Tag Archives: beefcake

Consumer Electronic peenee

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I was making my way up Market Street, headed, as usual, to Walgreens to fight with the pharmacists, as usual, for my meds.  Those girls have developed the instincts of a cobra from years of turning back junkie forays into prescription drugs.  I kept thinking where did all these people come from and why are they IN MY WAY?  I finally realized it was Saturday, something that doesn’t really matter to those of us in the retirement field.  And a lovely, sunny Saturday to boot.  No wonder everyone had turned out, but why do they have to turn out in my path?  Who knows?  Get out of my way.

After defeating Walgreens (natch,) I had to make a grocery store run.  Yes, I am almost cooking again.  “Almost” because I was breaking in a brand new crock pot.  I have never owned one before.  I always figured if you have a stove and a pot, what’s the point?  But now that I have been marooned in an apartment with an electric stove, which I hate so much, I refuse to acknowledge it as an actual cooking device, I have discovered their (possibly) usefulness.  As I said, this is the first thing I’ve cooked in it, so we’ll see.

Also, I now realize the pot I bought is designed for one of those giant suburban families that need 6 quarts of lentils.  This is a monster that would do Alice of the Brady Bunch proud.

And I bought an air purifier in hopes that it might deal with the ambient cat hair.  There are great drifts of it everywhere here.  I think my old place was so big, you didn’t especially notice there was enough loose fur around that you could have knitted a brand new cat.   In my new apartment, it’s just me, the cat and all his discarded hair.  How he can lose so much and not be bald is beyond me.

So, the little purifier works great.  I have it in my bedroom and as soon as I step out of the door there, I can tell a difference.  I immediately start wiping my nose and choking.  I knew Saki has been trying to kill me for years, I just never suspected he was doing it by means of air control suffocation.

The purifier has a little colored light on it to indicate the quality of the air, blue is good, purple not so hot, and red is bad.  It’s like a mood ring.  It pretty much stays a lovely, cool blue, but whenever I walk directly past it, it turns red.  Bitch.  I have been dissed by better appliances than you.  I don’t care.  Suck up the cat hair and get to work slacker.

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Look! It’s our old friend Gianfranco looking all photoshopped and pretty.

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I do love a good blonde bitch bottom.

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Ah, the mystery, the allure of a big fat, half exposed wiener.

The New and Improved Healthier mrpeenee

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I was at Walgreen’s in the middle of Castro and sort of out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of this gorgeous classic California Surfer Boy.  Sunkissed gold skin and shaggy blonde hair, studying the Gatorade cooler with no shirt on.  Gasp.  As I turned for a better look, I realized the security rent a cop was hovering awfully nearby and closer inspection revealed a homeless guy with no shirt in board shorts.  I had obviously forgotten there are no beach boys indigenous to San Francisco.

Still, flawless tan, blonde hair.  A good wash and rinse and hide all your valuables and he’s probably do OK.  Reminds me of an old Romeo Void song (and whatever happened to them?  Probably homeless in a Walgreens.) that I always thought was called “I might like you better if we slept together” and was somewhat a cri de coeur of mine and which included considering fucking some transient with the line “He’d be warm in your coat….”

In order to keep the Walgreen’s security force from eyeing me in the same manner, I am attempting a more healthful, or at least less ridiculous, life. I have been all too casual about staying in bed 24 hours a day and only eating pills. It was a salute to Valley of the Dolls, and look how that turned out. So now, I’m back to eating salads every day and forcing myself out into the wide, wide world.

The trouble with all that is when you feel weak and vaguely crummy, the knowledge that getting out of bed and moving around will help is clearly understood, but that doesn’t really help get me through the “get out of bed” part of the equation.

What I really need are two big mens to lift me gently out of the supine and dress me and push me out the door.  Again, gently.

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These guys seem cooperative.  That’s important.

Men Don’t Make Passes

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I have mentioned I am an idiot before, haven’t I?  I use fancy big words, occasionally correctly, but I am actually a loon.  My new location means that I don’t have to drive hardly at all.  Groceries, drug store, cafe, crazy lady screaming and exposing her genitals, all within easy walking distance.  I have a fabulous painting Super Agent Fred did of Catherine Deneuve I wanted framed, so this afternoon I took it to the framer with the best reviews in the city and who is literally right around the corner.

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Not this, but equally as arresting.

On the odd occasion that I have had to hit the road, I noticed my vision has once again gotten worse.  Considering how incredibly myopic I am, it seems almost impossible for it to decline any further, but no.  And it seemed to have happened unusually quickly.  Street signs remained stubbornly out of focus,  bumperstickers continued to be a closed mystery to me, and I kept assuring myself that last bump was just more of San Francisco’s lack of infrastructure maintenance and not some unfortunate pedestrian.  I gave in and got new glasses.  Actually new lenses in the frames I’ve had for 20 years now because I like them and it saves me the bother of picking out a new pair.  In fact, I liked them so much, years ago I bought second pair.  Now I get new lenses to replace the oldest one and what were the new ones become the backups.

