Mother peenee

R Man seems to be doing better, yay. No doubt it's because of my nursing skills. And in honor of Mother's Day, I went out in the yard and cut a bunch of flowers.


I forget what this charming blue flower is, it's one of the wildflowers I scattered in the fall. I know it's common name is Bachelor Button, so here's to all the bachelor's out there looking for a button.

Oh, Not Much. How About You?

Oh, the thrilling life of two middle-aged civil servants. R Man woke up this morning sick, I think with the flu. Spiking fever, shaking with chills so hard the bed vibrated, and felling yucky. I made tea and toast, fussed over him all morning, held him while he shook, and then went out to lunch with John and Dan. See ya sweetie, try not to die. In my defense, R Man insisted I go. Besides, we were going to Foreign Cinema and I didn't want to miss out on that.

Lunch, errands, back home to find the sick boy downstairs lounging on the couch, which was fine until he tried to stand up and collapsed. I think it was a combination of his blood pressure meds and the flu, but I heard a big thud and came down to find him on the floor, slumped against the wall. He was unconscious and unresponsive, even when I shook him and called his name. I finally slapped him (not hard, don't be silly) and he sort of woke up. I felt just like Bette Davis in some early Warner Brothers weepie. He doesn't remember getting up or falling down, but now he's back on the couch with very firm orders not to get up without me.

Plus, tonight is the big fireworks show down on the bay that KFOG, a local radio station, puts on every year.The far side of the canyon blocks our view, but we can hear all the explosions, as can all the dogs in the canyon who are howling like mad and Saki, our cat, who is completely freaked out. I'm putting Saki and R Man to bed and then I'm going to go pull the covers over my head.

Life in the Cat House

Last week was the anniversary of our bringing Saki home from the cat jail / pound. I try not to write about him too much because it's such a cheap, easy way to unleash a flood of "Ooh he's so adorable" comments, but come to think of it, I never said I wasn't cheap and easy, so what the hell?

And he IS adorable. Feisty and trouble, too, and I bear the scars to prove it, but during those times when he's sweet, ooh he's adorable. Every evening when we come home I pick him up, turn him on his back and process around the house with him like he's the fucking Baby Infant Jesus of Prague. Adorable. And when he's happy, he doesn't just purr, he makes these grunting, guttural noises that obviously signal cat ecstasy. Adorable. And the last Sunday of each month we take him down to the SPCA to have his razor sharp claws trimmed; the week preceding that is filled with playful slashes that leave my hands in bleeding ribbons. Okay, Not Adorable, but still.

Are we glad we sprang him from Cat Jail? Oh yeah.

Mark Me

Miscreants keep rearranging the tables in the training room I oversee, so I needed a big ass marker to mark the spots where their little feet are supposed to go to make putting them back easier. I trotted over to the office supply store across the street and naively asked for one of those markers with an extra wide nib. I love the word “nib,” its ludicrous sound makes it a real favorite of mine. Regardless of how odd it may sound, it would seem that the one place that would be familiar with the term would be an office supply store. Nope. Un uh. Ixnay. I worked my way through “point” “tip” and “thing at the end” and finally wound up pointing.

Once we had finally nailed down that little negotiation, the clerk’s beady eyes lit up with suspicion. Why would I want that kind of marker? What was I planning to do with it? Let me point out that I am only slightly less respectable looking than the late Queen Mother, and yet, there I was trying to assure some gibbering shop lady that I was not rushing out to join up with my posse on a tagging spree.

Finally, she reluctantly unlocked a cabinet behind the cash register (where they probably also store the crack, judging from how hard she prevented me from seeing what else was in there) and handed it over. I assume I am now on some SFPD list as a likely gang member. Word.

Chez peenee

Of course, I could always post bitter, bitter news flashes about the morons I work with, but who wants to hear about that? I'm sure you all have your own moron stories and while I'm sure they're all fascinating, we need to remember this blog is about me, right?

So instead of caviling about the pig who leaves her oatmeal-incrusted bowl and spoon in the sink all day, every fucking day (or she did until I threw them away behind her back on Friday) I've decided to concentrate on happy thoughts. And since my happy thoughts tend to comprise R Man, naked guys and decorating and since the first two seem to be pretty thoroughly covered here, I've decided to start a new feature called Chez peenee of the things I like about the decorating I've done around the old homestead here.

And what better place to begin than the toilet? The downstairs powder room, to be both precise and delicate. I've already documented my passion for thrift stores and over the years of hunting and gathering there, I began collecting the aluminum serving pieces that were so popular in the 50's and 60's. Eventually I wound up with several hundred of them. Regardless of what R Man says, it was not a sickness, they were just cheap and I could usually count on finding one or two in pretty much any junk store, no matter how slender the pickings were otherwise. Still, several hundred trays and dishes tend to clog the living space. The solution? Paint the bathroom purple and velcro them to the walls. All of them.

First-time guests to our house always come out of the potty with the most astonished look on their faces. It's very amusing.

One of my faves is the little ferris wheel our dear friends Cow Queen and Kebbin sent. My dream is to fill the little cars with those fancy guest soaps and then never use them, just like my granny.

John's boyfriend Dan claims being exposed to that much aluminum while peeing can cause Alzheimers, but he worries too much.

Get Down Funky Moldovans

Have you ever wondered "What would a Bollywood salute to techno Eastern European funk folk dancers with a guest appearance by the Tiajuana Brass be like?"

Well, wonder no more!

SCORE!

I was stumbling into work today through the plaza next to our building when I noticed the gardeners were replacing the cyclamen that have been blooming in big pots there since Christmas with geraniums. More importantly, I saw they were THROWING THEM AWAY. Eeeks. Cyclamen are perennials that bloom year after year and cost about $5 a pop at the nursery. Trashing them is a crazy waste.

I asked the head plant guy (who could have been establishing a notable career in gay porn instead of potting geraniums, but whatever) if I could have the cyclamen. He said sure so readily, I considered asking about a blowjob as well, but I didn't want to push my luck.

Scurrying back to the my desk I snatched up some grocery bags and am now the possessor of a couple dozen big ol' cyclamen, yay. I have, of course, no place in the yard for them, but I'll figure that out later.