Three Act Plays

That’s what they all are, right?

Plays.

Three acts is the norm. Sure Billy S did some shit back in the day. Then there was the occasional epic endeavor, like Angels In America, that had so many kicks to the heart balls to deliver that it needed to be broken up into two three act plays.

But overall, three gets the job done. Two, and people feel blessedly cheated. Four, and no one likes you.

Plus, there’s the whole “I can nap at home for free” chestnut among reluctant theater-goers. Four acts seems less like a nap than an entire damn night of sleep.

At least for my nearing-geriatric sleep patterns.

Why is this on my mind tonight?

Well, I just poured my third glass of wine. Emptying the bottle.

Heavy pour.

But it is in deference to a Silver Nugget – a phrase coined by Little Buddy about the secrets people started sharing with me when I turned 50. She – Little Buddy – is not yet 50, but enjoyed my sharing of privileged information here on this blog, and felt compelled to come up with a name for these aged secrets.

Being the Little Buddy that she is, this process involved an evolving train of thought on a text thread.

It was impressive, and I know I’ve failed to retrieve the best of her efforts from the impenetrable vault that is my memory. The fallout is mine to deal with.

The Silver Nugget in question came from my sister, who was not yet 50 at the time of this nugget’s disclosure. It was more of a hybrid wisdom: things of a life hack nature combined with parenting perks.

In this case, it was my sister pulling the epically resonating parental sacrifice offset of having my tween nephew refill her wine glass for her. He comes back into the room heeltoeing his way to her throne chair in order to avoid spilling anything from a glass that was filled so full, its meniscus existed only on a theoretical plane.

Being a highly decorated and multi-faceted snob, I had to make mention of the situation. It was also helpful – and I credit my Catholic upbringing for this skill – in deflecting my own uninhibited imbibing. An ongoing situation – clearly – for another time.

Being a mother, my sister coolly spared my judgment a total of zero fucks and set me straight.

“Why waste the trip?”

Fair point, but my snobbery was feeling robbed of a Karen moment.

Being in high end kitchen retail for several of my career years, I knew things.

I knew that a bottle of wine held five pours.

I knew that a proper pour was five ounces.

And I knew that wine glasses came in varietal sizes, designed to enhance the drinking experience by combining the sinuses and the palate for an optimal flavor experience. Overfilling the glass defeated these design endeavors.

Adding a total of zero additional fucks after hearing my objections, for a total of…<carry the none>…yes, zero actual fucks, my sister completely poo-pooed my criticism of her life choices.

I now know that was a mom life hack.

And now embrace it.

On a Monday morning, approaching 2 A.M.

And as I watch crappy movies from the earliest of aughts featuring the best of actors, I find myself wondering if I’m enjoying my wine in three acts better than these movies in their own three act efforts.

I think I am…but now I’m on my last glass and still have an hour and a half of Under Suspicion left to go. I think I should have made sure to have some backup spiked seltzers for this crisis.

Here’s one of Little Buddy’s bronze nuggets – which evolved during a fit of pandemic drinking: anything under 5% ABV is hydration.

So my spiked seltzer backup is…health food.

Technically?

Don’t argue with your elders.

Three Act Plays

My Brush With Royalty

Rock royalty.

Portland rock royalty.

There I was last night, driving around and minding my own business in Milwaukie, a close-in Portland suburb. Mostly, this manifested as trying to figure out whether I should shut my app off so I can stop incoming rides briefly to set it to “home” mode. It was around 5 PM on a rainy Friday afternoon, so the ride bonuses in Portland were crazy.

For instance, I made almost $50 on my first three rides in the first hour on the road. You can see how those ride bonuses dropped on that last pick up outside the city core.

Yes, get me back to town, please.

Plus, that $2.50 bonus was a round trip ride to the liquor store for a guy who met me at the end of his driveway – which I love – only to mime “Do you have an extra mask?” from where he stood as I pulled up. Then, once he’s gotten one, climbs in grumbling about how “It’s not like these do anything, anyway” before careening into “The old man was killing him”, referring to Biden – neither of which I love right out of the gate in a ride. I managed to steer him into a conversational area he was better qualified to have an opinion on: sports.

