In Which We Present This and That

At one point Mr Penney had rather fabulous eyelashes.  Long and thick, when I put on mascara they would look like false eyelashes.  Often in classes when I should be paying attention but was bored, I would play with them.  But that was long ago and these days they are sparse as hens' teeth.

As you approach old age typically men worry about losing the hair on top of their head. No one mentions that both your eyebrows and eyelashes also are going to jump ship.  All your hair assumes the attitude of "It's been real, thanks for all the fish, buh bye." Except of course for your ear and nose hairs which will become more lush by the day.  I could make a toupee out of the bristles sprouting from my nose.

Today's post is going to be sort of random.  Very much a view into mrpeenee's thought process, scattered, haphazard, brief, and ending in naked dudes.

***

My back continues to be pain-free, thank Lucifer.  I got a trigger point injection a couple of weeks ago and it worked like an absolute charm.  For decades I've wondered what it would feel like for my back to not constantly be telegraphing signals of pain.  "I got the message, you can stop now," I would tell the stupid joint that was all the problem.  It never listened.  But now the injection has shut it up and I could not be more glad.

***

I live astride the dividing line between the Castro and the Mission neighborhoods and every holiday the Mission lights up with dozens of illegal fireworks all night.  One of the best things about this apartment is the excellent view it provides of that subversive celebration.  Imagine my disappointment then when on this New Year's Eve no sparkling lights and booms blossomed.  Not one.  

***

When R Man got me my wedding ring, instead of the date inscribed inside, he had them use the Latin phrase "In secula saeculor um" which means forever and ever.  At least I thought that's what it meant, I have been informed by a commenter that the Latin is incorrect.  I don't know what they think I'm going to do about it, get a new ring?  Oddly enough I do not speak Latin so I can't really argue, but I also don't really care.  R Man chose it and that's good enough for me. 

***

Word reaches us today of the death of David Soul, upon whom I had such a crush back in the day.  He had to share my fantasy with Bobby Sherman, his co-star on Here Comes the Brides.  David defined the concept of blonde hotness, but Bobby was dreamy.  Flights of angels, baby, flights of angels.

***

Considering how puny my beard is, I suppose it's surprising how strongly I dislike it.  What is the point since there is so very little of it?  It hardly deserves the dignity of calling it a beard, it is nothing more than a collection of patches of very thin, sad bristles.  I'm sure there are geisha ladies who have more robust facial hair.  Also considering I have been shaving for 50 years, it seems like I should be able to do a better job of it than I actually do. All of this is weighing on my mind because of a recent shaving accident which resulted in my upper lip bleeding like a shark attack victim, oops.

And now, for the naked dudes:

The mirror has two dicks.

There is something so thrilling about a big heap o' muscle naked in a hotel room.

Charles Paquette has changed his nom de smut to Brandon Bosse.  Who knows why.

Dean Young demonstrating the classic Landing Pad pose.

Clown tats.  Yuck.

Beefy goodness presented by our old friend Colt Studios.

More Colt, but I forget his name. How many fabulous naked men can I remember?

Beefy.
  

In Which We Revisit Ancient History

 

I was looking back at some of my old posts because I was trying to remember this particular post.  I thought it had happened around this time 16 years ago (16 YEARS AGO! My god.)  Turns out I was a week late for the actual anniversary, but considering how vague my memory is, I think this is pretty good. Anyway, here is my own little way back machine moment:

Nov. 9, 2007

I've had my share of odd days, but today may be one of the strangest. For one thing, today is the anniversary of mrpeenee and R Man. Twenty-six years ago tonight we hooked-up, as the youngsters say, in the backroom of a bar in New Orleans and started the complex navigation to the lovely happy life we have now. Coincidentally, I was 26 years old, so tomorrow morning, I will will have had him in my life longer than I lived without him. In all those years, I have never had any hesitation in saying he is the center of my universe, the joy of my life, the cream in my coffee.

After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.

It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.

My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.

Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.

Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, nevertheless) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.