If you are not bothered by impaired vision, you will never know the thrill of putting on a new pair of glasses.  The world spring into crystalline perfect focus. You realize the person you’ve been addressing as Super Agent Fred is in fact a young woman who has no idea why you continue to bother her.  The universe becomes a place you can see.

I was delighted right up until I tried to use my computer andI was back to the world of blurry.  That was when I remembered that a couple of years ago, when last I got new glasses, the charming doctor suggested I get a pair for the odd distance that computer screens tend to sit at.

When I wear my contact lenses I put on reader glasses to read (duh) or dab at the computer.  If I had on my glasses, I would put the readers on over them, a look that is guaranteed to draw stares from your more fashionable companions.  His point was to have one pair for long distance and one for using a screen.  I agreed with him, got the glasses and promptly forgot about them.

As I recalled this, I realized that in the chaos of moving over here, I had somehow stumbled on my computer glasses and been wearing them, simply more out of focus than usual.  Luckily the frames I handed over to have new lenses were actually my long distance ones, so now they are doing a fabulous job of letting me see what is going on around me.

And my computer glasses are typing this right now.  And I am an idiot.

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Is this boy an Idiot?  Possibly.  Would anyone care?  Care about what?

My Many Lives

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Does her Highness, the Queen of England pick her nose or is she walking around with 80 year old boogers?  These are things that come to me when I am not sleeping.

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It’s San Francisco, where a street car can just be hangin’

You may remember my casually mentioning in the last post that I was supposed to be getting the last of my furniture that they had been using to tart the old pace up.  They being the staging company who was charging me to use my own furniture to decorate my own home.  I have come to believe you need to simply embrace absurdity.  Is there any escape from it?

I had seen the house post staging, I admit, it looked better.  More modern, less shabby and stylish.  My realtor assured me what they were going for was “aspirational.”  I think they succeeded,  I looked at my own house with a vague idea that I wished I lived like that.

Anyway, that was when I noticed that the stager, who had pointed out a few specific pieces he was particularly struck by and asked if he might use them in the project.  I said sure; I was moving, what did I care?  It didn’t occur to me that he was talking about my favorite pieces of home wares and that I would be doing without them until the house sold.

The reality sank in as Super Agent Fred and I were arranging my new digs and I kept announcing “oh no, no. The ‘insert gilded mirror, console, skull and bones couch, whatever really cool item that I loved and which was still at the house, being cool there.’ ”   Consequently, each room has qa bare spot in it, reserved for whatever beauty was going to someday live there.

Well. someday, came today and it was just as chaotic and shrill as the first moving day.  My building management took exception to the moving truck blocking the driveway; another apartment was moving in simultaneously and there were a few polite, but tense exchanges about hogging the elevator; and at the end of the day, my apartment, which had settled into a charming and cozy and pretty little place to hang your head was once again stuffed with boxes and littered packing paper and mirrors and art leaning against the wall just waiting to stub my toe.  Ah me.

I made a half-hearted attempt at pushing things into piles that would possibly be considered, by the more generous minded, to make sense, but then I just said “Fuck it,” fed the cat (who adores the chaos of moving days,) and went out to my favorite restaurant for strawberry shortcake.  Because the big mess here at home will last; strawberries will not.

Tomorrow will be here soon enough.  In fact it’s tomorrow right now.  I have an engagement with “Big Louie” to come take the cedar chest that once belonged to my Great-aunt Lucille and which I have clung to and used with love since 1977 to my favorite niece, Lotus, who of all my brothers’  children is the only one with any sense and with a nice house.  The stager has also agreed with alacrity to take the beautiful, beautiful acrylic and glass coffee table which has to be one of the most gorgeous pieces of furniture I’ve ever had in my greedy clutches.  I have tried to fit it into every nook, cranny, triangle and unlikely position, up to and including the bathroom, but it simply will not fit.  So adieu, oh beloved.  Of course the stager agreed to take it, he got an erection just looking at it.  But so did I.   Oh, well.

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The lovely table, in situ , in New Orleans long ago

So I’m still content, just with a exciting and new project: redecorating the apartment I finished decorating last week.

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I need an assistant, a PERSONAL assistant, to handle all these taxing demands

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As the brilliant Julie Brown once said “Smart guys are nowhere, they make demands
Give me a moron with talented hands”

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.

 

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.

The Lisp

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