World Of Confusion.

This is it, maybe. Well, I guess this is not it, but still…it quite possibly could be.

Do you use Pandora? I do, I’m proud to have every room – not a huge feat in my 700 square feet – in my place set up with a Sonos speaker. And I love it.

There’s not even walls between my kitchen and living room, but I have a speaker in each. Well, a sound bar in the living room for the TV, but I can also stream music through it. Likewise, when I’m watching a show, I can link the bathroom speaker to the TV so if Nature calls, I can answer without having to pause.

Unless it’s porn, of course. There’s two activities I’d like to keep at least an appearance of separation between.

I joke.

I don’t watch porn.

In my living room.

There’s no curtains.

Nonetheless, the TV and music sound situation is quite handled. It would appear that I’ve got my entertainment game all together.

So, Pandora…there’s this feature called Thumbprint. Have you heard of it? Used it?

I love it. It culls music from your playlists and just lavishes your favorite music upon you. I’ve noticed that sometimes Thumbprint will get stuck on a certain artist or decade or what-have-you…but, again – favorite music, so who cares?

Then this happened today while I was folding laundry.

Yeah.

Phil fucking Collins.

Basically, I made the same face.

And I’m just wandering from utility room to kitchen with clothes to be folded and then to my bedroom and dresser to put stuff away without really realizing what’s happening until that needle skip moment occurs.

I realize it’s not an acceptable Phil fucking Collins song, like In The Air Tonight.

It’s Land Of Confusion.

That’s just not ok.

I actually kind of enable a slight prophetic moment, as I think back to the last couple of years in America. Maybe Phil saw it all coming vaguely down the pike.

Doubtful.

Semi-comforting to think that someone at least saw this shift in sensibilities coming. Actually, then again…no. If someone knew this was coming and didn’t stop it.

The Doctor could have stopped it.

But not Phil…no.

I’m going back to the dryer for the rest of my laundry, thinking that I can just grab the rest of it. My utility room is kind of a shotgun situation.

Long and narrow. My bike is in there during winter months, too. Right by the spare tires in the left corner. I walk in and I’m loading my arms with the remaining tee shirts, socks, undies and whatnot and I’m thinking I got it.

I can do this.

Mistake.

Huge.

I pull out a tee shirt that has a stowaway pair of undies in it that drops to the floor. My arm is somehow full to my chin with the rest of the load – shut up, Diezel – and I’m still thinking, “Yeah, I can do this”.

I squat straight down – there’s no room to bend at the waist in this room – and grab the pants.

Admit it, you’re glad I stopped saying “undies”, right?

A single sock falls out of my arm as I tuck the pants under my chin.

Great.

I reach down and am fishing around with my hand, feeling for the sock because I can’t risk moving my head to look down. I don’t know why, but moving my eyes side to side helps me focus my intensity on the search. Maybe it’s that looking around keeps my attention divided just enough that I don’t stress out and overthink and overcorrect…I. Don’t. Know.

But my eyes swiveling in their sockets take in the mayhem of the room and the song clicks.

I bet you were wondering when I’d get back to that.

This is the world I live in?

There’s a paper bag of recyclables from when I ran out of the green BottleDrop bags – some of them were carried over by The Fox because he supports my redemption habit…probably I should square up with him by buying him a beer. But once I bought more green bags, I never transferred the accumulated cans into it. Now, as you can see in the front right, the bag is too full.

There’s a black trash bag of donations that Myrtle likes to pull at if I leave the utility room door open. Have I taken them? No. No, I have not.

And I wasn’t able to see it from where I was squatting, but in my mind’s eye, I was looking at the dustpan that has the remnants of the glass lamp shade that Myrtle broke one night about a month ago now.

So, it’s been there through about 3 trash bag changes…you’d think I could’ve taken those shards to the trash by now, right?

No.

Having successfully retrieved the errant sock, I start to stand up, expecting to hit my head either on the dryer door or the shelf. I usually do this once a month or so…but miraculously, not today.

I leave the utility room with the last of my laundry and look right at the naked lamp as I exit.

Yeah, I haven’t even taken the rest of the broken shade off the damn lamp. I think that’s partly because I want the base of the shade for when I replace it.

Probably, mostly as a potential punishment for Myrtle if she tries to get frisky with the lamp again.

This is the world I live in.

As I’m looking at the lamp, I’m reminded that I have yet to replace the battery in the thermostat directly above the lamp. I’m meeting Diezel for a couple beers at 3:45 and wanted to check the time on the thermostat to see how much time I have left.

An hour, I realize after mentally adjusting for Daylight Savings fuckery.

All of the clocks in my house are set to one of two times: right or wrong. Every six months, that switches. Some of the clocks adjust automatically, like my phone, microwave and oven clocks. Typically, the bathroom, living room and – inexplicably – thermostat clocks do not.