And now, back to Nov 17, 2023.  It all turned out OK, fucking terrifying, but OK.  R Man lasted another  4 years, and I was plenty glad to have them.  And now I live around the corner form where Chow, the restaurant I mentioned in the first paragraph, used to be.  

Anyway, here's some naked guys:

Somebody is enjoying himself.

I know I promised naked men, but isn't this guy cute?  He reminds me of R Man when I first met him.

Dillon Roman and his great big pocket rocket.

Dwain LeLand, titstitstits

I ran across this and the next few shots over at Sicko Ricko's blog listed as "Random Dick."  OK. 

I started this evening off listening to Bette Midler's album from 2014 It's the Girls, which is mostly sort of MoTown hits genius, and then Pandora wandered off eventually landing on Sonique's Sky (which I love) through the ancient disco offerings of Jackie Moore and This Time Baby and now we have somehow landed in the inevitable 80s and Don't Go by Yaz.   I expect Cher to drop by any minute.  All that's OK with me.   So is this Random Dick.

I am not usually sentimental, but the combo of remembering scary days gone by with an all-too-appropriate soundtrack has won out.  Old disco does that.

That Time of Year

So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man's death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man's birthday and the date we met, and that's simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it's December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn't posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It's not to say I have "moved on."  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It's just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don't need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn't.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don't know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki's commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I'm breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that's what I was doing.

Out of the Darkness

So I meant to post on Wednesday, Sept. 25 that it was the fifth anniversary of my wedding to R Man, but before I could get around to it, the power went out, so instead Secret Agent Fred and I wandered around the house, lighting candles and tripping on things.

I was going to whine about living without R Man, but you know what?  I don't want to.  I'm doing better now than when he died then and I expect to continue that way.  Instead of writing some droopy, sad little post about missing R Man, I went to bed early.

Then this afternoon, I took Saki down to get his claws clipped on Castro while I went across the street to get my own nails done at Handjob.  I don't know why he pretends manicures are so traumatic, I like them.

I have no idea what's going on in the photo above.  I just find it amusing.

Get Jiggy Wid It

I've been more distracted than usual lately because I stumbled on a web site that allows you to create and solve your own jigsaw puzzles.  It's caused me to not only dig back through all my masterpieces stored on iPhoto, but to actually scan in older pictures as well.  I've found putting the puzzle together forces me to dwell more thoroughly on the picture than just flipping through a stack of them.  Like Georgia O'Keeffe said "to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   I had to Google that quote, I certainly couldn't remember it accurately.  For that matter, spelling her last name threw me.

So anyway, I've been "publishing" these puzzles so I could solve them (I found out later you don't have to make them public.  Like I care) and now other people are working them.  Doesn't that seem odd?  Like volunteering to watch other people's vacation slides?

You know what the most popular one is?

mrpeenee and R Man walking down Dauphine Street in the French Quarter some long gone Southern Decadence.  What?  These guys have never seen a man in lady's underwear?

And while prowling through all these vanished days with R Man is plenty poignant, there's also lots of regret about wardrobes that have evolved into the past tense.  "Man, I loved that tee shirt" comes up frequently.

I take as a given the cause of all their demises were grease drips down the front that no laundering would ever get out.  I'm a slob.  But my jigsaw working is really improving.

Thanks Guys. Go Give Yourselves a Cookie.

So, almost five years ago, R Man and I got married and today, the gubmint finally, as I mentioned over on Cafe Muscato, officially declared our union Not Icky.

Yay.

R Man

I have spent most of the evening attempting to organize the vast mess my collection of photos has devolved into over the last couple of decades.  Listening to Nina Simone seems appropriate; the fucking cat insisting on being in the middle of all my little OCD piles is not.  Plus, even without Saki rearranging them, the piles seem to have become sort of vague.  A twelve year old mrpeenee in Matamoros; a wedding in Las Vegas where mrpeenee was the matron of Honor only because the bride was operating under the misapprehension that I was willing to appear in drag as such (to be fair, there are several piles that includes shots of mrpeenee in Ladies Wear); the gardens of Chezz peenee through the years.  So many pictures, so few good ones.

