Category Archives: shopping

Grocering

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I took time out of my hectic schedule of sleeping and watching ridiculously attractive boys do nasty things on Chaturbate to go to the store and buy soap for the dishwasher.  I wound up staggering back to the car with two bags full of the most random things that might be called groceries ever seen.  $76 worth of chemically processed crap.

When I got home and unloaded my haul I realized it looked like I had gone shopping wearing a blindfold and with a very sketchy idea of how to cook.  A six pack of those cheese crackers filled with peanut butter.  A box of plain water crackers for cheese, only to discover I had the exact same unopened product already at home.  But no cheese.

Let’s see, what else, Doritos.  Somehow I always wins up coming hoe from the grocery with a bag of Doritos.  I think they must hand it to me as I enter and I just don’t notice.  I seem to enter into some kind of fugue state as the doors close behind me, sealing me in with all the other shambling, clueless Safeway shoppers.  I wander the aisles, aimlessly foraging and after a while, I leave, almost always without at least one item I specifically went to buy.

but I got some nice bananas and some nectarines.  We’ll see about them, it takes a few days on the shelf to either ripen into perfection or turn into moldy knobs.

R Man and I used to go to the store each Saturday, armed with lists and sense of purpose and prepare ourselves for the week ahead.  Now I find myself looking over into other shoppers carts to get ideas about what I might want to consume.

At least I got the dishwasher soap.

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nothing to do with groceries, but who’s complaining?

In Which mrpeenee Reports In

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It’s been a rather trying couple of weeks around here.  I had a colonoscopy, a teeth cleaning and a birthday.  It’s not exactly been leaping from heights to heights.

I can sense my longtime readers tensing up, readying themselves for a colonoscopy blow-by-blow, but I’ll spare us all that, mostly because I was completely knocked out, at my insistence, and have nothing to report.  “One step short of zombie” was my actual instruction to the nice little anesthesiologist and he came through.  I have to say, the drugs are very effective, but I remember them being more amusing last time.

My later chat with my regular doctor about the results weren’t that much more enlightening.  He brought up photos from the scan on the computer even though I insisted I was not interested in a slide show.  Since he’s also an old friend he felt free to make cracks about how a gay man shouldn’t make such a fuss over a delivery to the rear entrance, so to speak.  I felt free to mention how he should shut the fuck up.  Our conversation ended with him remarking, in a genuinely startled tone, “Wow they really went way up there.”  Great.  Maybe they were looking for gerbils, I don’t know.  I wasn’t there at the time.

Also: teeth cleaning.  I’ve always been a star pupil at my dentists, breezing through the hygienist’s scraping and sawing, lalalalahla.  This time, though, my toothy luck ran out.   My tooth girl, Penny, seemed unhappy.  Apparently, it was like the Red Wedding up in there.  I tried to think of a way to blame it all on my cat, but she wasn’t having it.  Penny was disappointed, sad and disappointed in me.  I felt bad, my gums had let her down.  Had she announced my dental hygiene would henceforth include a rosary and five extra Hail Marys, I would have been rattling those beads quicker than you could say knife.

After all that, I have to say my birthday was quite a relief.  Balmy and blue, the kind of perfect San Francisco day that reminds us why we pay so very much to live here.  Secret Agent Fred and I repaired to Neiman’s for a lovely tea.  Mine was bolstered by a couple of Vicodins and a concoction called the Lady in Red cocktail.  The menu listed several harmless ingredients, but it turned out to be basically a glass of vodka stained magenta.  Perfect.  One assumes the ladies who lunch crowd that frequents Neiman’s are serious about their cocktails.  Fine with me.

Afterwards Fred and I went off to some tasteful haberdashery for to me buy some birthday socks.  A very attractive sales clerk, a lanky doe-eyed beauty, rolled out drawersful of the most dazzling stockings.  I should mention I had all afternoon been interspersing my conversation with Fred with the announcement “It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  It seemed to excuse any possible lapse, such as when I was jauntily pointing out socks and gaily instructing the dreamboat clerk “I’ll take that and that and a box of those.  It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  He didn’t even bat one of his lustrous and thick eyelashes.  “Happy birthday, sir,” he murmmered.   It was a slow Tuesday afternoon in the store, I was the only customer and if it took being addressed as “bitch” to make a sale, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

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Socks.  Always an appropriate gift.

Fashion Weak

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I know I am challenged when it comes to dressing like an adult; especially since I retired and no longer have to maintain any pretense that I have an interest in not looking like I’m still in elementary school.  Tennis shoes, jeans and a t-shirt and I’m good to go.

