Almost Through

I’d just like to point out two things:

1) The picture in the "mrpeenee's Annual Crazy Week Begins" post of the rather podgy guy with unattractive glasses IS NOT ME. The very idea. I Googled “pictures of crazy guys” and found him and never dreamed anyone would confuse us. I am, after all, still the top model on the East Coast. Although the kitty does rather resemble Saki, especially when I dress him up in his tin foil hat.

Also, I notice no one has ever conused me with one of the houseboy pictures.Hmm.

2) This morning represents a very short reprieve in the madness of our festive week. I have organized, run around and charmed, charmed, charmed. The flow of small talk continues unabated, in between bouts of rearranging the furniture in our training room. Nineteen tables and 46 chairs and I have moved each and every one of them at least three times in the last two days, plus dragging in scores of extra seating from all over the floor. The last thing I did Monday evening before rushing off to the City Hall gala was to move 16 chairs in there. Walking in the next morning I was confronted with all of them having been neatly returned to the conference room by our slightly retarded receptionist because “They were in the wrong place,” much like his brains.

Anyway. The good thing is that all the events except one have been huge hits, standing room only, rave reviews. The one exception was a seminar that had almost 70 people registered and only 10 showed up. The technical term for that is “bomb” and I need to turn my attention to spinning how it’s really, really a good thing for the sponsors who paid for it, but right now I need to go move chairs. The end is in sight, thank the goddess.

Editor's note: Before I could actually get this posted, I had to stop and run fix the PowerPoint show for the panicky banker presenting the 9:00 class, proving the end is in sight, but not here yet.

mrpeenee's Annual Crazy Week Begins

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Tag. Honest. Honest Tag. Whatever

Ray Ray over at the Messy American has tagged me with the Honest Blogger meme.  The point is to write 10 honest things about yourself.  Considering that in previous posts on this blog I have discussed a rough estimate of how many men I’ve had sex with and how eating asparagus makes my pee smell, I can’t imagine I could be accused of being less than forthcoming.  Still, I love tags so here we go with even more TMI from mrpeenee.

 

1)    Although I’m very fond of showtunes AND I’m gay (imagine,) I can’t stand Stephen Sondheim.  I think I would rather be chopped up into meatpies than listen to Sweeny Todd.  I do like his lyrics for Gypsy, of course.  After all, he rhymed “Schleppah” with “Miss Mazeppa.”  Respect must be paid for that, but I draw the line at Sunday in the Park with Whatever.

 

2)    I missed my mother’s funeral.  R Man and I were in Paris, I got a call from my sister-in-law the night before we were scheduled to leave and she told me my mother had died and my father had scheduled the funeral for the next day, in the morning. Frantic calls to several airlines were useless, I couldn’t get to Houston in time. Fifteen years later do I still resent it, that they couldn’t wait one day until I could get home?  Yes, oddly enough, I do.  I also still resent what hostile, sourpuss old trouts the ticket agents at De Gaulle airport were, but you have to sort of expect that.  It’s Paris.

 

3)    I am a very picky eater, something I didn’t even realize about myself until my late 20’s.  Love cooked onions, but hate them raw; I only eat nuts by themselves, not as an ingredient in something.  And yet, I love odd foods like liver, sweetbreads, kidneys (Mmm, offal!) and beets and lentils.

 

4)    I’m still embarrassed that I got kicked out of the University of Texas for being such a slacker.  It’s goes to show you, there is such a thing as too much of a good time.

 

5)    I had to stop drinking liquor because I couldn’t do it in anything like moderation.  I would start and not stop until I was unable to hit my mouth with the glass.  So I just stopped.  Boom.  No more for me, I’ll pass.

 

6)    I get bored making lists like this.

 

7)    My passion for porn and thrift stores continues unabated, even as I run out of room for more smut and more crap.

 

8)    I have two older brothers about whom I almost never write in this blog.  We’re fond enough of one other, but not really important in each other’s lives.

 

9)    I was wild about playing with my friend Stephanie’s vast collection of Barbie dolls when I was 10 years old.

 

10) I have very large, very pretty feet.  I know this because a number of people interested in things like that have assured me so.

 I'm supposed to pass this meme along, of course, like some social disease.  I choose Jason, Muscato, TJB and Miss Janey

 

I Love My Job

My agency is having our fabulous, fantastic annual celebration next week. Twenty-seven seminars and luncheons and dinners and networking events and tea parties. Okay, not tea parties, but still…. I’m coming in early and working late every day. Even as I am scrambling madly trying to get the last details nailed down, everyone I work with has decided the best way to help is to drop by my desk and badger me about details:

“What should I wear to the big kick-off event in City Hall?”
Kilts

“Will we have name badges?”
Yes. They will all say Leroy.

“All the seminars say Registration Is Required. Do people really, really have to sign up?”
I’m going to kill you now, with my bare hands and teeth.

Muscato wrote recently about his glam workaday life of embassy balls and Barbara Pym-like rummage sales. I, on the other hand, am trapped in a road show version of The Office, as staged by Our Lady for Prompt Succor School for the Mentally Defective. It’s so unfair.

Houseboys are worried. It's possible Mummy might just be a tiny bit too distracted to address my blog duties. Bear with me.

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.

Guys

One of the glories of living in San Francisco is the abundance of cute, cute guys wandering around here. Especially when the “here” is the Financial District where they’re cute, well-dressed, and very serious. At lunch yesterday, I sat next to two prime examples of humpy suits. I couldn’t help but hear the conversation (I was not eavesdropping, I was listening. The tables are that close to each other, I couldn’t help it. Shut up) and I could never tell if they were new office buddies getting to know each other or if they had hooked up online and this was their blind date. Lunch at Rico’s seems like an odd choice for the latter, but they do have good enchiladas, so maybe.

It’s striking how similar the two conversations would be. Where’d you grow up, go to school, what movies do you like, that kind of thing. If only they had just gone ahead and gotten around to “so are you a bottom or versatile?” it would have cleared up everything. But then, the one in the blue stripe shirt was so obviously a catcher, I suppose the point was moot.

Louise Gets Down

With thanks to Muscato, from whom I swiped this.

One of the rewards of having arrived at a certain age is that I can actually remember people looking like this. When I was a mere child, most of the ladies I was exposed to had nailed this look down flat. Of course, as the perceptive Muscato points out, “Louise Wallis” sounds an awful lot like an anagram of "Walter A. Lewis," and it seems possible that Louise is, in fact, Walter. Give either of us a chance and we will unerringly head for the trannny connection.

Still, the cats-eyes, the slightly wilted bouffant, the insipidly understated accessories; all of it could have been any of my aunts, Sunday school teachers, or cashiers at the Piggly Wiggly that I knew so well. To the best of my knowledge, none of them could jam on an organ and a piano simultaneously, but then, I led a rather sheltered life.