Stupid American.

I’m sure that explains why I was debating getting back toward the city. That’s when this ride came in.

Now, Zia is not a common name. I’ve known one in my entire life, a former employee here in town. I pulled the picture up to see if it was her, and, well…wrong race.

However, I thought this rider skewed age and race wise toward being the only other Zia I could think of, who I certainly didn’t know, but whose early musical career I was well aware of, the Dandy Warhols.

The Dandys are a local band with one song most people will know – Bohemian Like You – and who I’ve been lucky enough to come across a couple times back when I stumbled into music venues around town in the 90s. Zia stood out among the band because she usually could be counted on to pull her shirt up at some point during a show.

That leaves an impression, even on a late-20s gay boy.

I mentally start discarding conversational riffs based off that song – “I’ve got a great car”, “Do you like vegan food”, “Did I see some guy sleeping on the couch? Is he always there? Why’s he looking kind of ‘meh’?”

Stupid stuff. – that I’d never actually say!

More likely, I’d try to get a heads up on her current band’s upcoming gigs. She’s got several projects going on these days and one of them – Brush Prairies, I think – has been doing shows at small venues, like the Dandys used to.

Also, I could pin her down on which member owned a wine bar here in my neighborhood and where it was actually located. Rumor vaguely has it that it’s over on/around Pettygrove & 14th but the place over there I’ve seen isn’t that impressive. But it’s open hours certainly suggest it operates on a rock and roll vibe, aka: it’s open or not on a whim. More specific rumor has it that it’s a place called Le Happy.

Cute, right? It’s at Lovejoy & 16th, so about half as much closer than the other place, but…

Permanently closed?!?

Even if this wasn’t that bar, it’s sad. Such a cute lil joint. I hope the building doesn’t get torn down in Portland’s growth/building boom.

Anyway, in real time, I was pulling up her name on Google to get a current pic.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

It was her!

OMGOMGOMG.

Be cool.

I pull into this driveway that’s on the backstreet of a side street behind a school in Milwaukie. The remoteness says “privacy” while the overgrown disrepair of a once well-tended yard says “recluse”.

“Damn, Zia, I know having four band projects going has to be a lot…but get it together!”

Then a college-aged kid walks out.

“Well, that’s not Zia…”

He’s got a cute mix of nerd and emo looks going, so I also tell myself to keep my eyes on the road. 🤦🏽

We’ve got a long ride ahead of us into Portland – thank you, Lyft app! – so I start off with some small talk about what’s up.

Turns out, he took a bus into town to hang out with his friend – a female friend, not a girlfriend 😈 – but he went to the wrong house. I comment that this girl has the right kind of problems…too many houses, and he clarifies that he went to her dad’s house (ok, so it’s a “depression vibe” in the yard, not “recluse”, got it) instead of her mom’s so mom was getting him a ride to the right place.

Cool mom.

AND IT WAS ZIA MCCABE!!!

Anyway, that was as close as my brush with rock royalty came. Well, that and maybe she was shuffling things around on the porch when I pulled up. And that I low-key know where she lives, but I’m not creepy, so that knowledge is just a little “I know stuff other people don’t” thrill.

But I still need to catch a random show of hers one of these days. Oh, and she’s a realtor, too, so that’s bad news for my realtor neighbor who lives in the building I want to eventually buy in…because I am Le Happy to be that kind of creepy.

Hey, it’s not like she wouldn’t get something out of that transaction, and The Gays are nothing if not transactional.

My Brush With Royalty

TIL #12: I Needed A Distraction…

Bless your heart if you wondered from what.

Unrelated question: What are comas like? I’ve always wondered.

After this past Wednesday, I’m happy to report that my new TV survived my watching the news of the Right-Wing Extremists storming our nation’s capitol building. I didn’t even break my phone reading follow-up news pieces or reading conservative blogs on it.

But, I needed some detox and self-care to return myself to an emotional balance.

So I cooked.

