Conversations With Myrtle

I stepped on Myrtle today while I was coming in the front door.

Yes, accidentally!

She’d been doing that weave-between-the-legs cat thing and I lost sight of her under a bag of groceries.

Yes, I eat at home. Sometimes.

Sheesh.

Anyway, I did my best to assure her I didn’t mean to step on her while she glared at me from the bedroom door.

“C’mon, Mother…you know I’d never hurt you! Well, step on you.”

She gives me a very non-inscrutable stare.

“You’re just trying to milk this for treats. I’m on to you.”

Self sacrifice.

“Say what, now?”

Self sacrifice. It’s clearly the only way to demonstrate that you meant no harm.

“Not happening.”

Well, here we are then.

“So, the only way for me to prove that stepping on you was an accident is to harm myself?”

It’s a start.

What the hell did you do to your hair, anyway?

“Oh good. This now…well, I went to get a much needed trim. My regular barber was off and I ended up getting a cut from this trans-woman,” I tell her.

Stop. Just stop. Any story that starts with “So, there was this trans-chick” is way beyond my bother.

Says The Mistress walking dismissively under the bed.

But you might care.

I’ve been low-key growing my hair out. My indistinct goal being what I call crazy old man hair. AKA: mad scientist hair. But last time I went to the barber and asked to “clean it up around the ears and thin out the back”, I got a lil bit shorter cut than I wanted.

It was a small setback, so I decided to really let it ride as long as possible between cuts this time.

Ok. I know I’ll regret this, but tell me what happened.

“What happened is last time you curled around my legs like that, you got stepped on”, I tell her. “I thought you were sulking under the bed?”

I can’t help myself, cat=curiosity. You can’t fight nature. Plus, I have a thirst for knowledge…it’s like a sickness.

“Don’t quote Designing Women to me, cat.”

This trans-barber of yours, you were saying?

“Yeah, yeah. Ok. So, ‘clean it up over the ears and thin out the back’, right?”

Myrtle blinks slowly at me. The cat equivalent, I imagine, of “hurry it up”.

“Well, she starts cutting and I ask her if this is her regular station”

Myrtle walks away…again.

“Ok, ok…there’s this picture of a young Keanu Reeves on her mirror and I ask if she was a fan of Baby Keanu.”

Myrtle stops and sits down, still facing away from me.

“The stylist tells me it’s not her usual station, but she does like Keanu”, I tell Myrt. “‘Then she goes on to say that she liked him best after the Civil War’, so I asked her what she’s talking about since I’m not familiar with a Civil War movie of his, right?”

<slow cat blink>

“So she says, ‘Oh, yeah. He’s one of those movie stars that is like 1000 years old…there’s a ton of them. Brad Pitt, Keanu, Richard Gere – which is why he just knocked a baby into his 20-something new bride at 69. Julia Roberts, Anne Hathaway. They’re like vampires. There’s a whole bunch of them.'”

“I’m staring at her in the mirror thinking she must’ve taken an Ambien and fallen asleep watching Death Becomes Her or something”, I tell Myrtle.

So, basically you’re blaming this on your inability to shut that crazy down after a few snips and get a sane person to cut your hair?

“Yeah. Basically.”

Great. So now I’m stuck looking at you looking like an 80s boy band refugee that found a time machine.

Tic-toc…it’s dinner time.

That’s my mean old cat. But for as ruthless as she can be, she doesn’t interrupt or talk over me. So even though the conversations can be brutal, they are at least civil.

Not every conversation is like that, either. Some are less crazy cat lady and simply catty. Like when she claws at the front door and I yell at her to shut up. She’ll casually turn her head and reply,

Meow

Then she goes back to scratching, as if daring me to get off the couch. Interesting observation – to me, anyway – she only does this if I’m on the couch. Never when I’m in the bedroom or kitchen.

Cats are weird.

Particularly mine.

Generally, when I tell Myrtle to stop scratching at the door for the second time, she’ll meow at me and the charge the couch from behind. I imagine that she’s hoping her “sneak attack” will catch me with my elbow over the edge of the armrest for her to shred.

Sorry, cat…remember that one time I had my bare feet on the armrest? I sure do.

