When you just can’t be bothered

You never know when the ol’ entrepreneurial light bulb will appear over your head.   After mentioning to one of my gentleman friends that he has strange taste in women*, we discussed a mutual affliction – our shared tendency to be attracted to older partners. 

He’s generally found younger women to be too needy, confused and prone to playing “head games”.  Never mind the “ticking biological clock” time bombs out there.    

Trying to pin down exactly what it is about younger men that often leaves me cold, i trotted out the “i like my men broken, bitter and thinking their best days are behind them” theme.  He noted that in their 30’s, men can still harbour the delusion that the world owes them something. 

daisyfae:  Exactly!  It’s when they have that sense of “entitlement” that bothers me.  And i just can’t make myself care about their silly dreams of “accomplishment”, purpose and all that crap…  Who cares?   

irish:  Men become much more grateful in their 40’s. 

daisyfae:  Less picky, too.  i like that.  It’s just not worth the trouble sometimes to fuss over clothes and makeup.  

irish:  Perhaps you need some crotchless sweatpants?   

And from there – as impossible as it seems – the conversation tanked further.  We crafted the concept for a new line of clothing.  In addition to crotchless sweatpants?  Bulky, fuzzy boots – left unzipped.  Velour tops that zip up the front – with a built in front-hook bra.   

The style that says “Hey, kid – come and get me!  Just don’t expect me to shave my legs.”  The swashbuckling confidence – she knows she can rock your world, even though her roots need another bash of Lady Clairol.  Bonus:  She’ll be done with you by 10 pm so you still have time to go home and play Warcraft with your imaginary friends on Saturday night….  

“Lazy Cougar”.   Sold exclusively at WalMart.   

Not pajamas – “Flannel Lingerie”.

  * That includes me, by the way…

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nuggets of winter wisdom…

ALWAYS keep plenty of dog chow on hand when you have a large hound in residence.  Winter weather can make a late night trip to the store an annoyance.

ALWAYS keep a clear path through your garage, to avoid stumbles and falls while wearing clunky winter boots.  Large bags of dog chow should be stored in a convenient location, out of the main walk way.

NEVER place a bag of dog chow in an area of your garage that is susceptible to wetness, from snow melt dripping off of your vehicles.  Dog chow should remain in a dry bag to remain fresh and tasty for your large hound.

ALWAYS check the bottom of a large bag of dog chow for integrity before hoisting it up on your shoulder to re-fill the dog food tub.  An ounce of prevention… is worth 50 fucking pounds of “Oh, SHIT!” as you lift it and the bottom falls out and a bazzilion nuggets of compressed head-cheese scrapings from dead farm animals scatters across the floor of your garage, while your hungry dog wags his tail in annoying anticipation…

On the bright side?  There is no “5 second rule” for dog food.  He’ll eat it.  This is an animal that licks his own asshole on a routine basis.  A little dirt and garage-lint will simply add fiber…

Heading Check

It seems that when i am on extended travel, something goes whack at the homestead.  From small electrical fires to unexpected encounters with the local gendarmes, i have gotten the occasional call that can jack up my vacation time…

So i check in with my adult children to see how things are going… frequently using text messaging.

daisyfae:  Hope things are going well.  How’s the brown dog?

The Boy:  Lost most of his fur in the fire.

daisyfae:  The cat?

The Boy:  You mean “the hat”*?