It’s something I’m loathe to do for myself, mostly because it’s so wasteful. You see, I hate most leftovers. Living alone makes cooking problematic. Either I eat too much or I toss perfectly good food once it spoils.

My fridge is kind of like the Island of Misfit Meals or a Leftovers Hospice.

Needless to say, this cooking indulgence had to be strategic.

I’m not entirely sure this solution qualifies as strategic, I’ll at least call it symbolic. While shopping for grocery staples the other day, I decided to take advantage of a sale on 3 lb chubs of ground beef.

Normally when I use ground beef in a meal, it’s a pound at a time. But I’ll usually only eat meat once or twice a week. That made my splurge on 6 lbs at once…daunting.

But it was a really good deal at $3/lb versus the normal $5-6. (I’m sure any international readers will find my use of empirical units…quaint) I knew exactly what I was going to do with it, too.

Freeze it.

Shocking, right?

However, last year I’d read a hot tip in Bon Appetit magazine – before their BLM implosion – that I’d been wanting to try. One of their food writers – I think it was Carla Lalli Music, who I’ve always loved reading…I mean, just that name! – suggested it.

Cook up 1 lb batches of ground beef and freeze them. Then when a recipe calls for it, it will thaw and reheat in the pan as you prepare the meal. Saves time and dish washing over the course of your mid-week cooking.

She freezes hers flat and in freezer bags, of which I have none. I do, however, have these great reusable take out bowls that I used to take the precious few leftovers I will deign to consume to work in for my lunches.

Alas, here I am with no work that has an associated associate break room these days.

Time to repurpose!

So, in two batches, I cooked up my chubs.

For each batch, I made two 1 lb doses to freeze and then used the third 1/3 of my chub to make a meal.

Important side note: let your meat cool before covering and freezing it. You don’t want to inadvertently create a bacteria growing environment in your containers!

Recreational side note: if you’re more of a meal planner or disciplined eater than I am, you can even coon these up with taco, Italian or what-have-you seasonings and be that much further ahead.

So simple. Look at me, I’m a fucking Heloise knock-off over here. Honestly, the biggest challenge was keeping Myrtle away from it while it cooled.

My biggest regret was that what drew my attention initially was the chubs marked with those “Manager Special” stickers. They were marked down to $2.79 for the entire 3 lb chub! Sadly, they were the 80% lean ground beef and this physique I inhabit needs 20% fat like I need a second term of Trump. But, since the 93% lean was still a really good deal, I went for it.

Ok, in all honesty, I misread the sign. It said $2.99 and I thought, “Hells yeah, I’m getting that one!” without realizing it had some small print noting “per lb” until I was at the U-Scan. Like I said, though, still a good deal, so I went ahead and bought it. Plus, I’ve been wanting to try this tip for the longest time.

What can I say? The remaining items on my Bucket List just aren’t that exciting, so this is what you get.

TIL #12: I Needed A Distraction…

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Maybe this isn’t a Today I Learned so much as it is a Today I Figured Something Out. Yet another thing you old bastards have been keeping from me!

Y’know, those little a-ha! moments. They really are fewer and further between than I’d have figured as a know-it-all kid. As a matter of fact, surrounded as I find myself by such stupid Americans, I’m surprised that there isn’t much more fanfare when it does happen.

Note to self: throw mental parade next time this happens, you earned it.

Like that time I finally got why it’s called a blow job. I’d simply been looking at it from the wrong <ahem> perspective.

Those types of a-ha moments. Or in that particular case, “ah-ah-aaaahhh-ha” moments.

Well, today…there I was, underthinking things when another one* hit me.

When I’m in a funk and spiraling downward, my older and wiser (just ask them, they’ll tell you) friends will tell me

It’s not that bad!

and I’ve always considered those to be words of encouragement. But as another deluge of Headlines-turned-Cautionary-Tales washed over me this morning, it hit me.

A-ha!

They must surely have been silently adding a word in order to not give away the surprise.

It’s not (only) that bad!

It’s worse.

Just wait.

Much, much…worse.