So, I change them mentally, depending on the time of year. Sometimes all the clocks are set to right, others, only half of them.

Unless

Like in the case with the thermostat, I need to change a battery. Then that clock gets set to the correct time.

I gave old Phil a thumbs down, finished folding my laundry and mused that with as crazy as the outside world is these days, it’s even crazier that I’m not controlling all the minutia I can in my own four walled world.

I’ve got a half hour before I need to leave, I think I’ll spruce the place up a bit. Undo some of the non-Myrtle chaos. That’s a fair starting point. I’d self-diagnose Myrtle’s mayhem as a partial root to my housekeeping apathy. The way she sheds incessantly and kicks litter out of her box and shreds cardboard boxes to literal litter creates such a mess that I’ve kind of given up.

On everything.

I don’t know why

But I can clean some dishes and switch out a battery at least. Hell, maybe I’ll even dust!

I’ll make this a world worth living in…

World Of Confusion.

I’m Mad As Hell…

…and I’m just going to passive-aggressively bitch about it.

I’m from Portland, after all, and that’s simply our way.

But Pallet Jack is on tap at Big Legrowlski so I’m going to enjoy one of those while I rage. I’ve also been tasked by the Silver Fox to have one for him in absentia while he’s visiting the grand-family.

Should a third come on board…

A few Hemingway factoids:

He was 62 when he died. He looks way older than that! But in a good way.

He was born in 1899. Why does that shock me so?

Perhaps I can avoid Hemingway-ing if I stop the tangents and just get on with it.

This is me mad, btw. I’m pretty mellow. So, what is it that got me all riled up?

Portland made the news on Monday. What I’m assuming is a Proud Boy decided to take his impotence out on a lesbian couple that was out enjoying a walk in their neighborhood.

Look how proud he is, indeed, as he posts his IQ for the world to see. You know you’re dumb when you aren’t smart enough to shut the hell up when someone pulls out their phone.

Or you’re unable to control yourself even when your friends encourage you to hushify yourself.

Embarrassingly enough, this is our second incident of overt bigotry in just under a month, after this broad posted her IQ on her social media page.

My struggle is figuring out which of these folks is dumber, Lori or Nathaniel.

Lori posted herself being stupid, Nate – I feel like I can call him Nate, now that I know him so well – was just too stupid to shut his mouth.

But Lori lives in Corvallis, an Aggie college town, so she might be a hick…does that offset the stupidity of her action somehow?

Maybe.

Maybe I’m just extra Chris-py these days after months of the immigrant children situation and a week of fresh TrumPutin antics. Then there was yesterday’s outright fib fest as Trump tried to walk back his support of Putin by openly disagreeing with his own intelligence agencies by saying “I don’t see why it would be Russia” meddling in our 2016 election.

What a shitshow of an administration. His walkback statement was basically, “I meant to say ‘wouldn’t‘”. That’s how you earn this internet fame

I guess that’s a silver lining of sorts. In addition to phenomenal beer, seeing humiliating web occurrences like that – that you just know will accelerate his hopefully impending stroke – afford me some solace.

The fact that our country is basically a runaway train to hell is further offset by the fact that I live in Oregon. Seriously, the best state of any state I have lived…sure, I’ve only lived in six different states, but I’d put Oregon against any state for overall awesomeness.

Why is it so great?

How can I possibly think it’s that great with human skid marks like Lori and Nate in our mix?

Well, like someone once said, “Ya gotta take the good with the bad”, right?

Lori got fired from her Oregon Department of Transportation job. Her homicidal racism cost her a good government job and the awesome benefits that go along with it. Her termination was a direct result of her post.

Good.

After Nate Gate on Monday, a group of neighbors showed up to make some therapeutic chalk art in front of the house Nate was visiting.

They wrote nothing offensive, but the tenant still felt compelled to come out and hose down the street.

Guess what?

The neighbors came back and did it again.

And this time, someone alerted the media.

Meanwhile, the Facebook was on the case. I know some people who know some people. People who are sleuthy. That’s how I learned Nate’s name.

That’s also how I learned the name of the owners of the house this happened in front of.

…in front of which this happened?

I dunno, I don’t want to hurt myself saving a participle from dangling.

Basically, I’m waiting on the follow up that Nate got fired and his friends got evicted.

But I’m not expecting it. The Cronens have a reputation for being dirtbag property owners, so I’m sure they don’t care that their tenants bring them shit media attention. Additionally, Nate doesn’t look super employable or high functioning. I doubt his employers are worried about him inadvertently drawing negative press to their organization.

But I did wake up to this news this morning…

So, there’s that news to lift both my spirit and hopes for our country.

On a less retaliatory note, the plant in my beer pic is mint, and the aroma therapeutic value of sipping my beer next to it is calming my frazzled protected status.