Somewhere in between the basic meow conversations that leave me wondering what the hell Myrtle is thinking and the possibly only-in-my-head full length conversations we have, there’s a more realistic third variety. This generally involves a plaintive meow – which can tip into the “urgent meow” category, given the circumstance – and food.

Myrtle knows she gets a treat when I get out of bed to pee at night and that wet dinner is at 6 pm. That urgent meow? Yeah…she deploys that when dinner is late. Actually, she starts in with it around 5:30 just to keep me from forgetting.

But she does seem to pepper these helpful cat conversations with some snide commentary. Usually when I would get home from work and open a bottle of wine.

What’s important to know here, is that I usually give Myrtle a second treat when I get home from work. So, I would walk in the door between 4 and 6 pm and say hi to my feline frenemy before giving her a treat. Then I’d head off to change out of my work clothes and possibly shower, depending on whether the day’s heinousness was water soluble.

Redressed in my casual knock-around tee shirt and jeans, I would occasionally open a bottle of wine.

Also, occasionally I would get some sort of derivative of this nonsense from Myrt

Hey, buddy…while you’re making your wet dinner, why don’t ya just hook me up, too?

“Because it’s not dinner time yet. Also, you just had a snack.”

Meow!

“It’s not going to work. Why don’t you go outside? The balcony and front doors are both open.”

Which is why I don’t want to go out. Duh.

“Leave me alone.”

C’mon…it’ll be real easy this way!

“And have you screaming for breakfast in the middle of the night because you ate too early? No, thank you!”

Meow!

“Shut your cat face. Let me unwind a bit.”

You know what helps me unwind?

…she asks digging her claws into her cat tree menacingly.

My cat is a psychotic terror. I swear that I’m not imagining it.

Conversations With Myrtle

Comatose Xtopher

I just woke up on the couch.

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon.

Basically, all I remember from last night is texting with a bachelor from earlier this year and watching Black Panther. I started the movie around 9 with some popcorn and dinner rose.

I was being lazy, obviously, because there is half of a warm bottle of rose sitting on my coffee table, telling me I didn’t want to get up for refills. It’s also telling me that I didn’t want to drink much since there’s basically half a bottle’s worth of evidence.

So, I slept about 17 hours on the couch. Most of this was with my face in direct sunlight from the window by which my couch sits.

Whoa.

I’m lucky Myrtle didn’t start eating me when I missed giving her her breakfast kibble at 7. I do remember her meowing at me at some point during the “night” and telling her to shut her stupid cat face. I’m nice like that when I sleep.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that there was a protest poop on the bathroom floor, though. But, still…she is psychotic.

Apparently, I was dead to the world. But I got a good laugh when I woke up and saw this comment about a previous blog post.

I’m trying?

Now, pardon me while I go re-rewatch Black Panther.

Comatose Xtopher

Life Alone With Myrtle

I was watching The Rainmaker last night, being blown away by the sorrow that greed rains down on people…as well as the inescapable parallel to the definitely pathetic so-called leadership in America.

I got up from my reclined position on the sofa to refill my dinner wine – just kidding, I had lasagna, wine was just the side dish…and dessert – and had this little obstacle to navigate around.

Heading in to the kitchen:Heading back to the couch:

I’d like to think she takes an interest in my doings, but really I know she was just on the lookout for bonus treats.

I told her she’d just had dinner, so no treats.

Going on, I chided her that given the similarities in our body types and supine positions, “Y’know, Myrt, the only real difference between us is this wine glass”.

As clearly unimpressed as Myrtle was with that comparison – her inscrutable gaze seemed to say, “I make it look good” – the brief interaction made me grin. She’s not the warmest of beings, but coming up on three years together, at least we’ve reached a point in our relationship where she’s no longer overtly hostile toward me.

She still makes attack runs at my ankles, but they are…playful?

She still sits and scratches at doors she wants open versus closed. I can count on three such acts occurring in some combination between the linen closet, utility room or coat closet each evening.

She’s still mental is all I’m saying. Just calmer.

And at three years, it’s settled into a pretty nice – using that word loosely – cohabitation. My favorite part being sleeping together at night.

Myrtle spends a good chunk of her day sleeping on the bed. Probably she sleeps about 16 hours a day, which includes my nightly struggle.