And so much R Man.  I have, of late, become aware that the pain of his absence is lessened.  I still miss him in an achy sort of way, but it's amazing what you can get accustomed to.  It's like being resigned to a big hole in my life.  Anyway, here he is in Venice in '95

Isn't he handsome?  Achy.


And his high school graduation photo, Mr. Class President and football team and all that.  I've always been struck that this version of him would most certainly have despised and avoided the faggy teenage loser I was, but just a few years later we were settling, sort of tentatively, into domestic bliss.  Thank god, in my case at least, for the forgiving editing process of time and all that.

And then I ran across this, one of my all time faves, a relic from some long ago foot surgery and which, most assuredly, would never have been allowed out loose on this blog while he still had veto power.  Heehee

A Good Cry. Putting the "Moron" in "Oxymoron"

I don't cry. I am not a crying person.   I say that not as some testimony to how tough or butch I am (there's an amusing idea,) it's just not how I react.  When R Man sickened and died, I made it through those very dark days without a tear, and not because I restrained myself;  I just don't cry.

Imagine my surprise tonight, then, as I watched the movie 50/50 and burst into huge weeping sobs. Wracking, wailing, misery pouring from several orifices.  I had to pause the movie.  I scared Saki.  I sort of scared myself, a rational part of me watching horrified demanding to know what the fuck was going on.  Could it be more than just reacting to cinematic mastery?  Mmmmmmmaybe.

When the movie first came out and got such good reviews, I considered going to watch it, even though a film about dealing with cancer sounded like trouble after the last couple of years.  Thank god I skipped it; I have a vivid mental image of myself huddled in tears in the men's room of the Lowe's metroplex.  Yuck.

Maybe it was just a perfect emotional storm.  I'm still sick; R Man's death is (obviously, understandably) a sensitive part of my life; and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is both cute and effective in the role.  Still, I just wasn't prepared for this.   I have so little experience with the phenomenon, I didn't even know crying makes your face hurt.  Does that seem fair?  First you feel bad and then you feel bad?

Crying.  What a stupid idea.

Fredly

How sweet it is to have dear friends like Secret Agent Fred, friends who confirm that one is not alone in the cold heartless universe. Just the other day at lunch he revealed that he had been yelled at by some hopped up crackhead stranger on the street and it was the exact same day that I had been yelled at by some stranger in the Safeway parking lot, albeit one of the crazy old lady variety. But still, it's like we're bound by Karma.

I was just trundling back to my car with a cart full of catfood when my path intersected the old bat who shrieked "I don't have any peripheral vision." For a cloudy instant (cause, as usual, I was not paying attention) I thought she was trying to make conversation with me, in a loud, rude sort of way. Maybe that's how she picks up guys, I don't know. I suppose I could have replied "My cat has gas," but then I realized she was rebuking me, so it's just as well. Did I mention the huge ass Darth Vader sunglasses?

I made my patented noise I always do in these situations, which is somewhere between "Sorry" and "Uhh" but by then she had moved on. Also by then I realized that the Safeway parking lot is not in a particularly pedestrian friendly part of town. Sure enough, I watched her climb into her Pontiac/Buick/Oldsmobile/Whatever Death Machine. I got the hell out of there; I did not want to share the road with Old Lady Magoo if I could help it.

This evening, Fred also sent us a bunch of old pictures he's taken over the years of me and R Man together. They included this one demonstrating my super power of holding in my gut while walking. It was very sweet of him. That queen is a paragon of friendship. Girlfriendship, in fact.

Also, not from Fred, but part of our extensive Houseboy files.