Regardless of what happens with Nate and the King of the Dipshits currently occupying the Oval, I think there is something actionable to be done on a local level. In two recent high profile incidents of hate in Portland, the Portland Police Bureau has failed to act on hate speech. In both situations, they have actually stated that as long as they don’t escalate to physical abuse, their hands are tied.

Further, the officer responding to the incident on Monday said it was “his judgment” whether or not to even take a statement and that he had more pressing calls. That partnered with the reality of Oregon’s Hate Crime Law

is where we have work to do on this issue with Portland Police.

Why would an officer’s judgment call be to err on the side of a vocally abusive person who was so barely in control that his friends had to put themselves between him and his victim?

I think that in this situation as well as similar national situations, we need to err on the side of harshness. Sadly, with a leader that cushions his comments on illegal and violent activity by following up his mention of the guilty party with statements like, “but there’s a lot of people, it could be anyone” or “there’s bad people on both sides” we have our work cut out for us.

Jeepers, that was quite a sentence! And I’ve only just started into the Silver Fox’s beer.

There’s a lot of work to do. Honestly, I loathe spending my time and space on my little piece of the internet talking about this crap.

But, you know what?

I have to.

I can’t say nothing. Remaining silent gives tacit approval to these idiots. And we saw the power of these folks as an energized – or incited – group of people in November of 2016. Lest we forget the warning of the prophet George Carlin

So, I have to write about these things. Even though it weighs heavy in my psyche to do so – incredible beer and mint aroma therapy be damned.

My call to action for you readers is to talk about these things, too. Either to educate the ignorant or energize the apathetic amongst our voting population.

Just.

Do.

It.

Otherwise, we’ll never dig ourselves out of the shituation these stupid Americans have gotten us into.

I’m Mad As Hell…

TFW

For those who don’t know, TFW translates from text shorthand to English as: That Feeling When.

It’s generally followed by some awkward inanity, for instance…

TFW: you manage to pluck that unseen ear hair – the one you can feel and hear but just. can’t. see.

This, my friends, is the glamour of aging!

Personally, I’m celebrating with a beer.

TFW

Where Are They Now?

I’ve actually read a couple of blogs recently that have revived this snarky thought of mine.

It started a long time ago. Before the turn of the century, in fact. It began as a Where Are They Now for the gay “It” idols of the day – Kristen Bjorn porn stars.

Somehow this porn producer had managed to export every superficial SoCal gay attribute and imbue a cadre of Eastern European men with them and <ahem> whip out scores of videos that ruined positive body image health for gay men. Well, not single handedly, to be sure, but it was definitely a piece of the catastrophe.

Of course, the luster was short lived for me and I began to start thinking of these poor potentially exploited boys more like gayveal than physique role models.

Anyway, I just held that random “Where Are They Now” thought in the back of my mind as a reality check for the over- sexualized subculture of which I was a part.

A touchstone for reason.

This morning, one of the bloggers that I follow posted an interesting entry. His blog is a combination of short-form writing and pictorial entries. This morning’s was pictorial and caught me off guard when it included a pic of this guy

who was a gay-world famous underwear model after winning a model search competition from designer Andrew Christian.

To me, he – this model turned nobody – is symbolic of a couple of things:

First, these AC model contests were unique back in the early 20-teens but seemed to occur at the same time that Andrew Christian’s design was jumping the shark.

Suddenly, underwear styles were focused more on push up style structure or peekaboo openings and bare backsides…did we really need to reinvent thongs and jock straps? My gut told me that the marketing campaign was to distract from the functionality or even quality.

You’ve heard me bemoan people who seem to embrace the mantra, “It’s better to look good than to be good”, right?

Well, now you have.

Second, we – and I think I mean we as in American culture, not just gay culture – we’re making celebrities out of people whose only accomplishments seemed to be good genes and a rigid focus on corporeal development versus people with any appreciable skill or talent.

This is alarming in the gay community, particularly, because we already had a propensity to compensate physically for other – sometimes inequality imposed – shortcomings. It was almost like we represented our best selves using our bodies as a billboard.

No big deal.

Except

We seem to have gotten sucked into the industry of our physical selves and forgotten or minimized the importance of developing our inner selves.

Being good looking and physically fit shouldn’t be a bad thing, but somehow we found a way to ruin it.

Apologies to Michelle Obama.

Good looking men are making a living as go-go boys. Posting admittedly enjoyable pics of them in their underwear in exotic locations for Pride season all over the globe that are riddled with typos.

Redefining the phrase Peter Principle.

During the off-Pride season, too many of these guys end up shooting porn or escorting to maintain their lifestyle and – believe it or not – image.

Now, I’m no prude and certainly don’t condemn porn or sex work. It’s when either industry becomes predatory, preying on the desperate or unadmittedly stupid that I begin to take issue.