daisyfae:  i’m not EVEN going to ask how The Girl is doing…

~~~~~~~~~~

* Our new cat has a rather remarkable ‘squirrel’ tail.  i commented that it would look quite nice flying from my car antenna.  After the cat passes away, of course.  The Boy?  His preference would be to turn the pelt into a Davy Crockett-style hat… yeah.  we’re weird.

Singing

Everyone has a story.  Some are tragic, some are comic – most are some combination thereof.  As many stories as there are faces in a shopping mall, bodies in a bank queue, bellies up to a bar.

During my 10-day winter sojourn, i find myself among some delightful representatives of humanity.  First and foremost?  My hosts – inspirations to me on many levels.  Welcomed to their home, where i have been invited to partake of their hospitality, food, wine – and more importantly, friends.

Over a couple of bottles of Coors Light in a dive bar, buried in a valley in the heart of Mormon country, i spent some time with a woman that i’ve known for fifteen minutes, and simultaneously all of my life. 

She grew up in my neck of the woods, and we shared a frightening amount of common ground – despite being separated in age by a little more than a decade.  As we poked through beer and “Fry Sauce”, we talked about living life aggressively…

i mentioned my pending ‘motorcycle’ certification class, and she wandered through tales of her days with a bike.  And why she gave it up… And as the beer and conversation flowed freely, she mentioned a particularly harrowing journey across a large body of water on an open-grid bridge…

“Singing Bridge”. 

i haven’t heard this phrase for years, but with it came a flood of childhood memories.  Certain bridges were dubbed “singing” because the simple act of rolling an automobile across created audible vibrations – and the pitch could be varied via accelerator!

What sheer joy, when i was a little critter, to ride with the entire clan crammed into the Ford Falcon station wagon across a singing bridge!  Dad was masterful, playing the tones carefully, running scales, and certainly pissing off the guy behind him trying to get to the horse track before the windows closed…

A few more beers, and many laughs later, we called it a night.  It occurs to me that there can be artistry in the most mundane aspects of life.  Be it driving a car across a span of metal and cable, or taking the time to mine for the story of another human being…

Sing it, sister...

Where in the World – Part II

From the sunshine, i headed northeast.  And landed somewhere amazing…

Winter break continues.  Now?  With snow-covered, sheer vertical drops of many thousand feet.

Have i mentioned that i am devoting this particular phase of my life to fucking off?

But there’s booze in the blender, and soon it will render…

If it’s President’s Day…

Mid-February?  Then i’m at an annual geek fest workshop, somewhere sunny and warm.  As i nursed coffee and Tylenol for breakfast*, i was trying to remember how many years i’ve been attending.  First one?  Probably 1994.  In New Orleans.

The next year?  i was added to the organizing committee.  Probably because of my demonstrated drinking and debauchery technical credentials.  After doing my time as an organizer, mostly have been just part of the techno-rabble ever since. 

For the past four years?  As a panelist on the “Senior Guru” session.  Which includes beer.  i could pretend it’s because of my brilliance, but more likely it’s because i do “stand up” during the panel session, and often torment the arrogant and clueless…

Two years ago i was optimizing my ‘fucking off’ time.  Last year, i was assaulted while bedraggled and partially clothed… 

This year?  i am simply enjoying surf and sand – i’ve got no complaints**.  As i watched the multi-national ‘sand volleyball’ nerd-ament this evening?  It struck me that i love these goofy bastards…

Can anyone spot the German scientist?

* Standard fare at this event…  Alcohol may have been a factor.

** But it’s not over yet.  The group dinner tonight, and then an entire day of nerdery tomorrow…  There’s plenty of opportunity for something to piss me off.

Where in the world…

Got the sun on my shoulders and my toes in the sand…

Road trip.  Hadn’t realized how much the snow and cold was wearing on my cold, tired ass…  Until i spent an entire day soaking up sunshine and pacific ocean breezes.  A few more days and i’ll have sufficient vitamin D to tide me over…

Hanging out with my friend, Dr. H. Stankenstein, i also realized that it doesn’t take long before that ol’ mid-western blood thins out. 

Surf’s up. Duuuuude….

Functional Strength

It’s not about losing weight.  It isn’t really about how i look.  In general, i say “i am working to be as healthy and fit as i possibly can, to allow me to enjoy life and blah fucking blah diddley blahblahblah…”  But that’s kinda like… ummm…. bullshit.

Met with a fitness coach earlier this week.  She asked my goals.  i explained that little encounter with the cancer thing, and my choice to skip the hormonal chemo – better approach in my case was to reduce body fat.  We talked about my fitness habits, types of exercise i enjoy, and the types i despise..

A fast-talker from New York, she and i covered a lot of turf in a very short period of time.  Through the discussion, we finally converged on what it really is for me. 

i have made a choice to live on my own.  For now?  Forever?  Who knows.  But i’m flying solo.  There is also this pesky penchant for independence.  As in never asking for help – although a sincere offer of assistance is often accepted, i never want to count on it. 

Given that my live-in companion is a large, smelly hound?  Someone has to haul those 50 pound bags of dog chow from the car.  And that someone will be me. 

This part of the conversation with the fitness coach is when it all came together for her.  “Functional strength.  That’s what you need.”  She then prescribed a workout plan (with some suggestions on my approach to nutrition*).   We’ll follow up in a few months and see how it’s going.  i like her.  She cut through the bullshit fairly quickly.

Build the muscles you need to live your life.  Can’t think of a better reason to do it**.

                 

* Diet Coke and SweeTarts are NOT breakfast.  Muscle is not built on simple or complex carbs – drop the popcorn, add fish and eggs.  Gotcha…

** Except for winning bar bets.  When that pic was taken (Christmas), i could drop and give you 45 push ups – on my toes – without stopping.  Working back up to that.  And a few more…

Cats and Dogs

When i was in South America last year, i left Mr. Pickles the Wonder Dog with my niece and her family for a couple weeks.  Hilarity ensued.  During his stay in the Trailer Park, he became attached to their Orange Cat.  Yes.  That was his name. 

Because Mr. P really enjoyed this cat – although not as much as he enjoyed being humped by his lesbitarian doggie cousins – it occurred to me that acquiring a pet for my dog might not be a bad idea.  i let my niece know that if they ever decided to get rid of Orange Cat, i’d be happy to take him.

A few months later i learned that Orange Cat had been taken for a drive in the country and abandoned.  He had started spraying, and rather than expend the energy to call me, it was easier to dump him.  Nice. 

Having expressed my disgust disappointment to the entire clan, my other niece (DQ’s step-sister, J) said they had a lovely orange kitty who might be looking for a home.  She and her partner, R, have quite a herd of felines – over two dozen at the time.  They work in veterinary care, and do a lot of kitty rescue operations, so it’s not like they’re just crazy cat lesbians or anything…

J began a subtle marketing campaign, sending me pictures of this little critter.  But what sold me?  They named him Huey Newton.  His sister was named Angela Davis.  Always a sucker for radical animals, i agreed to let Huey “visit” for a couple weeks – to make sure he’d be happy, and that Mr. P could handle another critter in the household.

Cats really aren’t pack animals, and he’s perfectly happy doing his own thing.  Confidently exploring, he has no problem looking up at the dog – who outweighs him by 90 pounds – and whacking him in the snout when he gets a little too sproingy.  Mr. P has not been deterred, and continues in his efforts to “play”.  Huey isn’t impressed, but is a cuddly little fellow and seems to be enjoying himself…

We are still looking forward to “Hijinks”.  That’s what’s supposed to happen when cats and dogs live together.  Playful games, “clever cat messing with stupid dog” and all that stuff.  My niece assures me that it will happen in time…

 

As of this week, he’s become tolerant of the ‘doggie spit bath’.  He’s a keeper…