In Which We Live with Cats

 Saturdays are important here at Chez mrpeenee cause that's the day when I change the litter in the cat boxes. Whoo hoo, such high times. I was finishing up with Octavia's (and getting ready to mop up the floor under her box where she had pissed, of course) when Toby climbed over in the bathtub AND PISSED IN THE DRAIN THERE. He did so with his back to me and an air of disturbed gravitas as if I were intruding. Naturally, I changed his litter, I had to clean the bathtub with bleach so now the bathroom smells like an abandoned swimming pool.  I also was faced with the distressing question of how long has he been doing this, distressing because I take baths in that bathtub.  Also, WHAT THE FUCK TOBY? 

Toby insists on being adorable even if he is pukey.

Kitty fluids have been on my mind a lot lately.  A few nights ago, I was cozily in bed when I heard the familiar yet distressing sounds of a cat puking.  I briefly considered unpacking myself from bed to go investigate, but experience has taught me vomit will wait.  I compromised by yelling "Stop that this minute" which had exactly as much effect as it ever does, which is to say, none. 

The next time I actually staggered to consciousness, I went on the hunt for puke, but I found none, or not any fresh puddles anyway.  My sizeable collection of very fancy, very expensive antique Chinese rugs are all liberally decorated with the dried remains of pukes gone by.  I clean them up with my fancy little vacuum/rug cleaner, but it can only do so much against the staying power of cat vomit.  Which brings us to Michael, the Insane Rug Guy.

Michael owns the best rug washing business in the San Francisco Bay area.  He is also a lunatic.  Dealing with him can be challenging, even if it is amusing. And honestly, I do find him pretty hilarious.  He has a schtick of pretending to be this cliche of an eccentric old Jewish guy.  Every exchange with him has to include an extra hour of his Henny Youngman imitation.  Diane von Austinburg was here for one of our interactions and hid in her bedroom where she said she clearly heard me yelling "Get out, just get out".  He brings with him some long-suffering Hispanic day laborers. Each time, I offer them a bribe, cash money, to kill him.  Each time, I can see them pondering if I'm being serious and if 40 bucks is worth a potential murder rap.

I usually get the rugs washed at least once a year, but I had been putting it off for a while.  The mystery cat puke was the boot up my butt that I needed to go ahead and schedule the comedy hour that is Michael coming to pick up my rugs.  I guess we'll see if this is the time the guys decide to take me at my word and off him. I just hope they wait until he has finished washing all my rugs. 

Nude dudes:

Marcel Rodriguez and his perky buttchops.

If you're just going to take a nap, you might as well take your pants off.  So inconsiderate.

The Eastern European charms of Peter Lipnick.

Ta-dah.

Also, I wanted to mention, days after I had given up looking for the missing cat puke, I found traces of it dried on the bottom of my favorite tennis shoes.  Dammit.

Why can't my rug washer look like this?  Huh?

A naked cowboy for my sweet niece Amber.  I know not every uncle and niece relationship includes naked humpy guys but ours does.  Are you complaining?

In Which We Clean House

 

I have spent the last week organizing and cleaning out super agent Fred's apartment.  Considering it is only a studio, there certainly was a lot of crap to get through.  A huge chunk was Fred's art supplies. Photographic evidence supplied:

 

I had discovered a recycling place here in town that would take art supplies.  They had very clear standards about what they would take, but they would even come and haul them off IF you packed them up in specific boxes and there had to be at least six boxes.  No problem hitting the minimum box.  Photographic evidence applied: 

I spent all day packing paints and brushes and who knows what.  Artist esoterica, that's what.  Then I went to the recycler's website to arrange for them to come schlep it all off only to be met by a notice there saying they were taking a break from donations.  As you can see in the picture above, the windows were all blocked with the flotsam and jetsam I have been dealing with which was fortunate because otherwise I would have thrown myself out one.

I lay in bed that evening crippled and concerned the cats would figure out I was too weak to fend them off and they would eat me, all the while trying to conceive a plan that would allow me to unload nine very heavy boxes of art supplies.  That's when I remembered my old friend Craigslist.  When I sold my house, I put a listing on there announcing free crap and there was a line out the door on the day of the crap fest.  Following that plot, I posted a listing for Fred's stuff and within 12 hours I had agreed to meet some guy over there who was the lucky winner of all the equipment a budding artist could want. 

I also now have more than 200 responses in my email from Craigslist aficionados, but first come,  first serve.  Also, two things that made me glad I went with the first guy.  He was not only interested in the art stuff, but willing to take all sorts of other random junk I was trying to get rid of.  Yay.  And he was really cute in a classically California surfer boys sort of way.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Anyway.  Everyday when I go over to the apartment and work and work, I think "Oh thank God, I'm almost through." And then the next time I come back whatever progress I made seems to have evaporated and I am confronted with a mountain of Fredtastic debris.  But after today, thanks to the Craigslist cutie, I think I am pretty much finished.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Before

After

Cute guys who may or may not be on Craigslist:

You know how fond I am of gingers.

The terror of the locker room, hopefully.

Ready to rumble.

Honestly, I'm too tired to come up with captions for nekkid guys.

The old peekaboo pose.

Dishing

All I'm saying is we might have a guest here who stacks dirty dishes in the dishwasher like a crazy monkey on crack. Who apparently thinks magic dishwasher radar waves will miraculously penetrate flatware mashed together and clean them even though no water and soap can touch them.

I need to go take my meds.

