Of Kitties and Poop

So here is the terror of the veterinary corps of San Francisco.  Did you ever?

Who’s the babiest baby in Babytown?

I have no idea what has brought it to mind, but recently I’ve been reminded that one of the worst things about the untimely passing of my dear friend Magda is the loss of the jokes he and I used to share about pooping.  One of us would return from a trip to the restroom and announce in an exaggeratedly mock tearful voice “It was a terrible miscarriage.  I think it was twins.” Or something along the lines of “The good ship S.S. Fajita has launched!”  We were very popular at dinner parties.  Oh, we had ’em rolling in the aisles, I tell ya.  It’s rarer than you might think to have a friend you can not only make excrement jokes with but who has a history of them with you.

Seventeen Perfectly Good Reasons mrpeenee Hasn’t Blogged in Weeks

I’m lazy.

Our dear, dear old chum Magda died earlier this month and while I wasn’t prepared to include here how sad the loss made me, I also didn’t feel like I could just ignore it either.  He was sweet as I am bitter and lovable as I am curmudgeonly and the world is a dimmer place without him.

Also, Magda was central to the house I purchased in New Orleans and its renovation.  He helped me pick out the furniture and was full of sensible suggestions about the reno and actually worked a great deal more on it than I did.  The fact that he died a little more than a week before I moved in and thus never saw the finished glory is galling, just galling.

And yes, I moved into the house last week.  Turns out moving into a house halfway across the country is hard.  More on that later.

I am not about to mess up a perfectly good manicure typing this gibberish for all you ingrates, much as I love you.

The internet has run out of pictures of attractive young men for me to swipe and illustrate my posts with.  Wait, that’s not true.

The world simply does not need another blog entry about how annoying cats who hog the whole bed are.

Speaking of Saki, he won’t get off the computer, so I couldn’t get to my blog.

If Mistress over at Infomaniac doesn’t have to blog, why should I?  I haven’t been bad.

I wasn’t feeling it.

The stupid little topknots all the stupid boys are wearing these days fills me such an unquenchable rage that I can’t concentrate on typing.

I had planned on writing while I was in New Orleans last week, but the gorgeous, enormous thunderstorms were just too distracting.  As much as I love San Francisco and our persistently beautiful weather here, I also miss the drama of a Gulf Coast storm.

Pudding.

I’ve been playing the old timey dice game Yahtzee on my phone with all my friends and crushing them in defeat has taken up all my attention.

I would think about writing a post and then think “I need a nap.”  Naps always win.

I’m still lazy.

New Orleans Keeps on Keeping On

Remember when I said I was afraid to come to New Orleans since every time I did so, the estimate for the completion date of the renovation of my house here slips back a little farther?  Well, if you paid a little attention, you’d remember.  Anyway, sure enough I got here last night and less than 24 hours later, Sister Mary Legs in the Air broke the news that the newest deadline is May 24. When I was here in January, it was “the end of April.”  Adding an element of specificity does not fool me; this house will never know my loving touch.

Again, it’s my own fault for slipping into town, but honestly I had to.  Our dearest old chum, Magda, is ensconced in the hospital right now with his blood chemistry all whacked out.  I was trying to be helpful at a delicious lunch today with Magda’s boyfriend after we had spent the morning with the old thing and saying how important phosphorus was to the body’s function, which might or might not be true, but what I was trying to say was “potassium” not “phosphorous.”  Yeah, that’s what you need girl, get your phosphorous up and we’ll light you like a torch.  No wonder no one takes me seriously.

Truly, though, it’s troubling to see someone sick who’s closer to my heart than the riff raft I’m related to by blood even if we did share an amusing afternoon swapping stories about phlebotomists and catheters.  If ever there was a convincing argument for euthanasia, it’s two old queens who have a connoisseur’s insight into emergency rooms.

So is this the kind of shenanigans that are holding up the renovation of my house?  

If so, they’re going on without me and I RESENT IT.

Photographic Proof

I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical “Hey gurl, welcome back”

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as “Bead Whore,” but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.

The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you’re in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

Mardi Gras on Ice

Histrionics on Tuesday were busy shrieking that this was the most miserable Mardi Gras EVER.  The problem with histrionics is they can sometimes be close to correct.  It was cold and wet and, yes, miserable, but I had a lovely time.  A few days since we got here have been warm and lovely, but Monday night, when we went out uptown to see parades and then Mardi Gras itself were absolutely frigid.

Highlights of the 2014 Carnival Season, mrpeenee-style included

Getting smacked in the face by a fistful of red beads from a float.  Hurt like a other fucker and I was actually sort of stunned, but even in that state, I managed to be furious that I had missed catching the beads.  If you’re going to be wounded trying to snag some completely worthless shiny plastic beads, you want to at least have the fucking beads for your trouble.  Fortunately, our old chum Magda was right behind me and adeptly plucked them from mid air as they bounced off my skull.  Yay, for this and so many other things, for Magda.

A gang of costumers dolled up like pirates had a spring coil cannon made out of PVC pipe and they aimed it squarely at this annoying goon squad of Christians who were nattering around about how we were all damned and Jesus really, really, really loved us, but was still going to send us to hell for sodomy.  I had a neckful of beads, because when not getting clocked by them, I am quite good at racking them up.  I gave them all to the pirates and they were able to hit one of the Christians’ signs with them.  Hooray!

We went to parties and hung out in bars and wandered around crowds of the most amazing costumes and high spirits,  I flirted with cute guys and then I came back to my lovely hotel room to thaw out and take a nap.  It’s a sweet life.

Go go boys were universally luscious and one of my favorite wanted to get spanked, an option I always sign up for.  Bitch had a butt like a meat balloon filled with jelly. Of course, as I’ve mentioned, traveling with Secret Agent Fred brings many benefits, including the one where go go boys are drawn to him and he’s great at striking up amusing flirtations with them.  Plus, have you ever noticed what a good bargain stripper boys are?  Inflation may have affected every other aspect of modern life, but you can still squeeze on the boys for a buck slipped into their panties, just like in the 80s.

The only thing missing was easy sex.  Back in the 80’s, bars competed to have the sleaziest back rooms and I was a connoisseur.  Now, sad (and chilly) old men huddle glumly in rooms that used to hold a crush of copulation watching some satin skinned dancer like he’s a commercial for adult diapers.  Fred and I were often the only ones tipping the boys and they were, understandably, attentive.  I felt it was the least we could do, after all, it must be tough to pay your rent one crumpled dollar bill at a time.