Tag Archives: diane

Daze Gone By

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Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.

 

tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.

 

The Terrors of the Hidden World

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Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

  • the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
  • farts by people in line in front of me
  • cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

Chris Rockway

Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

I Hate Writing. I Love Having Written.

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In an almost charming back-and-forth in the comment section of Cafe Muscato , Diane von Austinburg and Muscato were griping about my lack of writing, blogging, mash notes, whatever, so I’m ripping off a portion of an email I JUST SENT to Diane as proof that they’re full of baloney.  There.

to wit:

“I had a dream some person stole a baby and then I was reprimanding them for this and then, I don’t know, they died? Maybe? Anyway I wound up with the baby and was terribly confused.

Did I tell you about the path o’ destruction I found here when I came home? A busted window, a broken lamp, a hole in the office closet door, my keyboard and mouse replaced because the old had “gotten fried,” and the dried remains of some mysterious fluid splattered all over the upper stairwell and hall. Secret Agent Fred blamed Saki, Saki took that “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t” attitude cats are so fond of. I’m not sure I believe either of them.”

See?  I write.  News you can use, gossip, and slander all rolled up with possibly prophetic dreams.

Speaking of dreams:

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Also, while I’m recycling old emails to friends who don’t deserve them, here’s part of one I dashed off to Night is Half Gone’s Jason while we were ducking and weaving in New Orleans last month:

“two of my neighbors blipped up on Friday and tried to be trouble to me, but I charmed them into fucking off. Later, I mentioned to the contractor and one of his minions “I got 99 problems and that hag ain’t one of them.” Both of the guys seemed gratifyingly amused, less amusing was their attitude of complete astonishment that I could paraphrase rapper thugs. Bitch, what you looking at, I am down.”

I’m telling you, epistolary.

Everybody Needs Friends

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I enjoyed a very amusing weekend with our beloved Diane von Austinburg (aka “Sqweetie” aka “Snarkina”) who blew in town to see my new house here and to support my effort to eat my weight in shrimp.  Infuriatingly, many of my favorite restaurants celebrated the Fourth of July by closing down.  Who gave them independence?  God love Diane for putting up with my dithering pretty much the whole time she was here about whether to sell my house in New Orleans or the one in San Francisco (and believe me, I understand that sentence wraps up “White People Problems” pretty neatly so there is no need to bring that point up in comments.  Shut up.)

The problem of course is that each city is irresistible.  I know how incredibly lucky I am to own a house in each, I just can’t afford them both.  San Francisco is rich, smart and beautiful, New Orleans is like the terribly charming boyfriend who drinks too much and is always on the edge of going to jail.

As I kept whining to Diane, I am unaccustomed to indecisiveness, since being simply arbitrary is part of my charm, and waffling back and forth between the two was just irritating.  The last afternoon she was here I finally landed on staying San Francisco and letting go of the place here since who in their right mind would surrender San Francisco having worked so hard to establish a toehold there?

Also aiding in the decision was the simple fact of living here for last month has vividly reminded me what a wet hell a Gulf Coast summer is.  Plus, every major street in town is ripped to shreds as the city has leapt into the only attention they’ve paid to the infrastructure since I lived here in the 80’s.  Driving is crazy-making, a series of spirals into hell.  I was foolishly trying to get just to the other side of downtown with Night is Half Gone’s Jason and at one point had to ask “Am I in a lane?”  The only possible answers were “I’m not sure” “Sort of” and “No” and each were equally correct.  I don’t want to live some place I can’t navigate.

Mostly it was a simple case of Diane asking astutely (and no doubt worn out by my whining) “Which one is home?” to which I promptly replied “San Francisco.”  And so it is.

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And I need to get back to my evil little cat. I know this looks like he’s sort of dead, but Secret Agent Fred swears he’s just rolling on the floor. I think I should go see for myself.