Author Archives: mrpeenee

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

The Towering Tower

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My life, after the chaos of the past six weeks, has suddenly calmed down, which is nice, but it leaves me sort of twitchy. Maybe I have post- move PTSD.

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I spent the beautiful morning in bed with blankets taped over the windows because my curtains won’t be ready until next week and also that’s just how white trash I am.

When I finally dragged out of my home-made vampire’s lair, I discovered the most San Francisco lovely afternoon waiting for me. I am still revelling in the thrill of walking to all the places in the Castro I want, so I walked over to Peet’s both because I wanted coffee and just because I could.

Then I came home and tidied and hung art and rearranged the cat box. A sweet afternoon that wound up with me sitting on the floor of the living room watching the fog blow back and forth across the very Space Age-y Sutro Tower. Lovely.

Sutro Tower is the radio, television, microwave, cell phone broadcasting tower that looms over all of San Francisco and which we all ignore.  It’s this enormous tower that looks like something from an expensive sci-fi movie and none of us pay it the least mind.  It’s just there.

And now it’s the focus of my fabulous view.  I’ll try again to take pictures from my living room of it, but because the room is a triangle all

 

the windows face each other and all that glare means you get pictures of glare.

Anyway, the lovely, spacey Sutro Tower

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and some towering boys

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The Whirlwind Whirls On

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I think I sold my house. I have been in such a whirlwind of activity this last month, most of it much too physical for a genteel widow of my declining years, that the actual reason (selling the house for as many buckets of money as possible) kept fading from view. Over and over, I would just be in the midst of so many simultaneous crises that trying to keep them all from collapsing seemed to be the ultimate goal.

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Extra muscle pussy because it’s kind of a long post without much beefcake and so I decided to toss in a little extraneous This Season’s Fashion in Towels.  You’re welcome.

So today, when Wendy, my realtor, called with this offer and strongly urged me to go with it, I was sort of surprised. Oh. Right. Sell the house. It’s on my list.

And even though all this crazy, complicatedly synchronized knife juggling has been furiously paced (We’ve only been doing this for a little over a month) this REALLY seemed to have just appeared out of the thinnest of airs. Three open houses over four days. I am, most assuredly, not complaining. I am just sort of stunned. I never even had time to bury a statue of Saint Joseph upside down in the backyard.  For those of you trying to pass off your dog of a house to some unsuspecting sucker, the fabulously straight forward named Discount Catholic Products, for all them Discount Catholics, offers a whole Saint Joseph kit to help you slip that troublesome radiation leak in the basement past your potential buyers.  I was going to include a link, but the URL was so long and looked so very much like some Ukranian scam, I decided to spare all of you its potential bad juju.

Of course, there’s many a slip etc., etc., etc., but at least it’s in the cup and headed in the general direction of my lips. I am concentrating on thinking positive thoughts.  Those of you still capable of thinking, please join me.

Oh, Saint Jospeh, pray for us sinners now and at the moment of closing.

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Kneeling at the altar.  Haven’t we all been there?  Saint Joseph is also the patron of Families, so when you fervently, but silently, ask “Get Aunt Winnie and the girl from accounting she wants to set me up with off my back,” you are praying to St. Joseph.  Bless.

Cliff Hangers

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I was putting together this bunch of boxes on wheels to store the porn that I kept from the vast purge last month.  The boxes required assembly of course.  God forbid you should buy a piece of furniture that is ready to be used.  Actually, this construction was really easy and straight forward and, best of all, required American tools like screwdrivers instead of those wonky allen wrenches which are never the right size for any subsequent use.

The first box took like 15 minutes to master, and after that, I finished the next three in about the same amount of time total.  It’s just figuring the diagram out, after that you can just zip through.

Anyway, here they are;

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Have you ever seen such tidy smut?  And each little box comes with a chalk board on the front to notate its contents.  I’m thinking “Smut” “Porn” “Filth” and “Spank Bank.”  Oh, and they’re on little wheels so you can easily access the oeuvre of Al Parker

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I’m always impressed with myself whenever I am accomplish some minor feat of handy-man-ism because it’s so very far out of my usual abilities.  I like arranging furniture; I want someone else to put it together before I have to deal with it.

