Category Archives: beefcake

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.

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.

 

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.

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.

Spring Break

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We interrupt mrpeenee as we do just about every year around this time to announce the Spring has arrived in San Francisco.   Each year we try to make the announcement with a cheery demeanor that manages to hide our smugness and each year, we fail.  Nyah, nyah, nyah, snowbound motherfuckers.  There are justifiable reasons why it costs so goddam much to live here:

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armies of cute boys,

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and a springtime that is what poets fumble around trying to describe.

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The cherry trees (and flowering plum trees, I can’t tell them apart) are the first outliers of the season and I shot these in two blocks of 18th Street.  Multiply that times the whole city and you get an idea of what I’m smug about.

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One great disappointment was this tiny cottage which has been a source of delight for years.   Since we first got here, the house was painted a soft pink and a medium sort of burgundy.  It was a fine color combination, no big deal, until the cherry trees in front of it bloomed and they were the exact same colors as the house.  It was amazing.  As a house owner and a gardener, matching the two seems like such an appealing idea, but I know how hard it would be to pull off.  Getting an exact shade of paint is almost impossible, getting TWO is a miracle.

And now, some idiot, who probably bough the house when the trees were out of flower, has painted it brown.  Just brown.  Too add salt to the wound, one of the two trees appears to be dead.   Possibly out of color-related grief.

Also a shame is that for some reason, Asian magnolias, which were also a harbinger of springtime and which were very common around town, seem to have sort of vanished,  This time of year, almost every block seemed to have one or two and now I don’t see them anywhere.  Golden Gate Park had a huge collection of them, including some from the Himalayas that were 50 feet tall.  The Arboretum, which housed most of them, moves things around a lot, to keep it fresh, a few years ago dug up a grove of them.  Mistake.  The grove was an example of how many varieties of them there are and I always thought it was charming in spring, the big pink and purple and white blooms on the bare branches; just lovely.

Still, I need to go out to the park.  Even a shut in can appreciate the beauties of spring.

 

Obscure Presidents and the More Obvious

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The always illuminating blog Cafe Muscato has a charming President Day celebratory theme. Which was handy since I had no idea today was President’s Day. Since retiring, keeping track of holidays is sort of moot. If you don’t work, everyday’s a holiday! Besides Muscato is located in Washington, where the day is more of big deal than anywhere else. I’m sure most Americans know it mainly as the Mattress Sale holiday and how did that wind up together anyway?

The “tune” included in Muscato’s post reminded me how littered with blanks my ability to name presidents is.  I’m OK for about the first five. OK, four. but after that, things sort of dribble out. I know there were two Adams, two Roosevelts and two Bushes (which, let’s face it. were two too many) and Millard Fillmore. San Francisco has an overabundance of streets named after mediocre presidents, including Fillmore, and the Fillmore, famous nightclub shrine of 60s Rock ‘n Roll, takes its name simply from its location, so that’s how Millard Fillmore is related to the Jefferson Airplane.

More interesting than presidents who ran on the Know Nothing Party (and thank you for THAT trend) let us turn instead to over-photoshopped beauties, a trend I mostly run across when shopping around for illustrations for this blog.

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Do we think this guy looks like this in real life? Is it possible some creature resembling this walks into Starbucks and orders lattes? How could chaos not break out? There’s that Uncanny Valley thing, which wikipedia explains better than I do, to wit:

The concept of the uncanny valley suggests that humanoid objects which appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit uncanny, or strangely familiar, feelings of eeriness and revulsion in observers.

 

Revulsion may not be the feeling this youth stirs, but he doesn’t exactly look human either. I mean, I wouldn’t mind a few hours in a romantic setting with him, but still, that utter perfection looks like it owes more to Mattel than to good genes.

Also part of the photoshopping madness we have the “Just keep hitting the enlarge button”

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Nobody loves a great big whopper better than I, but there comes a point when we’re back in the Uncanny part of town. I’m OK with a “touchup” let’s say, something that’s in the way of wishful thinking.  But honey this, this reaches structurally impossible.

Annals of Medical Triumph, Vol. Whatever

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I went for an MRI late this afternoon.  This was not one of those “I don’t have anything better to do, maybe I’ll go in for an unpleasant medical experience” things.   Having gone to my back doctor for more than a year, I think he realized I was not just going to go away and so he ordered one to have a little look see at what is actually going on inside my back.  Why am I whining all the time, in other words.

Sweet pancakes of mine, I had always heard how LOUD an MRI is, but was unprepared for the reality of it.  It is stick your head in a jet engine loud.  I am of the generation that shared in the hearing damage of serious rock shows and none of them were this loud.  And that was with earplugs and these sound deadening blocks on my ears.  “Sound deadening.”  It is to laugh.

