders of the Pod?  The company drops off a shipping container in your driveway,  you stuff it full of your flotsam, and they pick it back up to ship it off to your destination.  It's possible flying monkeys are involved.

Part of the thrill of dealing with the company is announcing that "the pod people are coming on Wednesday," which sounds a lot like the vilains from some cheesy 50's sci-fi flick are dropping by for drinks and a couple of hands of bridge.

Naturally, I have spent the last few days since the pod left bumping into things I meant to ship off in it.  Books.  Linens.  Speakers.  Cats that refuse to stop pissing in the corner because they're mad that I shipped the bed I thought of as mine but turns out it's "ours."  Stuff.