It’s funny, too. As I’ve been aging – involuntarily, obviously – I’ve found myself warning younger people. When they say something that I know (now) to be naive, I’ll whisper conspiratorially

Listen, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but…

I figure it’s safe, knowing that they likely stopped listening to me when I said the word “listen”, because what could I possibly know, right?

On the other hand, sometimes I like to co-opt my old frenemy Dan Savage’s lil chestnut of wisdom and just push people down a little harder when they say something naive

It gets worse

I really like that one, since I think I mentioned people don’t really listen anyway. I just get my lil chuckle either way. Either because I can tell they didn’t listen and heard what they assumed they would hear or they did hear and…that look!

I don’t give away the surprise. I just leave the warning hanging there, sagely. However, when it finally does happen, I then get to say

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya

I’m just kidding. I don’t really do that.

Oops. Look at me…leaving words out, just like the grumpy old man that I am.

That should have said

I’m (mostly) just kidding

I do say those things, but just for fun.

My fun.

But since I’m old people humor me because I might be dangerous, we all get a good – if not awkward – chuckle.

The reality is that I turn my hyperbole on myself.

For.

Instance.

In the last couple weeks, a couple of my original blog buddies have poked their cute little heads back into the WordPress arena. It’s good to see old friends familiar avatars around this dusty old joint again.

In one of their returns – via comments on one of my blog posts and their blogosphere re-entry blog entry – we discussed the states of affair in his life.

Turns out he’s been having one lately. Or at least a low-key dating experience.

Graduated college.

Job searching.

Put on his – and this turn of phrase of his made me jealous because it’s really funny – COVID-15. But it’s ok, he says, because his beau likes him just the way he is.

Funny. When Myrt barfs on the floor, I clean it up. However, today I also learned that when I barf on the floor…I also clean it up.

Luckily, it was imaginary puke.

Anyway, in one of those moments of self-directed wry hyperbole – dryperbole? Chrisism – I thought to myself

Yeah, yeah…we get it – you’ve got a boyfriend

in faux exasperation – because secretly I’m a big emotional schmuck and it makes me happy when people begin relating.

But I went on to have this whole follow up conversation in my head

Some people just keep these things to themselves instead of blabbing them all over town

I said to myself.

For instance,

I said, mentally touching my pearls.

I like to keep these things to myself when I like a boy. I find that as soon as someone finds out they’re my boyfriend – pffft! – they’re gone.

Meh, wudyagundo – in my head I’m both my worst enemy and my best audience. It’s a bit crowded up there.

But I get a good chuckle out of that.

Anyway, if you ever find me letting hyperbole that you think should probably be silent out for a stroll, don’t be offended…try and enjoy it.

Because it’s probably gonna end up being right.

Yeah, I’m Ouisa.

*I’d just like to clarify, the whole blow job a-ha moment was back before the turn of the century…not recently.

TIL #11: Hyperbole

Point Galby

I mean, point taken.

The Silver Fox pointed out after my post this morning that it’s the first time I’ve posted since he abandoned me – er, left on his six week vacation back on September 16th.

He didn’t specify the year, but it seems like about a decade since he left.

Between that and this insane grind I’ve been on since around the end of July, my routine has been pretty erratic. Hell, even my self care has been off.

Side note: I’ve got to figure out a way to reference these jobs I’m doing in a shorthand format. It’s crazy trying to keep them straight in my own mind. I can’t imagine it’s any easier reading them without much context.

For ease of reading – I hope – I think I’ll refer to them by number, in the chronological order in which they came to me:

Job 1: writing.

Job 2: Peterson’s, aka – the convenience store. Surprisingly not the worst paying at Oregon’s minimum wage of $12.50/hr…see Job 1.

Job 3: the temp HR job, which is looking pretty good for the temp-to-hire scenario.

Job 4: Lyft, aka – The Verb.

Job 5: Postmates.

Side note, squared: I’ve got to divest myself of a job or two. The thing is, I tried resigning from Job 2 three weeks ago and it was somehow rejected. There was a deal that lasted a week until I got a “Can you pick up an extra day?” Luckily, that ended up being unnecessary, but I’ll admit that I’m passively trying to get fired now by actively disobeying a rule here or there.