30 Years

Today is the thirtieth anniversary of my meeting R Man in the back room of a sleazy bar in New Orleans called Jewels. Thirty years. I wasn't even thirty when I met him. While the moment is poignant, I'm trying not to be all mopey and stuff and I seem to be doing ok. Still, when he was cremated and I got the ashes back (doesn't the funeral industry's preferred term, "cremains" seem creepier than something as straightforward and accurate as "ashes"?) I couldn't face scattering them, so I decided to wait for this anniversary instead. In April it was plenty far off enough to be safe somehow. Now that it's here, I still dread the whole sad idea, so I'm putting it off indefinitely. My plan is to stand at the top of our backyard, where there is almost always a breeze and toss them down into the yard, someday. Turns out that is illegal in San Francisco which adds a tiny frisson to it, but not much.

To mark our anniversary, I'm going out to dinner tonight with a gang who also loved R Man. We're headed over to Berkeley to the reliably fabulous Chez Panisse. I'm taking Vicodin and a camera with me. Details to follow.

In the meantime, here's some houseboy pussy, complete with Stupid Hair, the bane of cute boys everywhere.

More Dreamy Dreams

I'm reluctant to discuss the dream I had Friday night for two reasons. For one thing, it's very difficult to describe, very slippery, and two, it's embarrassingly shcmaltzy. But I'm going to to try, because the impression it left behind was so amazingly strong.

I'll finish with some beefcake muscle pussy, just to even things out,

So, the dream, or more specifically the waking up, since I have no idea what the dream itself was. Stay with me. When I woke up I understood I had been dreaming about R Man and it seemed like the whole thing had no story or visual impression or memory, just an immersion in R Man himself. I came to with a vivid sense of how sweet he always had been. Not that he was a girl scout or suffered fools gladly, but he always had a deep lovability and kindness that was never syrupy. And when I woke up, it seemed like I had been swimming in his very sweet nature. It had been all around me like light is on a bright day.

Crap. I absolutely am failing at this. There is just no way to explain what the sensation was. It was totally different from any dream I've ever had. Of course, trying to describe a dream never works, but still, even among dreams, this was unique to me. It was wonderful. I laid in bed wrapped up in the emotion of it, reveling in it. If there was one brief moment of my life I could relive, it would be that one. That's how profound it was.

Oh, never mind. I knew, planning this post, it would never work. It's like describing color to a blind man, frustrating to me and boring to the reader. Let's move on, shall we?

Ask the Cool Cookie, over at I’m a Filthy Fucker (and who am I to doubt his assertion?) posted this charming image earlier this week:

I was very impressed by it.

My encyclopedic memory of smarm is so vast I was actually able to remember that the original was this:

Both have their charms, but I am always impressed by artisans and whoever ran this through Photoshop so successfully deserves our wholehearted admiration, don't you think? Yes, the beard may be a trifle plush (although that's probably part of its appeal,) but the chest hairs would seem to have been placed individually, each one nudged into place by somebody as devoted to his art as a medieval monk illuminating a manuscript of the Gospel. I say right on, girl.

Self Pity and Cyndi Lauper

I know R Man has just sort of disappeared from my exciting blog reporting. I haven't gotten used to his absence, I don't think that will never happen. But I've sort of gotten resigned to it. Sort of. There are tedious forms about his death demanding my attention, and a very big house that is very, very quiet, and things like this song.

We were both so fond of it, I remember I was surprised how much he liked it. Naturally, its melancholy, minor key bad self will pop up on my I Tunes shuffle and take me unawares and suddenly, I am a little less resigned.

I'm writing this at 3:00 AM. I will probably regret it tomorrow, but a lot of this blog has turned out to be a note to myself, so I'm asking not to delete this post.

Here:

If the Tranny Space Pirates Call, Tell 'Em I'm NOT HERE

Oh. I'm sorry. Have I been absent for a while? Turns out I was kidnapped by tranny secret agent space pirates AGAIN. If I never see another anal probe it'll be too soon.

Also, I had to put together a memorial service for R Man. Did I want to put on a memorial service? No. Did I pout like a little girl about it? Possibly. Still, our friend Gaye pointed out that "It's not all about you" which is still as patently untrue as the first time I heard that line, all those many years ago.