Whether my night consists of four hours or seven, she’s usually there with me for most of it. Tolerating my intrusion into her bed.

Frankly, it’s my favorite part of sleeping, having her join me. Sometimes she sleeps at the foot of the bed – I’m a restless sleeper. Others, she’ll snuggle up to my lower leg and a couple times a week, she’ll even nest between my legs.

There’s actually three stages of sharing a bed with Myrtle.

Stage One is my bedtime. Usually, she’s already there and I have to ease myself into a position that is fairly comfortable for me without disturbing her. I’m not always successful with this and sometimes she will leave the bed in protest.

Regardless of my success, she’ll usually hop down at some point. At the very least, she’ll get up with me if I wake up to pee.

She expects a treat. She expects one every time I get out of the bed…like it’s a reward for her not killing me in my sleep.

Stage Two is when she comes back to bed after her treat. I’ll usually lay on my back with a pillow over my face, legs crossed at the ankle or in a figure 4 with one ankle under the opposite knee. She comes back on her own timetable after patrolling the house and maybe playing or dispatching and insects that need killing.

In true unstable Myrtle fashion, she walks into the room – claws clicking on the cork flooring – and instead of jumping on the bed by the door, walks around the bed <click,click,click> and jumps up at the head of the bed. I think she does this strictly to terrify me. The anticipation building until she pounces onto the bed inches from my head.

Now you know why it’s covered by a pillow.

That brief terror is all part of the routine as she reminds me of my place in our relationship. Then she will spend some time picking out her spot, either against my leg or between them. Regardless, my favorite part of every night is when I feel her weight settle in against my body. I smile every time, regardless of how awake/asleep I am.

More than once during this Phase Two, her timing has been around the same time I decide I want a drink of water. I’ll roll over into my stomach and reach over to the nightstand for my glass, propping myself up on my elbows.

<pounce>

Myrtle will settle between my legs as I’m on my elbows and stomach, sipping. Having instantly become settled, Myrtle will meet any disturbance with…prejudice.

This leaves me with two choices: disgruntled feline or making the most of it. Usually, I will pull pillows up under my torso until I am some sort of strange pyramid. Then try to sleep.

She’s for sure the boss.

At some point, I’ll move. This will drive Myrtle out of her nest and she’ll go prowl for a while. Sometimes I’ll be awake and just lay in bed reading, other times I’ll fall back to sleep.

Stage Three is when she comes back to bed for the final time for her pre-breakfast nap.

<click,click,click>

If I’m reading, she’ll definitely crawl onto my crossed legs and stretch out. If I’m not already reading, this is my wake up call and she’ll settle in at the foot of the bed until I get up. She’s nice enough to let me read a little while I wake up.

I think she’s just playing the odds that my old brain will forget whether she had a “midnight” snack or not. Regardless, when I get up she hops onto the table and perches in Snack Pose. If I don’t fall for it and serve her breakfast, she regards me with a look that expresses how disappointed she is in my lack of trainability. Eventually she jumps off her perch and checks out the kibble before finding a spot in the sun for her morning catnap.

It’s a fairly terrifying relationship with moments that I intentionally mistake for affection. But it’s still the most functional relationship I’ve had in the last five years. Having a cat like Myrtle has significantly curbed my desire to date, since what I tend to find in Portland are broken and lost boys.

At least the shit she gives me is literal and flushable instead of emotional and semi-permanent.

I’ll take that trade off.

Life Alone With Myrtle

I Might Be Insatiable

I also might be watching too much TV.

Twice last week I finished binge watching a series – one on the Netflix and the other on Amazon.

Twice last week I said to Myrtle, “There’s a lot going on there for such a small town”.

I kid you not. Talking to my cat…

My intent here is to write about the semi-controversial Netflix show called Insatiable Before I get there, let me give you a quick rundown of what I mean by “a lot going on” using the other show I watched last week as an example. The Kettering Incident takes place in a small town in Tasmania. A doctor returns to town from the city for her dad’s retirement. He’s the Tasmanian equivalent of the Chief of Police.

What you learn soon after her return home is that she was considered a suspect in the childhood disappearance of her best friend. When this comes around, I think to myself, “OK, we can make a show of this”.