I’ve also been contemplating how very many, many disasters averted at the very last second the last month of moving out of my old house and into this new one has provided.  I am not going to try and list them, there are simply too many for my fragile psyche to handle, but as one example, let me mention how I had to stop off at U-Haul on the way from one task teetering on the brink of absolute failure to another in order to rent a hand truck for yet another looming disaster.  Were it not for the support of friends like The Children, Super Agent Fred, and, of course, Diane von Austinburg, I would be weeping in a sordid bar as all my earthly possessions wound their way to the landfill and gypsies occupied my former home.

Speaking of which, if you would like a “virtual tour” of what the old place looks like now that its been at the spa for a month, do visit canyon garden

Also, naked guys

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I want to Break Free

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Having, more or less, survived our brush with garage sale greatness, the fucking garage was still not empty, which had been the actual goal.  The cash was a nice extra, but I was supposed to deliver a cleaned out garage for my snooty real estate company, which wanted to roll out a premier, hmmmmm, oh, you know something like, I don’t know, uhm, TODAY.

So yesterday I put an ad on Craigslist, the Press of the Great Unwashed, that announced “Garage Full of Stuff Free.” the ad itself ran:

“I’m moving out and need get rid of several chairs, a nice square dining table or game table, an old timey tv cabinet, a 6 foot long coffee table, a fancy chinoiserie chest, an antique Asian cabinet and a mahogany sideboard. Also two matching 7 foot tall bookcases, and two matching 30 inch tall bookcases.

I will be at the house from 11:00 to 1:00 and 3:00 to 5:00. The address is 47 Malta Drive off O’Shaughnessy.

Do not email and ask about specific pieces. By the time I reply and you see the answer it could be gone.

Look, I’m giving away free furniture. The least you can do is come look.”

I also stuck in some photos cause that’s what attracts the rubes.

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The star of the show

Naturally everyone emailed me anyway demanding the red chest, although the mahogany sideboard was pretty popular too.  I replied along the lines of “I’m not promising any piece to anyone.  You just have to come see if it’s available. And by the way, I said Don’t. Email. Me.”  That REALLY drove them crazy.

And then, just as I was walking out the door to go over and start the Great Giveaway, Comcast finally called me back and said “I can be there in 15 minutes and give you the internet connection you’ve been whining about.”  Well, hello?  What would you have gone with?  Furthering the dreams of loser hoarders or getting back online.  Of course I said yes, and figured, they can’t start till I get there and unlock the doors.

Beyond any deserved good luck, my realtor’s assistant was at the house and agreed to throw open the gates at the assigned time in my place.  By the time an hour later when I got there, there was nothing left but shattered bits and pieces and possibly blood. Andrew, who is sweet and demure said the scene was quite something.  A line down the block, people bringing huge tucks, snarling old ladies.  When he did let them in, he said it was a mad scramble and every one of them demanding the red Chinese chest, little knowing that Andrew’s girlfriend had already seen it and wanted it too.  Andrew, being a bright lad, knew which side his bread was buttered on, or his dick greased on anyway, stood fast against the hoards and in the end delivered the chest to his lady love.  It’s so romantical.

So all I did was sort of half ass sweep up the fragments and tell late comers to just keep moving.  What amazes me is that of all the things grabbed and yanked, no one took the two large matching book cases.  I know people don’t read anymore, but don’t they put things away?  Apparently not.  Goths at the gates, darlings, goths at the gate.

Anyway, if you want to see the house all tarted up, go here mrpeenee, staged

I still want the video with the aerial drone and they keep promising it to me, but it’s more like trying to calm some tantrum loving snot in the middle of a parking lot shrieking and kicking.

here’s some naked guy, just in case:

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I picked him cause I have painted one wall in my new apartment that same turquoise.   It’s very cheery.

 

4 Sale

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Part of selling my house was the need to unload about a metric ton of crap onto some unsuspecting suckers, which is the underlying reason for all yard sale, and so, last weekend I presented mrpeenee’s Yard Sale and Unwanted Crap Event.  Since I have moved into an apartment about a quarter as big as my old house, there was plenty of merchandise on hand.

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mrpeenee and Diane steering the SS Yardsale.  On a three hour cruise.