That’s not how I want my “Where Are They Now” question answered. I’ve seen too many so-called gay celebrities or community icons die after getting ground up in those industries. Yes, yes…this is all just an extension of my attraction to boys with broken wings.

How I’d like the question answered is with interviews of paunch-gutted male pattern baldness suffering men describing their post-over-exposed-beefcake successes. Six pack abs replaced by a keg sized beer belly and a story of how they built a successful local charity helping homeless gay youth off the street. Flawless skin overrun by a network of telltale drug-addiction scars but an inspiring long term relationship that saved a life by returning someone to not just sobriety but reality.

That’s a documentary that I’d watch.

Remember how this “Where Are They Now” throwback was credited to two recent blog posts that I’d read?

Yeah, well that was the easy one.

The second blog – and more challenging, to be honest – was a piece about good looking guys being shamed.

Didya?

Be honest…did you see that twist coming?

I hate to keep using that meme, but it’s so friggin’ perfect in so many instances.

And I really was not prepared for my thoughts after reading this blog post.

It is short, but in its brevity managed to take to task the people who troll people online that are simply showing off their physical accomplishments.

My thoughts – you know from reading above: slippery slope.

I came away from reading this blog with a yellow flag on my thoughts. I needed to remember that maybe the people who fall down that slope are the tip of the iceberg.

Sure.

I can admit that there’s just a lot of people in the world that are at a more disciplined point in their lives than I am. I’ve been there, I am not there now.

At the same time, I had to admit that I do unfairly criticize these people at times, even if it’s only mentally.

But.

While I’m internally committing to being more generative and appreciative of these physical accomplishments that I envy, I’m simultaneously struggling. Struggling with the reality that there are people who ignore me in my daily online and real life interactions because I am not one of them.

That’s tough.

I know when it’s happening. My less mellowed-with-age self would call it out. If someone ignored me online, I might have sent a final accusatory message that suggested they were bad people for their superficiality.

It wasn’t rewarding because I got to bitch someone out. It was rewarding because the response was usually one of two things:

A) I get so many responses, I can’t reply to them all

Poor thing.

I think the price of entry into the world of social media really should be that one is socially competent. Or at least…social.

It’s a lame excuse and one with an eight keystroke counter argument.

1) Hit Reply

2-7) Hit T H A N K S keys

8) Hit Send

This acknowledges the effort and largely discourages a response by closing the door to further conversation. In doing so, though, it remains social and even more importantly, preserves the self-worth of the sender. Sure, you’re gonna have those few people who don’t speak hint fluently, but that’s the cost of internet fame, eh? Everyone shouldn’t be treated like that worst case scenario.

Alternatively, if that’s too much of a burden, many apps allow you to turn off responses…maybe use those. Problem solved.

B) I’m only here for sex, not friends

Ok, that problem will just take care of itself eventually. Except it will perpetuate the negative and impersonal app-tastic culture we’ve cultivated over the last 20 years in the process.

So the hate and trolling that this guy mentions is familiar, I get it.

Is it a situation where one party bears the blame?

No…not at all.

It’s collateral damage to psychological warfare people don’t even know they are engaged in. I’d wager the majority of the trolls this guy is mentioning didn’t start out as trolls. They probably started out perfectly reasonable and over the course of being ignored repeatedly built up an intolerance that manifests itself by lashing out preemptively at the next sexy guy they see.

How screwed up is that?

Guys aspiring to a physical form that attracts social media attention ignore attention from their less attractive audience building up resentment that manifests itself as what then gets described as trolling or bullying.

Ok, first…make sure you aren’t calling someone a troll because they correct you on the not-overwhelmingly complex correct usage of there/they’re/their.

Second, maybe what we all need to do is infuse our social and real life lives with more compassion.

Point A above goes a long way. Be grateful you’re getting the attention you may not have admitted to yourself you seek. Know enough about interacting with humans to gracefully stop a conversation from progressing. Ignoring a conversation doesn’t make it go away, it alters it’s course.

On the flip side, maybe just stick to correcting real life friends on their grammar. Using the excuse, “They need to know” isn’t any less an abdication of responsibility than “I get too many responses to reply to them all” is when it comes to dealing with people online.

And…after all is said and done here? I realized that I don’t really care where most of these people end up. The great lot of them are Kardashian-esque Lost Boys, so maybe I should just do a little virtual housecleaning and make sure that I’m surrounding myself with people that enhance my happiness versus highlight the things about people that make me unhappy.

It’s been an interesting week in my head, folks.

Love and pizza, yo!

Where Are They Now?

TIL #4: Tech Cheat

So, I’m sitting here at Big Legrowlski – alone, again…naturally – trying to figure out how to make a story on the Instagram. Well, making a story in and of itself isn’t terribly difficult. It’s the extras: adding additional pics to it and enhancing it with text…oy.

And links?