We had a deli cater, we had champagne and bourbon (R Man liked both,) all our friends dropped in and were all very supportive and sweet. Even Diane von Austinburg came back in town to help buck me up, which I most appreciated, since I needed plenty of bucking. I was dreading the whole thing right up until it started and then was immensely glad it was over once we were done. I got through it just fine, thank you ativan, and I even spoke a brief eulogy.

Most of the speech consisted of my not making eye contact with anyone who was crying, looked like they might cry, or even had moisture in their eye. Pretty much, I just looked at the cat. It was very much the same as any other public speaking I've had to do, just start at the beginning and blast on through to the end and don't think too much about what I'm saying.

I also included a firm caveat that there would be no chance for other mourners to speak. You know the bit that has sprung up recently at funerals for everyone to take a chance at "remembering" the departed by offering clumsy attempts at humor at the dead guy's expense so that the whole thing turns into a funereal roast? R Man hated those, so I nipped any idea of it in the bud. Afterwards, several guests thanked me, so yay for heavy handedly laying down rules.

Anyway, it wasn't awful, and afterwards we had a bunch of sandwiches left, although all the petite fours were long gone. Bastards.

So, I've been hanging around, refusing to shave or answer the phone and claiming to be going through a "rough patch." Actually I'm just lazy. Still to make up for being so slack in blogging, here's a humpy houseboy as a token of my apology.

That's not enough? OK here's another one, complete with MeeMaw's couch.

Oh, all right, here's that gay rugby guy.

I hope you're happy.

Beaster

Yet another Beaster. Meester Beaster, I believe.

Painting the stupid office led (somehow) to cleaning out the garage. While I was in the middle of disinterring crap from ages gone by, I ran across a trunk of R Man's stuffed full of old letters and cards and his yearbook from when he was a delegate to Boy's State (isn't that adorable?)

Mixed in with the other ephemera was a letter addressed simply to "Beaster." That got a good laugh, let me tell you. R Man was the most courtly, gentlemanly being since Victoria's regent shuffled off and he lived life with an unstuffy gravitas that charmed everyone who knew him. He was also fond of a little rough sex, so certainly I wasn't the least surprised about this form of address.

There was no signature. I guess the writer supposed anyone he was calling "Beaster" would recognize him. In this, I believe the author might have been a tad bit over-confident. R Man, and, indeed, anyone worthy of the sobriquet "Beaster," cast a wide net and counting on him to remember every fawning toff was just sort of delusional. Also, counting on R Man to be pleased with a nickname as sappy as "Beaster" was pretty unlikely, but that's neither here no there.

For myself, I initially called him "Daddy" and then for years never got around to coming up with anything else. Inertia. It happens. Eventually, that morphed into "Doo-doo" and then "Doo-doo Head." Again, neither here nor there.

Speaking of icky, TMI babytalk between longtime companions, he called me "Peenee." Perhaps you had wondered where "mrpeenee" came from? Perhaps you should have. I recall how annoyed I was the first time he slipped up and called me that in front of our friend Ricky, who then adopted it enthusiastically as what he referred to me as for years. Of course, R Man and I called Ricky "The Felonious Little Tart" so I suppose we were all even.

Going On

People ask me "How are you doing sweetie?" and I say "OK." It's the truth. I miss R Man, sadness wells up like a bubble sometimes, but dissipates. I am not distraught or inconsolable. Victorian writers had a saying "Sorrow is a deep well...." Typical of them to speak to sorrow, but not happiness. I suppose they thought of cheerfulness more as an attractive puddle. I think the saying means you can never sate your grief, the more you allow yourself to be sad, the sadder you feel. I know that's true for me anyway. I mope, therefore I am mopey.

Fortunately, our friends have surged around offering comfort and joy, including all my blog brotherhood, so thank you all, thank you very much. Every single comment has been a bright spot in a dim time and I appreciate them.