Nonono. That’s merely the Tip o’the Iceberg!

The disappearance might really be caused by an alien abduction. It seems literally nothing has happened in this town since the disappearance except maybe there’s aliens.

Just kidding, here’s everything else that’s happening in this podunk town:

Immediately after our good doctor returns, someone else is murdered.

Then there’s a drug ring. You find out later it’s led by one of the cops investigating the murder – in which our heroine is an instant suspect.

Eco-terrorists.

Secret toxic waste disposal.

A man returns from the dead and is later found murdered.

The town is being overrun – people included – by erratically fast growing moss.

In a strange wtf moment, the drug kingpin cop sleeps with his prime suspect…which is still our doctor.

Another murder. <yawn>

Secret government conspiracy.

A kidnapping.

Clones!

What. The. Eff?

In the final episode, new plot lines are still dropping and then the damn show just ends.

One plot line is actually wrapped up in the finale. So for as much as this show has going on, it ended and just let most of the balls it had in the air drop and bounce away.

It’s like these writers think that the audience is incapable – probably correctly so – of focusing on a plot point from start to finish in a season. To compensate, and by “compensate” I mean “continually re-focus our attention from our phone screens back to the TV screens”, the writers seem to figuratively blow something up every episode. They don’t end up wrapping up the storyline they blow up, they just use it to keep our interest until the next explosion.

Believe it or not, I think Insatiable has even more bizarre stuff going on. For what it’s worth, these writers at least tidy up before they wander off at the end of the season. Not everything, but at the end of the 12 episodes, you’re at least left feeling relieved versus abandoned.

I wanted to watch this show after hearing its pre-release buzz about fat shaming…hence, the controversy. The critical position – including a 200,000 signature demand to pull the show before it aired – was that celebrating a large person’s weight loss with a story about their pursuit of a beauty pageant title was offensive.

Taken that flatly, I would agree. However, having seen the trailer and not been offended, I watched the show and learned that the actual issues with the program are the wacky plot lines the 90 second trailer doesn’t even touch on.

The show’s response to the criticism was that it was exploring the damage that that fat shaming does to a person’s psyche.

Boy, did that response undersell the word damage.

I also wanted to watch this because it’s been almost 20 years since Drop Dead Gorgeous and I needed a fucked up beauty pageant fix!

This show certainly delivered on the fucked up-ness criteria.

But it all started off so normal.

Bullied small town Georgia fat girl, Fatty Patty, gets her jaw broken while defending her candy bar from a homeless person. She ends up losing a ton of weight due to having her jaw wired shut to heal.

Duh. Nothing special here.

The Homeless Guy presses charges against her.

That’s kinda unique…

Which is when she meets her rather fey attorney, who coincidentally is a frustrated beauty queen coach. Having just lost a title with his most recent adopted-Chinese-beauty-queen-wanna-be to his never-loses-a-pageant-nemesis, who just happens to be his former high school jock tormenter and the city’s district attorney, he has sworn off beauty pageants…until he meets the now beautiful Patty.

Did ya follow all that?

Because after that the train for Crazy Town leaves the station.

Patty is a smart kid, so she turns her attorney’s pageant coaching offer down. However, after a day at school, realizing the different treatment she gets being suddenly outwardly beautiful and mistaken for a transfer student versus Fatty Patty, she snaps and takes her attorney up on his offer saying, “I’d rather have revenge”.

Remember that.

It’s after that moment where the show loses its equilibrium. From that point, you can tell a story that kinda sounds like the First Mrs Trump’s post-divorce mantra.

Patty struggles with the attention of boys. From the convenience store clerk that she flashes to get what she wants to the high school jock son of her flamboyant attorney/pageant coach to the bad boy son of the town minister.

Normal enough high school stuff, even without the extreme weight loss storyline.

But instead of pursuing that arc, the writers decide to take us on a shark jumping tour.

Here’s some of the shark storylines we viewers have to jump:

That adopted Chinese wanna be pageant queen? Yeah, her mom blames her daughter’s loss on their coach, claiming he was molesting her.

In a head scratching fit of irony, a few episodes later it’s revealed that the mother is actually having an ongoing sexual affair with the high school jock. Who – remember – is the son of her daughter’s pageant coach.