Fugeddabowdit.

It’s one of many situations that make me scream – sometimes in my head, sometimes in real, live technicolor – “I need a twenty-something!

Notice that I didn’t say “one of many recent situations”…gentle readers, this has been going on since I exited my own 20s.

Mind you, I’ve only vomited out about 5000 words into the WordPress Abyss today, why not keep going. FYI, that’s a lot of words and there was plenty of emotional heavy lifting between brain and keyboard…so, yeah. A little millennial vs old timer levity was required!

This phenomenon I mention…it is not one that I alone seem to struggle with, either. Witness this random post from a friend on the Facebook.

Not that I don’t enjoy my friends’ equal discomfiture, here in the techno-wilderness.

On the flip side, it’s nice to encounter situations that let you know that – somehow – it goes both ways.

Surrealiously…it takes 5 million years to make a goddamn rock. You’re only a millennial so where’s the disconnect? Sending a FAX should still be current events.

Situationally speaking, of course.

So, between those two generational extremes…what is it that I’m learning today, exactly?

Jesus, not to get myself into any situation that somehow evolves into me brokering peace in the Middle East, but I’ve learned today that this isn’t just a grumpy old Xtopher peccadillo, this tech frustration.

It really does go both ways.

Here I am, the perfect example of that statement: sometimes screaming to be helped by an assuredly more tech-comfortable younger person, other times the actual younger person being asked to help the Silver Fox figure out why his phone shows a music app running on his phone that he swears he’s never installed.

I’ve learned that, regardless of one’s chronological accomplishments on this galactic rock, technology is the great leveling device. You might think you’ve got your shit dialed in and your figurative water fowl aligned…you just haven’t met your technological undoing yet.

It might be the next it app that proves a boondoggle for your supposed savviness. Then again, it could be the old school alarm system at your kids’ house that keeps you huddled on their porch in a rainstorm as you wait for them after failing to gain entry, defeated by a keypad and four-digit passcode.

One never knows, do one?

In an abundance of flip sides leading up to this entry, I’ve also learned not to downplay expertise from surprising resources. I have this blog-buddy, Phil, that read of one of my storage issues with Apple.

Having grown weary of their too-frequent “Storage Almost Full” push notifications that really seemed to just be a squeeze play for an extra $.99/month from poor old Xtopher, I tossed off a whiny blog post.

What does the universe provide me in return?

A recommendation from Phil in my comments that I simply get a flash drive, onto which I could save my photos, music and anything else that congests my cloud storage situation. That would leave my cloud space free for apps and other shit…shit literally being “I don’t know what”.

Phil and I have bonded over many things: humor, beer storage, saddle rash. We’ve clashed over more important, serious issues along the lines of writing – in a strictly helpful, mentor-y manner. We’re not arguing Oxford Comma here, folks.

Phil is a grandparent.

Setting aside the reality that I could be, too, in a bizarrely alternate reality, Phil has subtly led me to believe that he’s got a few more laps around the sun than I have managed.

And here he is throwing me tech pro tips.

I’m sitting on my couch, reading this comment of his and resisting the urge to look over my shoulder at the Apple G4 Tower that I’ve had since the early aughts that has all of my music stored on it – stuff I transferred from CD into the drive after getting tired of dusting my CD cases.

A drive I moved from Portland to Seattle and back again – five households in all – to preserve my music library.

“Oh…just get an external drive?” – Me

Jesus.

I need a twenty year old. Stat!

TIL #4: Tech Cheat

My So-Called Sunny Disposition

A funny thing happened on the way to the cafe today.

I demotivated myself.

Again.

AKA: day two…

Earlier this week, I publicly announced my June writing goal of completing my gay themed drafts prior to the end of Pride Month. Yesterday, I gave myself a pass on the four drafts remaining. That pass cut the four to two, because two were really just situationally gay.

And one of those is a really daunting topic.

I don’t need that kind of pressure.

So, this morning, on the way to the cafe, I’m looking at the last two drafts and the last two days of June.

Both of these drafts are about exes. Exes that I still cared about when I ended the relationships.

Y’know, chipper shit.

This morning, my thought was, “Damn. This shit is heavy. If I write about this, I’m likely gonna be down for the day. Maybe I should just worry about one and forget the other…both drafts are at least a year old, anyway.”

This is no recipe for success, folks.

I grab my coffee and instead of sitting down and tapping something out on my phone, I start reading the blogs I follow. Occasionally, I see a theme that motivates me.

This was the case today as well. But then I got all Dad on myself and said no new entries until you finish a draft.

The writer equivalent of “no dessert until you finish your veggies”.

Then I saw this entry from Pace Mind Blog

and clicked on over to give it a read. I’m not gonna lie, he titled his post “Another Award” and it made me chuckle because as much as getting nominated by a fellow writer is motivating, however, it can feel a little

if you know what I mean.