Cleaning Tips

Say you wake up in the middle of the night and really, really need to pee. What? These things don't happen to you? You were born under the sign of the Sleeping Camel? Fine, whatev. Say you're mrpeenee and you wake up in the middle of the night and you really, really need to pee. After not stumbling, but rather gliding like a sylph into the bath, you let fly and instead of the reassuring tinkle of water on water, you hear the much more ominous splash of water on wood. Wooden toilet seat, to be precise. And then you remember the cleaning ladies have been here again and they always, always put the lid down.

You remind yourself they do no do this to irritate you (or "piss you off." Heeheehee. Get it? Piss you, oh never mind;) they are doing their job. It is not a rebuke. OK, maybe it's sort of a rebuke. Rebukeish. Do you go back to bed muttering "I gotta clean that up tomorrow..."? CERTAINLY NOT. You get the lovely cucumber scented cleaner and the paper towels and have a brisk round of 4 a.m. floor mopping. Because that is the Right Thing To Do.

I hope we have all learned a valuable lesson from this.

Bowls of Our Lives

Perhaps you remember the slattern in our office I mentioned earlier who kept leaving her dirty oatmeal bowl and spoon in the sink here. One evening working late, I took matters into my capable hands and threw the nasty things away. What? You thought I was going to wash them for the slut? Not likely.

It’s been a great relief to me that she hasn’t returned to her unpalatable ways. Either she got the message or she’s too cheap to replace them. I figure they must have set her back two, three bucks at one of the finer 7-11s.

I hope we have all learned an important lesson from this.

Houseboy Gunter Gladdeus hopes so, too.

Fast Times at etc..., Part Two

Since R man left for the bright lights of Annapolis yesterday, I am leading La Vida Bachlorette, let me tell ya. In the 24 hours he's been gone, I have:

Played solitaire. The only real reason for owning one of these computer machines is access to solitaire.

Watched porn. All right, all right, two reasons to own a computer. And let me strongly recommend the thespian efforts of Max Orloff in Under the Big Top. Yowzah.


Took the day off from work, slept late and briefly considered shaving. Nix.

Reorganized the tupperware cabinet because last time I was looking for the good tofu holder tupperware, I couldn't find it. Don't you hate when that happens? Please also note this is where I started taking That Queen Michael Guy's advice to heart.

Which also led to pulling out the refrigerator and cleaning under it. I am not making this up, sadly. A kitchen accident with a pot of navy bean soup wound up with a big glob o' beans down between the cabinet and the refrigerator. Recently, R Man remarked they looked rather like someone had puked there and let it dry. Not anymore, motherfucker.

Which led to my finally ditching the old scrubbing sponge I've been using for, uhm, let's just say too long. I have a huge pack of them thanks to Costco and yet I cling to each one as if it were a controlled substance.

And now, I'm off for muffins at Mission Beach (weekdays are the only time you can get in there anymore) and a round of thrift store hunting. It will not be nearly the thrill it would be with our dear Diane von Austinberg lending her talents, but I plan on soldiering on.

I know, it 's all just a mad, gay whirl, but I'll try to squeeze in bulletins as they develop

In responding to my post "Fast Times at mrpeenee High," Michael Guy chimes in with:

"Perhaps the hallway needs a good Murphy's Soap scrubbing between your bouts with the Bronte sisters."

Ignoring the snarkiness there (cause I am not about to encourage that queen,) I do have to confess that I love the smell of Murphy's Soap. Astringent, just bordering on sour, it is a aroma that suits my personality. Were I to actually wear cologne, I would probably use it as my signature scent. Just a tiny, tiny dab behind my ears and on my wrists. Imagine the reactions at the sex club.

And by the way, did you know you're not supposed to use Murphy's on wood floors sealed with polyurethane, like most floors are? Certainly those in Chez peenee are and yet we can't keep the cleaning lady from laying into them with Murphy's. At least they smell good.

I'm not Mad at You, I'm Mad at the Dirt. Wait, Maybe I am Mad at You

It is, as so many things are, all my mommy’s fault. When I was just a wee little duckling, she had me store my toys in separate boxes, one for my cars, one blocks, one for Legos, you get the picture. So now when I say I cleaned up my garage I don’t mean I sort swept the bigger pieces of dirt into the corners and called it a day. O baby, no. I hauled every single item out, tried to talk myself into throwing it away (up to and including our car) and if I absolutely couldn’t, I shoved it, neatly, under the stairs where I can’t see it.

I understand my goal of having an empty garage is a futile one. The purpose, after all, is storage, and yet the thrill of big open spaces is so powerful. I don’t want a garage, I want the steppes of Russia.

The best part was that R Man and I were able to work together on a project without me turning into Baby Jane. I do not play well with others. On jobs around the house, I tend towards snarky bitchiness and my sweet, sweet boyfriend has borne the brunt of this way too many times. So to be able to successfully hang up a ladder (hoo hoo) without swerving towards Divorce Court is more of an accomplishment than it might sound.

Boyfriend was so relieved to come out of it with his skin in one piece, he even allowed me to dump the ratty little dresser he’s had for decades. He found it on the street in the French Quarter and dragged it home (just like me!) and has kept it ever since (just like me!) It served us long and well, but time to go is time to go and thanks to craigslist, it’s gone. So farewell, loyal bureau, godspeed, and may the underwear of others repose in your semi-sturdy embrace for years to come.

On a separate note, go immediately to Fabulon and watch the Official Fabulon Video http://thombeau.blogspot.com/2007/07/official-video-of-fabulon.html . The thrill of a glammed-out Dame Shirley Bassey covering one of the great anthems of our time is not to be missed.