The always charming and incredibly patient Diane von Austinburg came out just to help. I had initially lured her into the con with the promise that we would be lolling about an estate sale run by some estate sale professional, which is honestly how I envisioned it.  Too late, I discovered all the estate sale people wanted, or rather demanded, all the furniture and household goods be in the house, undisturbed, so that people could prowl through my house under the pretext of buying second hand dishes when what they really wanted was to to look through my underwear drawer.   When I explained I had already moved out and all the leftover goods were down in the garage, they sniffed and said “no thank you”and so suddenly Diane and I were running our own Garage Sale.

A daunting task, but one we got through mostly because of Diane’s calm, good sense and in part, my finely honed ability to tell customers who got on my nerves to fuck off.

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Stuff.  Lots of stuff,

Diane and I spent the day before the sale trying to get the mounds of crap into some sort of order.  We arrived a half hour after we had advertised the starting time (it’s my sale and I’ll start it when I want to) only to find that some guys were refinishing the floors (LOUDLY.  MOTHERFUCKINGLOUDLY)and had shoved all the furniture we had left upstairs into the garage.  This lead to an exciting phase of the sale where we were trying to drag stuff out onto the sidewalk and make enough room in the garage for people to actually see what was for sale all the while customers were wandering around.

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mrpeenee. lord of all he surveys, and a picture of calm restraint.  And if you don’t like it, go find another fucking yard sale.

We discovered there are lonely people, sad, pathetic lonely people who come to these sales and try to chat up the sellers who are trying to convince actual paying punters that they wanted a decade old phone.  The lonely people buy nothing and take up an inordinate amount of time and attention.  Should you ever find yourself in charge of one of these events, feel free to tell the sad and lonely pathetics to fuck off.  I did and it helped relieve the stress immensely.

So, Super Agent Fred and our friend Jen helped.  We started out with several real deals, twenty bucks here, fifty there, and the pleasure of  pronouncing the cost of knick knacks that Diane had dragged home from some thrift store or the other was heady.

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Super Agent Fred keepin’ it real on the sidewalk

The second day, our other friends John and Dan dropped by with lunch and wine and the wine led to several rather odd bargains towards the end, but by then things were kind of unraveling anyway.  Some very shy and sweet Asian boy dropped in and I tried to force him to take (FOR FREE) this set of Limoges china plates.  I explained to him he could turn around and sell them on Ebay for serious coin, but he just seemed terrified of me.  I admit, I was rather strident, but for chirst’s sakes, how often does a stranger offer you expensive fine china and explain how you can make money off it and all you can do is giggle and demure.  I told him he was an idiot and that he had to leave.  That’s about when we decided to wrap up the sale and scram.

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Ali Baba’s Cavern ain’t got nothing on me baby

All in all, I made a sizable wad of cash.  I counted it multiple times and came up with a different amount each time.  I think it was about $1,200.  There is still a largish pile of furniture and lamps and china and just crap in general that I’m donating to a thrift store that benefits AIDS patients.

In conclusion, I admit to being tyrannical and loud, but somebody had to be.   Overall it was exhausting, but if it wasn’t for my sweet, sweet friends, I would have once again been totally sunk.  So yay for my sweet, sweet friends and yay for that kind of cute guy who took the ugly, beat up rug that I thought I would never be rid of in this lifetime.

The main thing is that it was one final step in severing my ties with my beloved home which is being tarted up even as I type this and will be on the market soon.

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Unfortunately, this guy had nothing to do with the sale,  I just wanted to put him in here.

I Feel Moved

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So at long last , after a series of crises that would have knocked the shit out of Job, I have triumphed and am not only living in my lovely mew apartment, but have just finished the long anticipated last haul.  Considering I started this process on April 5th (my birthday, sweetly enough.)  I don’t think I have ever been so physically exhausted and at one point during what turned from moving from simple relocation into some kind of  Death March, Super Agent Fred confided to our friend he had never seen me so stressed out.  And this is a friend who saw me through the dark days of R Man’s dying and death.

It was bad and one day I will recount the horrors.  let this stand as a symbol: yesterday (I think it was yesterday, it’s all a blur) I was stuck in very slow bumper to bumper traffic on an of ramp and briefly just dozed off.  I was awakened by the thud of my bumper hitting a very nice young woman who has since texted me and said there was no harm, so don’t worry about it.  I did not reveal to her that as son as I realized I had hit her, all I felt was a mild annoyance.  “Oh christ, not one more thing” was pretty much my whole summation of the event.

So anyway, here’s a picture of my new apartment with me,more or less conscious.