There I was reading about how being nominated for this made him feel like he’s not putting negative content out there since the purpose of this award is to recognize people who inspire and spread positivity…my thought?

There’s no way in hell that I’m getting this nomination!

Imagine my surprise…

But, I’ll confess that it was a pleasant – albeit unexpected – surprise, so, thanks Pacey! Click on the link above to check out his blog. I enjoy living his Aussie life vicariously though his posts.

Naturally, I’m going to use this as a procrastinating device!

Nonono. I’ll write more later, this will just get my writing juices flowing…but first: rules!

Rules, Rules, Rules!

1. Thank the blogger who nominated you and link back to their blog ✅

2. Answer the questions the blogger asked you – keep reading

3. Nominate new blogs and write them new questions – patience, paduan

4. List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award in your post ✅

See? Already halfway done!

Ready? Here we go! And I really like Pacey’s questions, so I’m actually excited to answer!

1. Gay man to Gay man (and the world) favourite Ru Paul Queen?….Wait do you even watch drag race?

I’m way too grumpy for that stuff! And I’m a terrible gay, I know.

I have actually never even seen a full episode of RPDR, can you believe that?

I bet you can.

I have been present in a bar long enough to finish my drink after they started screening the current weekly episode. Does that count?

It’s a little trope-y, but my take on this is a little derivative of the old Groucho Marx quote about not wanting to be a member of any club that would have me as a member. Basically, every other gay person is losing their shit over it, so I want nothing to do with it.

It’s weird, since I do enjoy being around Drag Queens so much.

Upside? I had no desire or care to know what the hell the whole “Vanjie” thing was. I was amused at how crazy it seemed to be making people, though.

2. Why so grumpy?

I wear this adjective like a mantle of pride.

Truth be told, though? I think I’m pretty happy.

I get grumpy when people are rude or even careless about their role in a society.

Just this morning, as I approached the cafe, I had to make a decision about manners. There was a woman approaching the door from the opposite direction. She was a little closer, but I naturally move a little faster than she due to my height.

In my mind, I see my grandmother, standing there waiting for me to open the door for her. I decide that even if I step up my pace a bit, best case is we’ll arrive at the door at the same time.

A) This will allow me to open the door for her, but it opens in the direction she is approaching from, so that would actually be an inconvenience for her.

B) It’s gonna look like I was trying to beat her to get into the cafe first.

So I end up hanging back.

Yes, I’m a little neurotic.

No, this isn’t sexist, I’d have had the exact same dilemma if there was a guy approaching the door.

She looks right at me as she opens the door just enough to squeeze through and let’s it close on me.

Ok

Inside, she peels off to the left instead of heading straight for the counter. I figure she’s looking for someone or staking out seating before she orders and continue on. Then she abruptly changes course toward the counter so I roll my eyes and slow down – again, trying to not appear like I’m jockeying for position in line.

She passes the counter and I realize she’d been looking for the restrooms as she tries the door and I think, “You’re gonna need a key”…which is conveniently available from the barista station. She grabbed it without acknowledging the staff standing nearby and went off down the hall.

Basically, all of this awkward dancing I did with this woman was so she could deuce out without buying anything. In and of itself, that bugs me – using a business’ bathroom without patronizing the business itself. However, the oblivious manner in which she interacted with myself and the barista just rankled me.

I’m actually trying to work on my reaction to people like this. I remind myself that I don’t know her situation and try to assuage my frustration and head off my judgment.

Still…can’t you even give a sheepish “Hi” to the barista who’s gonna end up cleaning the bathroom? I know you’re doing a pee-pee dance, we’ve all been there, can’t an American ego handle this scenario? After all, we all start off learning the same thing at pre-school story time:

So chill out.

3. Since you are looking for work, if you could do any job what would it be?

Oof. This is a great question! I’ve been in retail my entire adult life, see also: Why so grumpy

Not only is retail comfortable to me because I know the expectations so well, but I also love the social opportunity that the nature of the environment provides.

On top of that, the chaos the job provides is energizing. I can get to work each day with a mental list of what needs to be accomplished that day. My expectation is that that to-do list goes out the window the first time I pick up the phone or as soon as I open the door. Taking care of my customers’ needs and still accomplishing my deliverables for the day is a fun challenge.

Frustrating as it can be, it’s hard to imagine a job without that chaotic nature. It allows me to leave with a sense of satisfaction every day that is more rewarding than the validation payday provides every two weeks.

That said, I’ve tried to escape the retail grind a couple of times in my career. Nothing fulfills me the same way.

I think writing would.

I started this blog to develop my writer’s voice. I’ve learned that my inner writer has quite a foul mouth. It’s hard to monetize that as a copy writer without a filter, so that can limit paid writing opportunities.

As far as writing a novel?