This story needed to take place in a bigger town.

As Patty’s pageant success grows, the frustrated adopted Chinese wanna be spirals more and more out of control in her jealousy. This seems to reach its peak when she attacks Patty in front of most of the town and in defending herself, Patty ends up unintentionally crippling the girl.

The town turns on Patty and blames her for the incident, calling it bullying. Which is insane enough, given the facts that A) the girl was one of Patty’s tormentors when she was Fatty Patty and was never held accountable as the bully she was; and, B) once again, Patty was only defending herself, which unfortunately resulted in an injury to the instigator.

Icing that cake is the fact that the girl was faking her paralysis at the encouragement of her mother. Patty tries to prove this in a horribly thought out plan and just makes things worse for herself. Even once her claim is validated, she can’t catch a break from the townsfolk. That right there is a – probably unintentional – mirror of the behaviors Trump supporters demonstrate daily: throwing your support behind a terrible human and never wavering in their loyalty.

Because the town can’t see that Patty’s situation is the result of her bullies’ ineptitude, things are required to get worse.

The next shark is exactly that…what could possibly be causing Patty to behave so hatefully?

Teenage pregnancy. Hormones are making her nuts.

Obviously.

Except…not pregnant. It’s just your maybe conjoined twin that you “absorbed” during pregnancy. Yup, she’s such a Fatty Patty that she ate her sibling in utero. This storyline progresses – or devolves into demon possession.

Luckily, the minister’s son – also the erstwhile father to Patty’s baby that isn’t – is there to guide her on a path to controlling the demon within her.

Ok

The last shark that I want to mention – but certainly not even the last in this school of sharks – is the adversarial relationship between the two lawyers/beauty pageant coaches. They loathe one another. The perfectly manicured fey attorney and the shirt off at every opportunity jock district attorney are constantly sabotaging one another and somehow unable to avoid each other on a daily basis.

Yup.

Gay.

But because that’s not a crazy enough scenario, while the district attorney seamlessly divorces his wife our fey lawyer can’t bear to live without his wife, even after Patty our the two lawyers.

The only solution?

Thruple.

Seriously, this is a small town that needs more people to carry these crazy storylines. And I haven’t even mentioned them all. In 12 episodes, these writers serve up a real dog’s breakfast of topical social issues. All of the above, obviously, but also addiction/AA, interracial marriage, app or “swipe” culture, lesbians, stalking, drag queens, drugs, kidnapping…why not top it all off with murder and then – y’know – cover it up.

All of these sharky threads weave into a story that is just chockablock full of my least favorite character trait in America today:

It’s better to look good than to be good.

I’ve been railing against that for almost two decades now, and it hasn’t gotten better. As a matter of fact, I’d say it’s gotten worse by magnitudes. When I first started getting grumpy, we didn’t have a swipe culture. Kardashians were just some celebrity lawyer’s estranged kids.

As time has gone on for me, I’ve accepted that our society seems to be on a non-stop trajectory toward selfishness and a “me culture” that makes the 80s look like a friggin’ nursery. In observing that, I’ve also had to accept that by vocalizing my discontent, I’m gonna be the Patty. Luckily for me, that manifests in accepting that I’m just a grump and I can make that into an enjoyable sur-reality.

Unfortunately for Patty, while she’s trying to find her way past all the blame her town has put on her and embrace that inside she’s a good person, she snaps. While her bad boy stalker boyfriend is trying to nudge her into the bad girl counterpart he wants her to be – dragging her down to his level – her conflicted and tormented self absolutely snaps and while crying “I’m a good person” over and over again, she beats him to death with a tire iron.

Let’s go back now tow what I told you to remember.

In the first episode, Patty is a smart kid. She’s smart enough to know what she doesn’t want, which is the inane pursuit of popularity and celebrity based on looks. She knows she doesn’t want to be that person.

Before that episode ends, she’s folded and uttered the fateful words, “I’d rather have revenge” that take her down an 11-episode arc to her undoing and de-evolution into a murderess.

As a viewer, I can accept that first episode arc. It sets up a season of redemption. How does Patty get through the new adversities associated with beauty, which she’d never had to manage before, to return to the smart girl she was at the beginning of the story who is now fortunate enough to have outsides that match her insides?