Also, Diane von Austinburg has been visiting since Monday, charming as always, even though the thrift stores we've visited (strictly as a form of grief therapy) seem to be suffering from quality deprivation. I'm sure crack houses have better yard sales.

I'm trying to focus on not being morose and I've decided to take a substantially long break from work. My days so far consist of sleeping late, taking naps and going to bed early with HGTV marathons squeezed in between. It's OK with me.

Our cat Saki is very attentive and insists on sitting on a pillow on my lap while I'm at the computer. It's sort of sweet and annoying in equal parts, especially since he sometimes insists on making editorial comments in the form of biting me.

RIP

R Man

November 10, 1948 - January 14, 2011

R Man died early this morning. It was very peaceful; I was holding his hand telling him I loved him and he stopped breathing.

When he had my wedding ring engraved, rather than use the dates, he had them inscribe the Latin phrase In saecula saeculorum "Forever and ever."

R Man and Me

I've been putting off posting any updates about R Man for months. Donna Lethal wrote me weeks ago and asked about us and I callously ignored her sweet note; I hope she accepts this as an apology and a reply.

R Man is very weak. He can no longer get out of bed and swallowing has become very difficult; he chokes on water. He is rarely lucid and often seems to be quietly hallucinating. This evening Secret Agent Fred and I were unable to wake him up to give him some medicine. He's just sort of dazed, asleep with his eyes open. Considering the range of indignities that come with this level of invalidism, I guess that's just as well, at least he is unaware of them. On the other hand he does not seem distressed or unhappy and he's here at home. It is the end I would have chosen for him, I suppose.

As for me, I am pretty much all right. Honestly. The worst part of all this seems to have been earlier this summer. At that time, R Man as an individual, someone whom you could engage in conversation, who could make bad, bad jokes, who could remember the life we had made together faded and disappeared. The man I loved was gone and I was grief stricken and angry and crazy and it was a bad time.

So now I'm taking care of the physical remains. I don't begrudge it, I still love him and would have this no other way. It's just different.

If I ever imagined this sad time, I pictured the grief and wondered how I would get through it. I never thought about the physical part, never dreamed that the hard work of it would be the defining element. Let me take time now to give a big shout out to our many friends who have been such an enormous support to me through this, especially Super Agent Fred, John, Diane, and Gaye. Angels with dirty faces, one and all.

So why have I ignored all this in favor of chatting about bad movies and houseboys? In part because it just doesn't seem to fit here. Also though, in reading other people who are going through or have gone through this, the same phrase comes up over and over again: "I just want my old life back." I don't want enlightenment, or piles of gold, or armies of buttboys; I just want to go back to sitting around the fire reading with R Man. I want my old life back, but that's gone, that's just how it is. But my blog has remained a tiny sliver of what I had before and I would like to cling to that.

So. I don't think I will be talking about R Man again, until the end comes. Honestly, I can't imagine that will be very long. When it does come, I know I can rely on you guys for internet based support. Thanks.

Sororicide-in-law

R Man's sisters arrive Saturday for a week-long visit.

If you want me, I'll be hiding under my bed.

Before we got married, I kept trotting out the same tired joke "I can't get married and yet I have in-laws. Where's the justice?" Now that we have actually jumped the broom, I still ask that.

I know I haven't spoken much about R Man's condition; it's dire. We had a little chat with his oncologist this afternoon and he said the chemo has done all it can do, the cancer continues to grow and R Man will start hospice this next week. I've promised him that he will die at home. It looks like we're closing in on that; maybe a few months, maybe not even that. He is so weak and so frail, it's hard to watch. Amazingly, he remains in good spirits.

Our friends have turned to and are helping out immensely, especially the sainted Gaye, Tim and Diane. Yay for you guys cause I was getting wore out. I seem to have found a second wind with their help, but this is still a bad, bad time.

So now into all this we get to stir R Man's sisters, one I'm very fond of, the other... oh dear god, the other. Manipulative and crazy and abrasive and, I don't know, any other harsh adjective that you can come up with. I foresee the next few days as slightly less amusing than a root canal. I plan on going into the office early and staying late. I may start sleeping there.