Well, that doesn’t really pay that well, but I’d still like to do it. I’m just struggling with the reality that my style lends itself to more of a David Sedaris type monologist book and I’d rather emulate a serial type style like one of my writing heroes, Armistead Maupin.

It’ll happen…just not in a “this is my job” type of way.

4. Would you ever be someones sugar daddy? would you ever have a sugar daddy?

Right now, I could use a Sugar Daddy.

Certainly, I’ve played a role as a daddy-type in my dating life, it’s the nature of being attracted to younger guys.

However, admitting that I’m attracted to younger guys – despite their inadvertent behavioral attempts to make themselves supremely unattractive to me – rules out having a Sugar Daddy myself. For the same reason that I won’t be someone’s Sugar Daddy: respect.

When I’m dating someone, I need to be able to respect myself and my boyfriend as an equal partner in the relationship. Dating someone for what they can provide financially or for the lifestyle upgrade goes against my ethical grain.

I’m single because there aren’t a lot of guys out there that see me beyond that filter.

Also, because the last guy that could see me beyond that filter proved out the other potential of inter generational dating: staying with me was beginning to retard his development into a fully functional adult.

My golden rule for dating younger guys? Leave ’em better than I found ’em.

He’s actually the subject of one of the two drafts that I mentioned earlier, so you may be reading more about that situation soonly

5. Where in the world have you travelled? and where do you still want to travel to?

Last part first: Australia has been on my bucket list since before the turn of the century. I was actually planning a tenth anniversary trip with Sacha, but we crapped out at the six year mark. Since then, it’s lost its luster to some degree, but I’m planning to reclaim the trip on an individual basis at some point in the next decade!

I’ve been to a good chunk of Europe, but Spain and Portugal are still on my list. I’d like to go back to Italy for a month-long immersion, but I think that’s a post-60s trip. Oddly, the eastern parts of Europe have never really had much of a pull for me.

My first trip off the North American continent was to Northern Africa, mainly Egypt. I think there’s still some exploring to do in that region, but I definitely want to experience South Africa before I die. Or after, maybe disembodied travel is cheaper!

Now…the hard part, paying it forward. Who to nominate…

What makes this hard isn’t just a matter of who to nominate. Every blog I follow, I enjoy. Choosing would be easy through that filter. The tough thing is, who would appreciate it? I joke about these awards being “Everybody Gets a Trophy” affairs and call them Montessori Report Cards, but they do mean something to me…they motivate me to keep going when the goals I set for myself are difficult to achieve or when my own inertia is proving difficult to overcome.

That said, I think I’m passing the baton to Ben over at My Casual Trainwreck Life because – like this peer wreckognition type of award, reading his blog can motivate me. We’re a little similar and a little dis. I think he’s a better writer than I am, simply because he seems more disciplined in his style. That makes his writing slightly aspirational to me because it makes me think about how I write and whether I can or should look for the next evolution of my style.

Check him out.

Here are my questions for him, if he chooses to play along:

1) Give us a quick bio to introduce yourself to us. Mother’s maiden name, social security number…just the basics.

2) What’s your end game as a writer, do you have writing aspirations beyond the blog?

3) How do you motivate yourself to produce content?

4) Tell us an embarrassing story.

And…

5) I liked Pacey’s question about where I’ve traveled and where I still want to go, so I’m ripping that one off for you, too!

Thanks, again, Pacey for the nod.

As always, if you like what you see, let me know with a comment or just feel free to share on your own platform.

Cher-ing is caring, as they say!

My So-Called Sunny Disposition

This Ain’t No Strawberry Hill!

More like Strawberry Juliet Balcony.

Yeah, I doubt that anyone will be writing a song about my balcony berry growing prowess…at least based on the yield thus far.

Are those tiny babies not the most ridiculously cute things you’ve seen all evening?!?

Those aren’t the only four, but they are basically the only ripe berries that are bigger than a pencil eraser! I don’t know why, but my mom surprised me with a planter planted with four of her extra strawberry plants. She said there were different types of plant but I wasn’t fully listening…I was musing about how one ends up with extras. I mean, what actually constitutes an extra strawberry plant, anyway?

Methinks she wanted to do something nice and mom-ish for me, so I was busy being all

and didn’t hear for sure what she said. I remember “four”, but I only know of the Hood and Totem varietals – cultivars? who cares? – off the top of my head.

Yeah, look at me…I can google memes and clip art for my blog all day long, but when I need actual information it’s suddenly “Fuck That:30” at Chez Galby.

Because while harvesting my lil crop of “what the hell am I gonna do with four berries?!?” I was reminded of a little story.

When I was a wee little man, not even 12 yet if I recall correctly, I had a summer job picking strawberries. Actually, raspberries, too.

All the cool kids were doing it.

I want to say that I learned a lot during my pre-teen summer job, but I didn’t even learn about the damn berries, so that claim is a bit of a stretch.