How?

It’s totally do-able.

For whatever reason, though, that’s not what was done. We’re left to watch Patty go from being an Ugly Duckling on the outside with a beautiful heart to the polar opposite…a beauty queen that’s a psychopath on the inside.

Is that the takeaway we should settle for and accept? I’m doing so, aren’t we all just Patty?

Wouldn’t we watch a show where someone learns to navigate newfound celebrity with their original intelligence and integrity intact?

Apparently, this show’s producers – and Netflix – think that we wouldn’t. They even seem to go one step further, making popular, beautiful people into unaccountable victims of their own good fortune…because that’s a reflection of itself that society can embrace.

Which is why I walked away from Insatiable asking myself

I gotta get a job…

I Might Be Insatiable

Too Dumb To Function

I was watching a lil Anderson Cooper this morning while disabling my ability to get out of bed. It was only a seven minute video – and I was waiting on a response from the Silver Fox, re: coffee.

Andy’s video was titled Tower of Lies.

Guess what it was about?

Go ahead, I’ll wait while you wrack your brain.

Ok, fine. It was about our Idiot in Chief. Well, Idiot, Jr at any rate. Specifically, Andy was describing the story arc of the Tower of Lies surrounding Jr’s 2016 Russian meeting at Trump Tower.

First, there wasn’t a meeting.

Then, there was a meeting, but it was about adoptions.

Next up, it was a meeting about dirt on Hilz…but they didn’t deliver any dirt, so it’s ok.

Ok

That’s just Jr, too! His idiot father had his own story arc that was basically the penthouse in this Tower of Lies.

Don’t forget the servant’s quarters in the Tower, though. Getting drawn in to their own arc were each of their legal teams and Fuckabee Slanders to either spread and validate their lies or demonstrate that they were also lied to.

Almost like they were fluffing the lie filled pillows for their guests in the Tower of Lies.

There, there…see how easy it is to get comfortable on top of this bed of lies?

“Hold up…I thought it was a pillow!” – Idiot Supporters

Oh, yes…certainly! But when you think of it, a mattress is really just a really big pillow!

“But wouldn’t it take really big lies to fill an entire mattress with lies?”

Ssshhhh, ssshhhh. There, there. MAGA.

Anyway, my story arc while watching Anderson Cooper try to intelligently describe such a mind-bendingly stupid situation was a tight gamut.

How stupid are these people to think we won’t see through this?!?

How stupid are the people that get paid to back this shit up?!?

Are the people that voted for him stupid enough to continue…oh, yes, yes they are.

Getting out of bed, my thought was, “These idiots are just too dumb to function.” – at least, I don’t think I said it out loud.

Anyway.

I’m tired. Stayed up til midnight watching Lord of the Rings and woke up tired at 6:30. The Fox has since indicated he’s out for our regular coffee date, so I’m debating going solo as I step into the shower.

I wash.

Get out, dry.

Dress in the tee and undies I’ve carried into the bathroom.

Play with Myrtle.

Feed the murderous feline.

Take my vitamins and then check the fridge for at home coffee alternatives.

“Out to coffee it is, then”, I say to Myrtle, closing the fridge.

I go to the couch to put on my sneakers. At the door, I pick up my keys and wallet…realizing at that point that I’d never put my shorts on!

Who’s too dumb to function now, Galbs?

Still chuckling after donning my shorts – and on my third attempt to leave the house after forgetting my phone – I decided that maybe Too Dumb To Function should be an irregular series on my blog. I like the Mean Girls riff on the “Too gay to function” line, so the series title has a good natured origin.

Being the responsible and good sport that I am, it seemed only fitting that my inaugural TDTF entry should star my own dumbness.

And to think, when I went to bed last night trying to organize my day between my coffee, blogging, spin and job hunt responsibilities…I had no idea what inspiration I would find in the morning before even getting out of bed. My intent was to blog about my Washington Park excursion yesterday.

Look what the universe had in store for me instead!

Too Dumb To Function

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.

TIL 7: Early Bird Special

It was coming on to 3 AM when I started this Blog Post several weeks ago. I had realized that my 50 year every day experience is defying the stereotypes that I grew up with.