They shoved me into a tiny tube after repeatedly asking if I was claustrophobic.  How I wish I said yes, maybe they would have given me drugs.  mrpeenee’s new Rule Number 1: Always demand drugs when in a hospital.  Even if you’re just visiting some patient. Then the racket cranked up.

I remembered reading about some christian who chanted “Christ’s mercy” as he was being martyred (and these pagan guys in charge of martyring were terribly inventive.  Saints are depicted usually with some reference to how they met their grisly fate; Saint Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, Saint Agatha with her titties on another plate, Saint Lawrence, who was grilled and toasted alive, is shown holding a griddle, which usually looks sort of like a waffle maker.  In the Sistine Chapel, Jesus is getting up from his chair and turning away from all the damned with this air of “I am through with you.  Later bitches.” and all the saints form a sort of scrimmage line between him and the out of luck souls trying to scramble out of hell.  But Lucy, Agatha and Lawrence, ready to tackle them and still holding those damn plates and griddle, give it the air of very odd buffet.  Christians.  So weird.)

Anyway, I tried mentally chanting “Christ’s mercy”, but it didn’t seem to do much, possibly because I am a heathen, so I switched it up to “RuPaul’s mercy, RuPaul’s mercy.”  That didn’t do much either.  I just gave up and started hoping I would begin hallucinating soon.

They finally dragged me out.  The tech cheerfully said “Well, that was a long one, but we got some great pictures!” I was literally staggering and limping from being cramped and not moving for 45 minutes, but it was after 6:00, these guys were ready to get out of work, so they kept announcing that I just had to go through the double doors.  They had the air of a bartender shoving the last drunks out the room.

I didn’t care.  I was so glad it was over, I would have crawled out if I’d had to.  So now I’m  home eating Oxycodone and ice cream in about equal measure.  But we got some great pictures!  Maybe I’ll get some wallet size ones.

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Or maybe I would prefer these back pictures

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Definitely.  Better than my back.

Substances

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So Saki has the tiniest little substance abuse, or just substance great fondness.  Cat nip, of course.  The heartbreak of so many happy homes.  I keep most of his toys in a charming wicker basket in the living room.  Every other Monday, the cleaning ladies gather up all the toys that have escaped and put them back in the toy box;  I expect this is accompanied by a disapproving sniff.  I’m only surprise they don’t drop in a pamphlet about Jesus is The Light.

Recently I brought one of the catnip snakes up to my room so when those rare moments of consciousness pass by I can play with Saki, poor little neglected waif.  Now in the wee-est of hours, I will hear, somewhere out in the dark, Saki licking and sucking and grunting and making Nip Love to the Nip Snake.

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Speaking of the Nip Snake

I have my own substance problems.  Using them isn’t the problem; laying hands on them is.  Last summer, my pain doctor started on a quest to find something to replace vicodin in my daily life.  He emphasized it was because along with vicodin comes ibuprofin or aceteminfin. neither of which are good for your liver.  This has nothing to do with Congress’s sudden feverish attack on opioids.  Oh no.  Thus began the Summer of Annoying Drugs.  Some made me sick, some made me crazy (literally.  The Children and Super Agent Fred developed this worried look about me) and then I found Opana.  I’ve spoken about this before; just as I got used to it working really well and being a great help, the FDA pressured its manufacturer into removing it from the market.

The press pointedly said the drug they were removing was Opnana Extended Release.  I was taking Opana Immediate Release.   Patience is not one of my many virtues.  I asked both doctor and pharmacist if that made a difference.  Nope.  It’s gone.  And so I wound up on Oxycodone, which I have long resisted since it is so trailer park trashy and you know what a Lady I am, especially about those things I put in my body.  Which is a temple.  And possibly a bowling alley.

Then yesterday at my monthly doctor visit, the good doctor said “You know, I’ve been thinking, the only thing the reports said they were removing was Opana ER, so I started wondering if maybe Opana IR is still out there, so I checked and it is.  Why don’t we get you back on that?”

Thank god for years of government work which has left me immune to fatheads.  I did not shriek about how that’s what I said in October.  I simply agreed, oh what a clever idea, aren’t you a good boy.

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Who’s a good boy?

So now I’m back on Opana.  My back and I are so very glad.  Of course, it comes in big ass pills, that I cut in half and then take every three hours, so I’m pretty much on a steady, higher plane.  OK with me.

And Saki is all nipped up, so everybody is happy.  Until our next crisis.