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I’m flying.  You need to imagine it without the cast collection of lampshades.

I’m sorry, I will write more soon, but I am beyond exhaustion. I am running on nothing but frazzled nerves at this point.  Look for scintillating insights and random punctuation soon.  Very soon.

Also, a naked youth

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A Little Spring Color

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So In the midst of all my selling the house and moving drama, life goes on, including a trip to the eye doctor.  Super Agent Fred came with me to drive me home since once they have dilated my eyes, I can technically see, but driving becomes something of a thrill sport and a danger to myself and others.

Ensconced in the passenger seat, I was fumbling around in the little compartment built into the door and discovered a lipstick crayon left there by who knows what long gone floozy.  I immediately began applying it as Fred was wheeling maniacally down the twisty, curvy street above my house.  Of course, I did a fabulous job, under such trying circumstances.  As you see

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It’s a cherry magenta.  Very flattering, especially for those of us of a certain age whose youthful bloom has faded to something closely resembling wet ash.  I think I will start using this as my color basis for spring.  Now all I need is to find some blush that works with it.

The Struggle is Real

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My goal since resigning myself to moving out so the realtor could stage my house (and hopefully rid it of the stinky cat stink) has been “do one thing a night.”  And I have.  I truly have.  I organized, relocated and off loaded my massive porn collection.  I got the gutter fixed, which has been broken for more than 2 years.  My solution was to place a washtub under the place where the painter leaned their ladder and created a new, and unexpected, fount in the middle of the gutter.  During the rains the water pouring from he break into the tub sounded like a charming fountain.  I was very fond of it, but my realtor took a more dim view of it and so now it’s repaired and during the last few rainy nights, I have missed it.

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Anyway, I have cleaned up and patched and replaced and removed all kinds of little things that as a homeowner you just ignore, but as home seller, you need to deal with.

For instance, in July, my washing machine, god love it, finally died.  When we bought the house, 21 years ago, the seller insisted, in the contract, that we take the washing machine with the house.  In fact, it was the only stipulation she made.  It seemed odd, but we didn’t have a washer, so what the hell?  And the old warhorse has ground along all these years just fine until it just gave up in the middle of one load.  Super Agent Fred and I had to bail out the water and wring the clothes out and let them dry out on the patio draped over this and that.  Very Beverly Hillbillies.

 

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I had been using a laundry service ever since.  They came and picked up my dirty clothes and returned them washed and folded.  I liked the service so much, I just never got around to replacing the broke down machine.  But people buying a new house do not want to inherit old problems, so I bought a new washer and dryer.  The guys showed up yesterday to install them and that’s when I found out why the previous owner and been so insistent that we take the old one.  They will not fit out of the laundry room, nor the new ones fit in.

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Those tits!  Them  biceps!  And glasses!

The owners two before us had built in a number of shelves and cabinets and closets around the house, all very beautifully constructed and which I have tried to keep cause I can appreciate how much work they represent.  Some I’ve had to tear out, just because they didn’t work with how I wanted to use the room, or they were in the way, but plenty I still use and am grateful for.

One of these closets is in the little passageway between the kitchen and the laundry room.  The trim work on the side in the laundry room makes the space to pass through 28 inches wide  The washers, both old and new, are 28 and a half inches wide.  A half fucking inch.  That’s what ground the whole project to a halt.  I wound up telling them to just unload the new machines in the garage and I would deal with it.  They seemed very contrite as if they had let me down, when in fact, it was my architecture’s fault.

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Anyway, that’s where my “Do one thing a night” program simply ground to a halt.  The delivery guys left, taking their overwhelming cloud of perfume sort of with them (and why is that?  Why do delivery and installer guys all wear such liberal doses of scent.  Worse, why is it so often the very kind of perfume that gives me headaches?)  they left, I went upstairs, took an Ativan and my pain medicine, fed Saki so he wouldn’t harass me overly and then climbed in bed.  Good night and god bless.

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oh.  my.

What I have since come to realize is that the cabinet maker owner must have built the closet while the machine was there.  Those owners were only the second ones the house had had, which leads me to believe that fucking washing machine was the original one for the house.  And the house was 50 years old last year, so that washing machine has been grinding along since Ginger and Mary Ann were miraculously wearing clean outfits on Gilligan’s Island.  Also, if that poor old thing had just held on nine more months, I could have sold it with the house and never even discovered this whole quagmire of insurmountable half inches.