So far, no dice.

Anyway, to address the Silver Fox’s point, I have begun doing little mini-workouts over the last few weeks at home. Just two or three times a week, nothing major. There’s a draft called Post in my pipeline that kind of elaborates on that and my In Living Color Jamaican Skit worthy number of jobs…but I started it as part of that game I mentioned playing earlier today. Alas, I “lost” that round and got a ride before I finished it.

So, today I had ended up with a draw in The Game – finished the blog entry after failing my initial mission to retrieve my laptop.

Made $100 in three hours, so let’s really acknowledge that this was a win.

To honor The Fox, I took my self-care up a notch. I addressed the brown thumb situation that is my balcony pot garden.

Calm down, mother. The other kind of pot.

What a friggin’ mess. Such a waste of a summer planting opportunity. As a matter of fact, I’d go as far to say that the only plant out there was Ollie the Olive Tree. The Hens & Chicks and the sedum in the second pic are barely clinging to life and everything else that could be considered as plant life has pulled a Carol Anne and walked toward the damn light.

To that end, I took my hun from this morning and parlayed some of it into a few plants. Honestly, I’d been thinking about it since this morning. My second ride was to drop a guy off at his car, which was parked at the Home Depot.

Ok, here’s how driving frequently goes – and I’ll be honest, the cyclical/coincidental nature makes me question whether the Universe is putting signs in front of me…

Ride 1: dropped Sweatpant Guy at the airport.

Ride 2: took a guy back to his aforementioned car parked at the Home Depot by the airport.

At this point, I start to think,

Aight. It’s gonna be an airport-type day.

Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Especially on a Saturday, when the traffic isn’t bad. The run only takes 20 minutes and if you get tipped, it’s about a $20 journey.

But then nothing happens.

I had made a comment to my second passenger that maybe I should look at some plants while I was there, but didn’t feel like dropping money on plants at that point. I play The Game all the way across town to the office of Job 3, pick up my laptop and had just stashed it in the back of Pat the Patriot when I get a ping.

From two blocks away.

Which brings us to…

Ride 3: I drop off a young lady at work. She works at Ross on Jantzen Beach – which just so happened to have relocated to the building of a Linens ‘N Things that I used to manage before that company went out of business (no causal relationship, I assure you).

There is also a Home Depot right there. I drive by the Home Depot on the way back to the freeway, but a slow walker crossing the parking lot on The Diagonal pissed me off and I felt like my ire might be toxic to the plants, so I kept driving.

Normally, I’d respect The Diagonal, except: slow walker. And you know when someone sees you and knows they’re pulling a dick move, so I got away from that Bozo.

I’m back on the 5 heading into town, and I start to see tail lights. I decide to get off – of the freeway, Diezel, calm down – and head the rest of the way into town on surface streets. I kinda think it’s hard to get a ping on the freeway, too. It happens, but I’m not crazy about it when it does.

Sure enough, I get a couple blocks and I get a ping.

Back to Jantzen Beach.

Ok, maybe this is the type of day it’s really going to be. Getting yo-yoed all over kingdom come.

Back to the beach I go.

Ride 4: This guy wants to go from Jantzen Beach – as far north in Portland as you can go before hitting the dreaded Vantucky – to Hillsboro. Hillsboro is west of Portland city limits.

About 30 miles west.

Allons-y!

It was a $30 trip, so I’m not complaining.

Turns out, he’s picking up his car, too.

What the fuckity-fuck are you trying to tell me, Universe?!?

Assuming the two Home Depot adjacent trips and the two Fetch the Car trips cancel each other out, I begin to wonder is maybe it’s a Hot Guy Day and maybe the Universe is telling me to get laid.

Since I’m old and fell in love with a rider yesterday – another story – I decide it’s not worth the effort. Plus, I kinda buried the lede earlier…you know what I ended up doing.

I’m actually curious why you’re still here since I ruined the surprise! Hehe.