The most important takeaway? My reinforced disgust for mayo. Seriously, it’s gross stuff. Food lube.

My argument for licensing people to breed is the same as the validation of my mayo hatred: kids’ parents packed their lunches and put mayo on the sandwiches. Then they put their kids on an un-air conditioned bus and sent them to work in a field all day, where their sack lunches sat in a bus, parked in the blazing summer sun until lunch time.

Yeah, we had some sick kids.

With dumb parents.

PB&J all the way from my mom!

So, other than no real useful knowledge, I did at least get a few good stories. I mean, like you can top spoiled mayo.

I swear to god that my sister and I spent a couple summers getting up at 5 am to pick berries. What normal kid wants to do that?!? I don’t know what my sister’s motivation was, but since she was doing it, I wanted to do it, too.

Plus, I was quite the avaricious kid.

But there we were, waiting at the bus stop every morning to get out into the fields and work in the sun all day. Mr Tinker would pick us kids up and drive us out to whichever Sester field we were picking at that day. I think parents entrusted him with their kids because he was a pastor – but seriously, the alternative was having your kids around all day. This was a way better solution. They’re out of the house all day and tired as hell when they get home.

All the parenting wins.

Pastor or no, if our parents knew that we nicknamed the farm’s owner Sester the Molester, they might have thought twice. There was absolutely no evidence to support the nickname, we were just little shits masquerading as human children.

Case in point:

Tinker was the owner of a slightly overwhelming speech impediment. “Strawberry bushes” came out “stwahbewy booshes” and we were merciless about it.

Maybe we were just grumpy from lack of sleep. Hey…maybe that’s why I’m such a crank nowadays?

Suuuure

Anyway, Tinker never let on that he knew or cared that we made fun of his speech impediment. Or his clothes. He just drove us out and back, making sure we worked in between and ignoring our criticisms about his dwiving.

Still, it was our summer vacation, so we had to have some fun. There were pranks. Throwing berries was too obvious. And kinda frowned upon. Unless they were rotten…I’m pretty sure everyone wore a rotten berry in some fashion or another at least once.

Probably smashed on top of their head.

Throwing dirt clods at the portapotty when someone was inside was another pastime in the fields. It was pretty easy to get away with, too. Just look over your shoulder to make sure Tinker was distracted by whatever and then wing a big old chunk of dried earth.

Well, not me. I was a weenie arm. Ask anyone, they’ll tell ya. Plus, I couldn’t hit the broadside of a proverbial barn, let alone a three foot wide johnny on the spot.

But both of these things were pretty harmless, usually good natured. Although, more than one kid experienced a near miss with a dirt clod after a poorly timed exit from the honey bucket. Either way – hit or miss – you’re awake for the afternoon.

The truly heinous fuckery was reserved for the girls that the cool boys liked. They’d go into the crap shack to pee or barf out their tuna salad from lunch or just get a breath of disgusting air while getting out of the sun – ok, that’s a lie, those things were hot and rank. Remember, this was the olden days, too, these weren’t hauled back to a warehouse, emptied and sanitized. These babies were out there all summer long, perched over a hole in the ground.

Ugh, I just made myself a little nauseous with that sense memory.

Anyway, school is out, so no dipping the ponytail of your sweetheart into an inkwell. No, these poor girls got to experience the joys of having their princes tilt their shit castle violently from side to side while they were trapped inside.

Ah, young love!

It’s kind of horrifying to think that’s how we treated our friends and crushes as kids. The behavior is barely discernible from how kids treat people they didn’t like. There was one unfortunately heavy girl that picked with us for a while. Her stop was after ours, so we always saw her board the bus. When the cool kids were feeling particularly cruel, they’d wait for her to sit. Then, as soon as her butt touched the seat, they’d jump up out of their seats and come crashing back down dramatically yelling at her to take it easy.

This earned them a stern look from Tinker in the rear view mirror over his head. Otherwise, that poor girl was at the mercy of the so-called cool kids’ whim and anyone else – myself included – that cared to participate. I feel bad about it now, obviously, but at the time I was just glad they weren’t picking on me.

Well, this has all been a fun little stroll down memory lane to a time when I was actually employed, but I can’t sit around here writing all day…I gotta go make the world’s smallest strawberry shortcake!

Ok, not to be a totally lazy writer, I went to the Oracle to get more info on strawberries.

Turns out, there are three cultivars:

June Bearing, Ever Bearing and Day Neutral.

Past that, there were different varieties in each. Neither Hood nor Totem were listed amongst the 13 examples named, but at least Tillamook was in there to represent the old PNW!

You know, nowadays, people send their kids to day camps in the summer and spend big bucks doing it. Screw that, if you’re gonna have kids, monetize the little monsters.

This Ain’t No Strawberry Hill!