But there’s one rule I stick by: the shirts I sleep in are for that purpose only.  They are not standby undershirts, they are not to be used in public even as “I’m just going to run down to Starbuck’s and get a jolt and I don’t want to get dressed.”  They’re all white, v necked, cotton, slightly too big and not at all something anyone needs to see me wearing.   A few years ago, I bought the present generation which are Calvin Klein cause I’m all fancy and stuff and which have finally reached the quality of perfect softness old cotton achieves.

I adore this.  Soft as your own skin and with a delicate perfume only well-loved cotton has.  Of course, this means they’re doomed.  One day you’re admiring the lovely texture of your pyjammas (and that’s how I spell it, I don’t care what spell check thinks) and the next you’re wondering what the hell all that lint in the washer is, only to realize it’s all that’s left of your favorite t-shirt.  And flights of angels sing thee….

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Wore out shirts, blonde not included.

For once, I’ve been proactive and ordered a batch of new ones to prepare for that sad, sad day.  I buy them in bulk, so now I’m stocked with three dozen jammie shirts, a mix of old and new.  I’m trying to phase in the newbies, but inevitably I find myself pawing down through the stack until my hand hits one of the old faves.  And really how much “breaking in” does a cotton t shirt need?

In Which mrpeenee Struggles with the World of Internet Commerce

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You are now connected to Amazon from Amazon.com
Me:On August 26, I had a chat session about the whirlpool bathtub I ordered. The person I chatted with claimed someone from “large purchases” would get back to me in 24 hours. It’s been a week, no contact, so a) what’s with that and b) where’s my bathtub?
Amazon:Hello Gary, my name is Natally and I’m so sorry to hear that we where supposed to contact you and we didn’t and the fact that you don’t have your bathtub, let me see how i can help you
Me:great
Amazon:just to verify the address we are supposed to send this bathtub is blah blah blah
right?
Me:yes
Amazon:thank you, Gary please wait for me just a moment while i review your account really quick
Ok Gary, thank you for your patience, I actually need to connect you with one of my colleagues from the concierge dept because of the price of this bathtub, please hold while I connect you.
Gary are you there?
Me:yeah, it’s not like I’m going to take a bath or anything.
Amazon:Thank you Gary just a moment
A Customer Service Associate will be with you in a moment.
You are now connected to Ben from Amazon.com
Ben:Hello!
Me:hi
Ben:I’m sorry that you have not gotten your bathtub yet, let me pull this order up and we’ll see what’s going on.
It looks like we are still working on acquiring the inventory to ship it out to you.
Me:what does that mean? I ordered this on July 19. When is the tub getting here.
Ben:We currently do not know. We’re working on getting the inventory. It looks like it was out of stock when ordered and we’ve not been able to get another one quite yet. I’m sorry.
Me:It took amazon a month and a half to realize it was out of stock, I contacted you once already, and you’re just now getting around to mentioning this?
Ben:I’m very sorry, from what I’m seeing on the details of the order, this was out of stock when you ordered it.
We did send you an update shortly after the order with an expected time that we could get this out to you. That was between August 18th and September 11th. I know that’s a very long window, but when we’re not sure when we’re going to actually get them in, that does tend to happen.
Me:I’d like to point out Sept. 11 is nine days away. Are you saying the tub will be here then?
Ben:I cannot guarantee that, as it does not look like we’ve found a supplier yet, but it is not outside of the realm of possibilities. To be very honest, I doubt it.
Me:So, to summarize: Amazon’s customer guarantees are worthless.
Ben:Not typically, but unfortunately in this case, it looks like we might actually not be able to make that date.
I can happily look into what’s going on and why it’s taking so long.
Of course, if you would like to cancel the order and go somewhere else, I’d completely understand.
Me:“Looking into it and finding out why it’s taking so long” would be swell. In fact, many customers would assume that is what you would be already doing.
Ben:On the customer service end, that’s not something that we generally handle. That’s taken care of by our vendor managers and others in the procurement teams. But since I want to help you, I will do what I can to get you an answer, since they have not updated you.
Me:I’m in New Orleans. I can get a voodoo doll with “Procurement team” written on it without breaking a sweat and I suspect it would be just about as much help.
Ben:If that’s what you feel you want to do, you’re perfectly welcome to. I, on the other hand, am going to actually try to be helpful, if that’s ok with you.
Me:Go to it. And reel in the snark while you’re at it.
Ben:Honestly sir, I could say the exact same to you, but I did not mean to be snarky, so I apologize.
I’m typing up an email to the vendor manager in charge of that department.
Me:I look forward to hearing what you discover.
Ben:Would you prefer email or phone?
Me:email is fine. My address is mrpeenee@yahoo.com.
Ben:Awesome. I’ll reach out to you as soon as I hear anything. I’m sorry that this is taking so long to get to you.
Me:Thank you and good day.

Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

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Secret Agent Fred and I have decided to invade New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 2014.  I know the last time I went there for Carnival, I swore I wouldn’t go again because visiting the madness is so much less fun than actually living there for it, but I’ve reached an age when repeating my mistakes is a charming quirk, so here we go.

First step: make hotel reservations, which is not easy during the highest of high seasons.  Second step: wonder if simply buying a house there wouldn’t be cheaper, considering what hotel rooms run during Mardi Gras.  Third step:  start sopping for shoes for my costume.

Footwear has always been problematic for me and my costumes.  I get all the other pieces together and suddenly my Converse tennis shoes are just not cutting it.  Even if I don’t do drag, I might still want to wear high heels, cause they’re so gay.   Still, you’d be surprised how puny is the selection of ladies size 15 pumps.

And how ugly they are.

I’m thinking about boots and am willing to consider input from you guys.

The fucsia, third from Right, are particularly fetching

Brooding about my feet just reminds me of a long ago Southern Decadence when I was back there for a visit and had to rustle up something in a hurry.

My friend Rich let me borrow his red wig (I know not everyone can pull off that Titianesque shade, I’m just lucky that I can really rock it)

and that tired old Merry Widow bustier has long been my go-to for a quick get up, but even with fishnets, the whole thing sort of skids to a sorry halt with those white mules, which Rich described as “Nancy Nurse on vacation.”  Bitch.

That same giddy afternoon included a tragedy when another friend, Cow Queen, accidentally knocked off my wig (at least, he claims it was an accident) outside some not-very-nice bar on Rampart Street.  I certainly was not going to take that and so, CATFIGHT, which thrilled onlookers no end.

Later he tried to suck up, but between a wig on the sidewalk and those shoes, I was just mortified.

That’s why I’m leaning towards boots, boots with which I can kick the shit out of somebody.

What do you think?

Junkie

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Safeway late on Sunday night: read it and weep, bitches.  I go there so you need not.  Actually I go there because I like to take vicodin with seltzer water which means I go through quite a lot of the stuff and I find Safeway’s in-house brand, the charmingly ludicrously named “Refreshe”, to be my favorite. I pronounce it with an exaggerated semi-French accent.

Speaking of Safeway brands and the fall of civilization, the company has invaded the home turf of stoner junkies everywhere by coming out with their own line of fine, fine snack products ripoffs.  It’s called the Snack Artist and it reproduces well known and beloved junk foods.  I can personally attest to the quality of their version of Cheetos.  I don’t know what chemical crap makes up the yellow-y orange dust that clings to your fingers like super glue after you’ve put away a pound or two of them, but man are they tasty.

Less fortunate is the crack they took at Lil Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.  I’m sure you remember how distraught we all were when the Hostess Baking Company went tits up and the source for those chocolate cake rolls with cream filling (and let’s be honest; every word in that phrase should be enclosed in ironic quotation marks: “chocolate”  “cream”) was cut off.  I was thrilled to run across Safeway’s attempt to fill the void, but valiant as it might be, the result is simply lackluster.

Still, I plan on working my way through the entire line of potato chips of many lands, tortilla chips in every conceivable flavor and ersatz Twinkies.  The only drawback (aside from possible death by junk food) is that moment at the checkout stand when you sheepishly empty your cart and you feel that everybody, the cashier chica, the bag boy, the lesbian in line behind you, is judging you based on what you’re buying.  In my case, this consists of 12 two liter bottles of seltzer and enough garbage snack to feed a small dormitory of stoner boys.  And a bunch of bananas like some pathetic attempt at healthful living.

Also, expanding on my much updated post below about Spotify, I have given up and switched back to Pandora which, I think to punish me for cheating on her, insists on playing long swatches of The Smiths.  ENOUGH, already!  It’s like living with a morose teenage girl.  Let me know when Roxy Music comes on.

Groceries and Drama

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So very much NOT what mrpeenee’s Friday night looked like.

Secret Agent Fred and I caught up over lunch on Friday, discussing the political conventions, ramifications of our on-going struggle against the patriarchal norm and why they were so few cute boys out in the Castro.  Afterwards, we considered going out for drinks (always an amusing prospect with Fred,) but I was feeling feeble and my back achey, so I begged off and offered to drive him over to his boyfriend’s house.  Fred has been staying there on and off over the last few months and renting his own stylish pied a terre on Air BnB.  It’s been working well, Fred needs the money and tourists get the thrill of crashing in Fred’s studio.  Fred will assure you, very firmly, he’s located not in the the Tenderloin, but on the fringe of Nob Hill, sort of the Tender Nob, heehee.