Good Times, Shining on Me

My two favorite people in the world

This has been a fantabulous week. R Man had been suffering for a while from dementia, with all his conversation consisting of bizarre bulletins from his hallucinations. It was disturbing and heartbreaking and frustrating all rolled up together; no matter how long it lasted I couldn't get used to it. I kept thinking there was some code I was missing, if I could just break it, I could make sense of what he was saying and I would have him back again. Turns out pronouncements about us being late for the party schedule in Berlin are not code, they're just crazy.

And then Wednesday morning, he woke up perfectly sane and lucid. No transition, just boom, back to the uncrazy. I felt like a rock that had been grinding me down had fallen off.

But wait! There's more! That same day our beloved Diane from Austin blew in town for a visit. Last winter, before the cancer and the chemo and the craziness, we had planned a trip up to Oregon to go to a Shakespeare festival. Oops. But Diane didn't bat an eye about skipping the whole thing and swears hanging around us to share in the thrill of four hours in the chemotherapy unit is just what she was looking forward to.

Thursday morning, I woke to the terrifying sound of the garbage truck rumbling down the street and the knowledge that I hadn't taken the trash out the night before. As I came crashing down the stairs shrieking, cursing, and trying to put my pants on all at the same time, Diane calmly assured me she had already taken it out. Could there be a greater friend, a more heroic hero?

Usually her visits include long trips to the thrift stores, but this time, we just haven't had the time and I haven't had the energy. Still, we did squeeze in one, while R Man was getting his chemo. It has to be the lamest junk stores in captivity, but the thrill of sneering at their lackluster goods never pales.

Fashion prediction: Cheap gingham will be really big this fall. Watch for it.

The world's most insincere valentine. Would you put out for someone who this was the best they could come up with? I think not.

Ooh, ooh, also, we were killing time during R Man's acupuncture treatment and stumbled on the Grand Opening of a brand new Goodwill store in the Castro, staffed entirely by trannies. Extremely personable tranies. That is the genius of Diane, not only can she always find the good stuff , she can actually summon a fabulous thrift store into existence. I would ask her about being a good witch or a bad witch, but I'm sort of scared and besides I can't get Glinda's creaky little voice down.

Win Some, Lose Some

Did I forget to post anything over the last week? O my gosh, how embarrassing. It must be my life as a trannie secret agent pirate is so absorbing I just forgot.

R Man is doing much better with his silly old cancer. He had his last round of chemo yesterday and we should know in about four weeks how effective it all has been. I certainly hope it's been worth it. We had three fights in one day last week about his not eating; I pointed out, vigorously, swallowing Vicodin does not constitute eating. Am I right or am I right? Anyway, he's in better spirits and somewhat more energy than then. He has chemo-induced anemia and with it, no energy and no appetite, but starting on Tuesday, he's felt much better and eating much, much more. He still only weighs about the same as a plump 12 year old girl, but he had seconds on the split pea soup the other night, so yay.

It was rather delicious soup, I must say. I'd made a ham last weekend and saved the rind so I boiled the hell out of the rind in chicken stock to make a base for the soup, fished out the now icky residue and dumped in the split peas (yellow, because they're more dainty.) With chunks of left over ham diced into it, it was some tasty.

About a year ago I went looking for a Night Blooming Cereus. They have the most spectacular scent known to man: heady and sweet without being cloying. One of them blooming in a backyard can perfume a whole neighborhood. Plenty of people raise them outside in pots, bring them in when the flowers get ready to open and have a party for all their friends to smell it. Surely you've been invited over to smell somebody's cereus.

Anyway, the one I snagged was sturdy and I was thrilled when it swelled with two big ass blooms that opened this week. They're stunning, but a) they're pink, which I had never heard of in a cereus and b) they have NO SCENT. Motherfuckers. I'm trying to hide my disappointment from the blossoms, cause I don't want them to feel bad, but damn.