Well, beginning to…

I thought I had it figured out. I am by no means ready to start joining the elders’ dinner at 4 PM, frankly the reasoning there eludes me.

Here’s why: no, wait…here’s why not.

The older I get, the less time I want to spend in a crowded bar, late at night, struggling to hear what people are trying to say to me. Likewise, I’m not dying to face the struggle of functioning within normal parameters the next morning.

So, I get it!

I traded in my dance shoes for a Happy Hour menu and I couldn’t be more satisfied.

I stop off – when I’m working – on my way home for a drink or two to wash the day down and I’m likely home by 6:00 for Mistress Myrtle’s dinner time. Occasionally, I’m late, but generally have her settled by 7:00.

Other times, like when I’m not working, the Silver Fox and I might head out for a beer or glass of wine around 3:00. Still others, well grab a bottle of wine and head to his rooftop in the late afternoon for some RNR – Rose oN the Roof.

The key here is that the evenings socializing is generally wrapped up well before any young ‘uns would even consider beginning their pre-funk.

Sidebar: when I was a kid, we wanted to get to the bars around 10:00, maybe a little earlier depending on how broke we were and when they started charging cover. Nowadays, the pre-funk seems to start around 10:00 with 11:00 being the target barrival time. I’ve got one younger friend – one of my Bachelors – who doesn’t even seem to plan anything for a Saturday night until around 10:00. That manifest as a Facebook post along the lines of “Anyone going out tonight?”

Kids.

Nevertheless, I figure that I’m figuring this whole early bird thing out in true TIL style.

Except

I can’t quite reconcile the eating dinner at 4:00 PM thing.

Lately, The Fox and I have both kind of changed our eating habits. Occasionally, well grab a breakfast sandwich at coffee, but more often than not, we both seem to be pushing through to lunch around noon or 1:00. Then we might have something at HH or go to our respective homes after for a post-happy meal.

Even more recently, I’ve found myself powering through to about 3:00 – after a handful of almonds or dried mango in the morning – and then eating one big meal for the day.

Oddly, I’ve gained about 15 lbs in the last few months.

Hint: It’s the beer! Don’t tell me, though, let it be a surprise.

Anyway, I’m almost into the Early Bird routine, but just not quite nailing it. It’s a bummer, too, since it would be nice to include my parents in these adventures and still have them be able to get home before dark.

However, something about the whole concept has been bugging me. Here in the Pearl District, we’ve a bevy of boutique-y restaurants. Walking in for dinner around 4:00 might give you a slight Happy Hour crowd in a bar, but in a real restaurant it’s still largely a pretty solitary dining room. Needless to say, Portland – or any urban area – would probably never successfully claim to be the birthplace of the Early Bird special.

My money here would be on someplace like Clearwater, Florida. I’ve lived there…trust me.

Regardless of where it started, it spread pretty quickly. Likely due to both local restaurant competition but also a slightly viral nationwide spread from snowbirds taking the practice back home with them to middle America in the off season.

And you can bet that it was quick casual or cafeteria style chains that nurtured this Early Bird dinner phenomenon.

Ruby’s, Sayler’s, Sizzler (RIP), Old Country Buffet, Cracker Barrel…probably some Applebee’s, Olive Garden and Cheesecake Factory type joints, too, could probably all be relied upon to have some sort of Early Bird menu or well known and heavily trafficked seniors discount.

But like I mentioned, that seems counter intuitive to me.

Assuming for the moment that I’m – ahem – normal in going out early in an effort to avoid crowds.

These chain style restaurants are going to be packed early with seniors taking the marketing bait…that seems like something that would irritate me. Sure, I’ll get my own table and no worries there, but if the kitchen is overwhelmed by a generally crowded dining room?

Well, some poor server is going to be dealing with a specifically grumpy Xtopher.

Clearly, I still have a few lessons to master before I can claim to fully understand the brilliance of the Early Bird routine. But between the Silver Fox and my parents, I’ve got some good resources – and reasons – to figure it out.

Well, them and the cast of Grace & Frankie, so

Okay?!?

Plus, I’m really more of a Grace-type, anyway.

So what’s the hurry?

TIL 7: Early Bird Special