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That HAIR.  Oh dear.

This morning, I called my handyman Jose.  He’s My Guy.  All homeowners eventually wind up with A Guy, someone who can unclog things and electrify that which is un-electric, and in general keep your house from falling apart.  Jose was unfazed by my description of the catastrophe and assured me he will be over after lunch tomorrow and fix it.  And he will. I have never known Jose to let me down.  His esthetic choices are pretty shaky, but I have learned when to just cut in and announce a different choice in color or material.  Aside from that, he is the best My Guy you could ask for.

As usual, the  beefcake today is made possible by For the love of NudeMuscleMen   the best naked guy site I know of.  I am very grateful to them simply for existing.

For Sale

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I assume this is true both philosophically true as well as applying to the massive buttocks pictured below.

Yes, I am selling my house and moving to a smaller place down in the world famous gay neighborhood, the Castro.  Why?  I love my house here, being located in this canyon means it is amazingly quiet and peaceful for being in the very center of San Francisco, but I need the money.  Apparently, since R Man and I bought it 21 years ago, it has become worth a buttload of money.  That is a real estate technical term.  If I were to access that buttload, I would return to my previous status of Wealthy Widow.  I’m not wild about being a widow, but if you have to be one, wealthy is definitely the way to go.
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First, some muscle pussy, cause this is a really long post and you need something to get you through it.

I met with a couple of realtors, the first was Ruth, whom I kept calling Julie and who turned out to be a Mean Girl.  She has been dismissed from our lives.  Let us speak of her no more.  The second, Wendy, was much more to my liking, a lesbian of a certain age, who was much more complimentary to my house and decorating (tip to realtors wooing potential clients: do not diss a gay man’s decor) but the selling point was the first thing.  She came in, we walked up to the dining room so I could show her the garden before it got dark and she said “What a beautiful ceanothus.”  Sold.  The ceanothus is this big shrub right in the middle of my garden that this time of year is covered in purple flowers.  I think this particular one is the best I’ve ever seen, it is my pride and joy, and she knew what it was.  We had a long very interesting talk, without her realizing she had already won.
So, she’s with Sotheby’s.  Oh my dear, oh yes.  They’re going to produce a booklet about the house, the samples of which she showed me were the most expensive looking printed material I’ve ever seen outside of a good book store.  And a VIDEO.  Not just a video, but one shot with a drone for aerial views.  I am not making this up.  When it’s online I’ll post the link.
The plan both proposed was for a stager to redo the house.  Wendy was much more delicate about urging it, but apparently when asking for the buttload of money I want, staging is a must.  I had already known I would have to repaint.  My stairwell and upstairs hall are painted black.  Counting on someone to dig the black hall seemed like a long shot.  How many Goth kids are in the real estate market these days?  So the stagers will handle all the painting and repairing a barely functional shower that has been the bane of Diane von Austinburg’s visits for years.  They will use their own furniture, thus I’m moving before I sell the place.  Life is so complicated.
The big problem, as usual, is Saki.  I have to get him and the eau de kitty out.  So we’re going to move out, rent some place for the time it takes to fix up the house, show it, sell it and then find a new one to buy.  Did I mention that point?  I’m buying a small place down in the Castro, hopefully for a great deal less than what I sell this one for.   I am actually OK with the moving out part, I do not want to be dodging the realtor showing the house and it is the only way to get rid of the cat smell.
Once I  resigned myself to selling the house, the first thing I thought of was holding an estate sale.  Imagine the thrill of not just going to one but being the ruler of it. I have invited Diane von Austinburg to act as co-ruler, I’d love it.  She is considering it.  Think of the thrill of watching people fight over the crap she and I have dragged back from various thrifting adventures over the years.  I cannot wait.  And I am serious about unloading.  Everything must go.  I’m keeping my bed, and few other bits and pieces, but aside from that, it is all on.  Make me an offer for the cat and I will consider it.
Last night I was organizing my vast porn collection to give away and wound up with the floor of my bedroom covered in stacks of magazines (I had decided to organize them by titles.  I now have no idea why)  It was exhausting, and as I dragged my poor aching carcass to bed, I thought “I’m going to trip over this in the dark on a pee run.”  I was too tired to care and a few hours later, sure enough, coming back in, tripped and went down like the Titanic.  Fortunately, I already had an appointment with my chiropractor and he helped, but I am still sore.  Why is life so hard?
Here’s one last look at Chez Moi:
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My living room

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My favorite rug,  The center is a lantern hanging from a branch protruding from a cliff.  Love.

