Sure, It's Easy to Mock the Elderly

For the last two days, I have forgotten the phone number to call in to listen to my voice mail on my landline. It's not listed in directory assistance (does that make sense?), I was always too lazy to program it in to speed dial and I did not have it written down anywhere; I had always relied on my hand remembering how to dial it, but on Tuesday night suddenly my hand rebelled. Stupid hand. I knew it had something to do with a 3, a 4, and a bunch zeroes so I kept trying different combinations. Turns out the receptionist at some law firm with a number very close to Voicemail Central was very nice; certainly nicer than I would have been when I stumbled across her three times in ten minutes. Eventually, I would give up and sullenly go back to looking at pictures of attractive young men. Sample provided.

And then, a few minutes ago, the fog lifted and suddenly I remembered the number, effortlessly. I called in and found out I had four messages waiting, only one of which I was actually interested in. I don't even know why I have a phone.

A Jam Packed Life

I don't know, sometimes writing a blog post seems like more work than it's worth.

But then I remember all of my fans, the little people, god love you, waiting breathlessly for the semi-latest bulletins from the fast-paced life of mrpeenee. And then I think "You know, this crap is more work than it's worth."

But now, having discovered I had mixed up my antidepressants with the Tic-tacs, I am back on track and as soon as I pry Saki away from the keyboard where he's hogging the computer with his filthy dog 'n cats porn, I am flinging the on dits.

We had a lively supper with friends last week where the subject of mrpeenee's retirement and my new and improved life came up. "But what do you do?" the table asked, all concerned and mystified and stuff. Darlings, you don't understand; I don't do anything. I don't have to. Once you have freed yourself from wage slavery, the world is your big, fat, lazy oyster. I sleep a lot; I look out at the garden and rebuke myself for not gardening; I play with the cat. That's about it.

Exceptions must be made, of course. Today was a non-stop whirl of exhausting activity. Lunch with Super Agent Fred, a mani-pedi with his boyfriend, a visit to chiropractor, and a haircut. It was so demanding, I missed my late afternoon nap and only barely squeezed in my early afternoon one.

mrpeenee's nails, salon fresh.

Portrait of the author's haircut

Greg

I had to go see the Greg, the World's Greatest Chiropractor, because I spent the last three nights hunched in front of this very computer watching some stupid TV show from last year called FlashForward and screwed up my neck doing so. I am such a fragile blossom. The show sucked me in with an intriguing premise (everyone in the world passes out for two minutes, seventeen seconds resulting in mass destruction, and everyone has a vision of what their lives will be like in exactly six months) but the whole thing degenerated into turgid soap opera land despite some really good acting. I still have five episodes to go, but I'm so annoyed at it for screwing up my neck, I've decided to punish it by bailing out. Plus I understand ABC canceled it after one season and the last episode seriously misses out on the "wrapping it up" juice one wants after investing 22 episodes of your time in the mess.

Consequently, I'm looking for recommendations of something good to watch on either hulu or netflix streaming. John Barrowman's cover of Beyonce's Single Ladies on youtube does not count, thank you.

Saki Mani Pedi

Today was our monthly trip to the vet to have Saki's claws clipped. This is the highpoint of the month for neither Saki nor me, but since the choice is dragging him off to vetland or having him customize the furniture with long, shaggy rips, kitty pedicure wins out.

Our vet's waiting room is smallish. As I was standing at the counter, a woman on the other side of the room was having trouble controlling her dog, a kind of boxer/pit bull mix. It was growling and barking, lunging at the techs, other dogs, and me. Have I ever mentioned that when I was younger, I was really scared of dogs? I'm much more comfortable around them now, but a big dog snarling and snapping at me is still not my idea of a good time.

The vet and I both told the woman to reel him in. She yelled "He's just a puppy." It had the sound of a declaration she has made before. Look bitch, I'm over six feet tall and your dog stands taller than my knee, looks like he weighs 80 - 90 pounds, so let's not try to define "puppy," OK? The problem was that she was holding him on a slack leash while my cat is doing cartwheels in his carrier trying to get away and the other dogs in the room can't get enough of the action. Reel. Him. In.

Also, Saki wants me to make clear he was not afraid. I was afraid. He was just offended by the woman's bad manners.

My Day. A Diary of Sorts

Friday, May the Whatever Friday Was-th,

San Francisco,

11:30: I arise. The cat is pleased since he has been agitating for this for two hours. I make my bed because I am tidy and because sometimes the effort of pulling the blankets back down is all that prevents me from climbing back in.

11:35 I put in my contacts, each in the correct eye on the first try. Score! Saki helps.

11:50: I stand blankly out on the patio wondering what I'm doing there. I decide to water the plants so I can look like I know what I'm doing.