So we went wheeling off to the boyfriend’s place and on the way there, I recalled the new Whole Foods had just opened, sort of nearby and I dragged Fred off for an inspection.  Too late, I realized I had traded Fred’s suggestion of an evening of society and high life for one consisting of grocery shopping.  I know that awful harridan MJ from Infomaniac is always harping on what a musty old fussbudget I am, but never had I been forced to see how close to the truth she might be until the evening found us yukking it up in the produce aisle.  I saw myself as just one fluffy miniature poodle short of truly becoming a creaky Old Mary.

On the bright side, they had nectarines on sale.

After we checked out, I ferried Fred on over to Duane’s and came home to brood.  How had I, the terror of French Quarter cocksuckers during the reign of Depeche Mode, turned into such a frump?  Turned out I didn’t have long to think about it cause Fred called to announce he had broken up with his boyfriend and needed a place to stay.  So now we have house guests, Saki and I, which is fine with me, I adore Fred, but Saki is so not feeling the love about Fred’s cat.

I know from experience the best role in breakups is to be supportive, but to try not to vent about how you always knew the ex was no good and sort of fatuous and dressed funny.  As soon as you go down that road, reconciliations on their part become so uncomfortable.  I remain loving and nonjudgmental.  Saki just wants the brown bedroom with its attached bath back as part of his territory.

Also, let me be clear Fred seems to be doing OK with all this, sad, but not heartbroken.  Apparently it’s been in the works for a while and I know it’s always easier to be the dumper than the dumped.  Still, I worry that this is all my fault.  Am I to blame for exposing Fred to the fast lane life of Whole Food’s baked goods department?  The timing seems terribly fraught.

Do-It-Yourself Smut

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Before we get to details about the lovely trips to New Orleans and Austin, about which I’m sure you’re all waiting breathlessly, mrpeenee has reports of technology triumphs. Specifically, the schmancy new printer I bought and installed this afternoon.

Close readers of this blog will know I like porn. Yes, it’s true, muscley mens sporting their bits are one of my all-time faves. Since I am also a dinosaur, rather than computer images, I prefer hard copy at hand (you get it? “Hard copy” “At hand?” Oh, never mind.)

Now that the internet is pretty much the only source for filthy pictures, and what a boon it is, I needed a printer to transfer them to paper. My stupid little HP Ink Splatterer was not cutting the mustard so Secret Agent Fred and I whirled off to one of the big box stores that everyone rails against so shrilly and scored a sweet little Epsom bad boy.
And speaking of big box stores, is there some quaint little mom-and-pop tech provider I could have gone to instead? Don’t think so and I live a fairly big town. Anyway.
Then, installation, which I actually like. Meticulously unwrapping the components appeals to my most OCD mental defects and being able to follow directions written for the mentally challenged whose first language is not English and who, in fact, may not even have a first language makes me feel a small step below Stephen Hawking.
And then, et voila, our first effort rolled out effortlessly and perfectly, crisp with brilliant colors. It was a shot shared by Fred we like to call “Daddy Panties.”


So now I got to go, cause I have a backlog to mow through, for research archival purposes only, I assure you.



I, I Who Have Dementia

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I was at a very gay shop in the Castro buying birthday presents (we have a cloud of friends who were all born right around the middle of January so I snag presents by the bunch this time of year) and the soundtrack was playing a dynamite version of Shirley Bassey singing I, Who Have Nothing.

Our dear friend Kebbin has long claimed this as his signature song should he ever be forced into doing drag in public, which I think is a brilliant choice. I was thinking about that and smiling to myself when the shopboy, who I assume was in his 20s, but looked like he should have been in junior high, asked if I liked Dame Bassey. Of course, I said yes, and then asked if he knew the Tom Jones cover of this. “Tom Jones?” he responded blankly. I was going to explain, but I figured I didn’t have time.

For those of you who remember a galaxy long ago and far away.

Big Box

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I’ve mentioned before that any shopping not conducted at the grocery or Walgreen’s does not thrill me, and those expeditions are rarely the high point of the day, even if they do result in cookies and Vicodin. So I buy all my clothes online and a new batch just showed up. I’m holding off on opening them until Christmas. Isn’t that precious? I expect to be somewhat surprised with the contents since I have already forgotten what I bought. R Man, god love him, was never good at guessing what presents to get me and would simply demand a detailed list from me in November. And by detailed I mean not just “cashmere sweater, 1,” but explicitly running down what color, size, and where he could get it.
Saki thinks the shipping is simply a superior way of getting wrapping paper and boxes for him to play in. He’s a playah.