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A tiny little Danish modern bureau which

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ta-dah, converts to a vanity when you flip up the top.

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My room, where absolutely no magic happens.  That red lump on the cedar chest is Saki napping in one of his many, many beds scattered around the place.

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When the relator I like showed up, the first thing I said was “I blame everything on the cat.”

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And finally, my late, great smut collection, now handed off to some weird guy from Oakland who repeatedly announced he had OCD.  Whatever.  Adieu, my paper dolls. God love you and thank you for the countless hours (cumulatively) you have given me.

The Night Owl Report

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I was huddled in my bed feeling like an idiot, which is not unusual.  The day after I posted my triumphant cry that Spring had sprung upon San Francisco,  a storm front blew in, the skies opened and it’s been cold and rainy ever since.  True, that is spring weather, but it wasn’t the spring weather I had been so very smug about.

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I really don’t have any relevant pictures for my adventures in Kitchenland, so I’m just going with muscly youth.  I can’t imagine anyone complaining.

As usual, when I’m not happy, I got up to go eat.  Something.  Anything.  I remembered that I had roasted a bunch of baby carrots just because I wanted some roast carrots and there were still quite a few left.  As the carrots were whirling around in the mircrowave, I also decided I would make custard.  My cooking decisions are almost always based on “What do I have and what can I do with it?”  In this case, eggs, half & half, sugar, vanilla and salt pointed towards custard.  The fact that I was longing for some sweet blandness didn’t hurt.

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Nothing is easier to cook than custard.  The most technical part is breaking an egg.  If you can do that, the rest is just measure and stir.  It is in the oven right now, in its bain marie, which is a fancy name for a pan half full of hot water, almost finished.

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While it was baking, the carrots were ready, but I realized I wanted some carbs with it.  Bread, tortillas, left over scones, I wasn’t being picky.  I had just bought a loaf of this wonderful cinnamon bread I love.   Sort of sweet and rich, it’s very similar to challah.  Its only downside is that it comes as a whole loaf, unsliced.  Instead of just slicing off the end  bit and calling it a day, I decided to slice the entire thing to make giving into temptation in the future just that much easier.

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Amazing how very tasty the carrots and the cinnamon bread were together.  An unplanned triumph.  A serendipitous snack, and isn’t that really the best kind.

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The timer for the custard just went off.  I know you’re supposed to test if they’re done enough with a silver blade stuck in the middle to see if it comes out clean.   But I have no silver blades.  Get real, this is not Downton Abbey.  Silver is terrible metal for knife blades,   It’s soft and so it dulls faster than you can eat.  I just gently shake the pan to see how much the custard quivers.  You want it past the jiggly stage, but not firm, because it will continue to cook as it cools.

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OK, so, carrots, heated and eaten, bread sliced and also eaten, combination: a radiant stroke of genius, the kitchen cleaned, the custard cooling and just quivery enough.

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I realize all this kitchen madness is not terribly worth a post, it’s just that all of it took place between 3:00 AM and 3:45 AM.  It is pitch black outside, no one else is stirring, even the raccoons have gone to bed, but here I am at my peak.  This is when I am the most energetic (not saying much) and clear headed.  Some people are made for the night and that’s me.

It wasn’t until I retired and the shackles of employment released me that I found out I am an owl.  All those years waking up to go to work just when I was most ready to doze off, how wrong they all were.

I’ll go take my meds and get in bed; not to go to sleep, but because that’s my favorite place to read.  So I’ll be reading and struggling with the cat over who gets the best bed position, a fight I lose every night, and along about dawn, I’ll doze off.

It’s a perfect world.  At last.

All these lovely specimen are courtesy of the stunningly well curated blog    For the Love of NudeMuscleMen    I borrowed them without permission and I hope they do not mind my poaching because I really do think whoever is picking the art for the collection has an impeccable eye.

seanbutnotseen

Smart. Fun. Funny. Kind. Cute. Dogs. 80's music. Biking. Tennis Cooking. Stephen King. Apple. Blue. Reddish. Short. Beard. Jock straps. Movies. TV. More...

The Lisp

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