11:53 I discover the withered up thyme has come back from the dead. I shall name it Jeezuz. Or maybe Midge.

12:15: I go down to the Castro to mail something. I can now definitively report, as a retired old fart, the rumor that going to the post office is an old guys' high point of the day is true. Unless I find something good on internet Pornland.

12:17 I wander through the Castro thinking about porn.

12:20 Coffee at Peets, which may beat out porn.

12:30 San Francisco has created a charming small park by blocking off a little-used street with flatbeds holding attractive water jars filled with olive trees and flax. Locally, it's known as "Naked Guy Park" because of the smallish gang of nudists who hang out there every day. Interviews in the local press with them reveal about half of them come from little towns over in the East Bay. They are commuting nudists. They all wear hats, which I think is very odd. If you're going to be sitting around airing your bits, why are you worried about getting a sunburn on your head?

12:40 I return home to take a nap.

In Which mrpeenee Conquers Paperwork

mrpeenee has been in a funk. Not funky, as in "git down you funky motherfuckers" but in a funk, as in "Why should I get out of bed when I'll just climb right back in here?" Not helping things have been the piles of unattended to paperwork looming about, staring at mrpeenee with accusing fonts and distracting me from the attention required by expensive porn.

Stacks one, two and three seen here in their sullen poutiness. There is also a stack four, but I was so depressed taking pictures of random window envelopes and their contents that needed my attention, I had to give up. At one point, I believe there was a method to this madness that explained why each stack existed separate from its brethren, but then I remembered one of the piles was just what had fallen off of the one next to it and suddenly I was back to longing for my own widdle beddy-bye.

All of this is the result of R Man's death (and, by the way, its his death, not his passing, or his end, or his expiration, or any of the other synonyms the clerks I'm dealing with fumble to find when they have to say the word. Death. It's OK.)

It's been four months since he died and I started down this particular rabbit hole and I'm farther from finalizing all this than I was in March. A huge part of it is my own slothful fault, some of it is just the nature of dealing with government agencies, agencies devoted to survivor benefit, but who don't like to say the word "death." I torture them with it, pronouncing it very clearly, with relish. Plus, it takes so little to get me sidetracked. Late in April, I slammed into our water bill, which had always been paid automatically from R Man's checking account. Oops, not happening. Instead of dealing with it, I decided to go see what was going on over in Pornland and wound up avoiding having the water cut off only by a desperate, last minute trip down to the water department. So very not pretty.

And, in my defense, let me make clear I am not some little wifey who had all this financial stuff dumped into my ignorant lap. My superior OCD talents meant I was always the one who sorted the bills and filed them after payment. How I wound up with this "Big Stack, Little Stack" system is a mystery to me.

Much Later:

I decided not to post this until I had made a good faith effort at clearing away some of the paper underbrush and once I got going, I wound up finishing it all, except for one bill that I need to argue about and one complicated deposit thingy I need to straighten out. I am plenty pleased with my bad self. That even includes the brief, but scary period when I thought I had lost a very large check, a check with a great many digits. I was prepared to go to the mat with the agency that sent it, demanding a new one, when I found I had been looking at it all along without realizing what it was. Oh, the wacky hijinx of mrpeenee's financial adventures.

Bits

I would like to publicly thank the always charming Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter for introducing me to the term "spoontard" in her comments on the post below. I used it twice driving to lunch this afternoon. So very useful.

Here's some tasty bits in very nice underpants, just in case you need them.

Royals

Did you guys know one of the English princes (not the redhead, the other one) is getting married on Friday?

I will cop to being apparently the only gay man in America not wet over the royal wedding, but it all seems so, so bloated. A fairy tale? No. A fairy tale is when a naked Daniel Craig brings over an equally naked brazilian soccer team to my house with drugs and Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. This is just a couple of really rich people getting married.

They seem like blandly inoffensive (if not terribly bright) people, but so what? Kate whatshername is so standard issue lovely she could be from an open casting call for "Princess (white)" and Prince William may have been fairly cute early on,

but he went to seed way too early.

Of course, there is Prince Harry

and you know how fond I am of gingers, plus he seems to sensibly be following the classic royal route of dressing up in fancy uniforms and getting loaded as much as possible, so, right on Harry.

And Diana.... Girl blows the sweetest gig EVER: just show up and wear fancy clothes and the blingest bling possible, pop a couple of puppies out and be set for life, but no, she wanted us to feel her pain. Here's your pain: you're an idiot. Also, I didn't like her wedding dress. All fussy and overblown and vaguely Victorian, she might as well have been wearing a tea cart.

So as a protest gesture, I plan on ignoring the whole thing tomorrow and watching porn. I'm going to try to tune into British smut, but you know, much like British snacks, that seems pretty unlikely.