Then The Fox sends me a message on WhatsApp from Italy about finally posting while he’s gone – which I’m now realizing was a perfect chance for me to ask if he took my book with him if he misses my writing so much, damnit! I hate missing a chance to mess with that man.

Anyway, I went and used my Driving For Dollars money and bought some plants.

Still some empty pots, but it’s a start! And Ollie looks much happier with some friends.

You’re welcome, Neighbors and Hotel Guests!

Point Galby

TIL #10: Bufferin

They should just market this as a people repellant.

Because, people – me, at any rate – need a buffer.

Yeah, don’t kid yourself, Today I (didn’t) Learned…why they call this Bufferin. Although, the bros that just walked into the Arthouse Cafe – f&b was renamed and rebranded to compliment the neighborhood a bit better.

Complete with street art!

Anyway, these bros order food and then execute my trending pet peeve:

Taking the seat closest to me in an empty space!

It’s truly annoying. You’d think my favorite part of this shituation would be that they both started playing videos on their phones.

I mean, why even go out to eat together?!?

But, I noticed they were sports videos, even those these two were obviously gay for each other. Maybe the videos provided distraction enough to keep them from soberly blurting out

I love you, man!

Whatever. I don’t care.

No, the most annoying part of this wordless bromantic breakfast was the gift of allowing me to watch them tossing food into their never-closing mouths and then grind it up before sending it on its way to the poop chute.

So gross.

Therefore, since I’m not being given my people buffer and there sadly is no pill to rectify that, I’m going to distract you with a story. This happened a few weeks ago while I was working, and since my lil PT gig provides me with an opportunity to interact with people and is decidedly unchallenging, I exploit the opportunity to my maximum amusement.

In this case, it involves taking another pet peeve and making up a fact around it.

Of course, the story starts with a cute guy.

Goes without saying for this ho without a laying? Right?

He was tragically buying smokes and looked under 30, so I carded him. He whips out an out of state ID and I ask if he’s visiting.

No, I’m practically a native, I’ve lived here so long!

Me:

What? Oh, wait…are you a native? How long do I have to live here before I can call myself a native?

Me:

Stop saying “native”.

Indigenous?

Ok, that made me chuckle.

I went on to tell him that natives don’t call themselves native, they call themselves SNOBs – Society of Native Oregon Born.

It’s a thing, but I was vamping, we call ourselves natives all of the time. But he was enjoying my schtick, so I kept playing.

So, how long until I can be a SNOB?

Me:

Never.

That’s what I was afraid of.

Me:

Wah-wah. Look, here’s the deal, being an Oregonian isn’t about time served.

It isn’t?

Such wonder and naïveté.

Uh-dorable.

Me:

No, it’s fucking Oregon, not a prison sentence.

More laughing, which I take as him begging me to slide deeper into – er…keep going.

Me:

Being an Oregonian is about how one drives.

Trick question! You cycle, right?

Me:

Yes, but no.

Kinda dying over here…

Me:

Alright, alright. Simmer down. It’s how you drive. Specifically, relative to pedestrians.

Oh, really? Wait, wait…the whole “No, you go” thing, right?!?

Me:

Partial Credit. That’s the filtering device.

So, transplants see someone at a crosswalk – maybe they see them, pedestrians might not even register to out of towners – and just whiz on by. “Watch out, poor people, I have an automobile!”

But SNOBs stop!

Me:

Of course, but more importantly, we stop correctly.

Because there’s a right way.

Me:

Yes! This is the difference between a self-proclaimed Native and a SNOB.

Natives fall all over themselves making a show of stopping. Standing on the brake and laying down 10 feet of rubber at the last minute, if need be.

SNOBs understand that crosswalks always exist, even if you can’t see a person nearby, and are ready to stop.

Seems like an arbitrary differentiator…

Me:

Does it? Ask the car waiting to cross traffic from the side street while the native driver idles in the intersection in a dissipating cloud of stinky blue tire smoke.

Damnit! I see that all the time!

Me:

There ya go.

Ok, the gay bros left.

Thank you for allowing me to distract myself!

TIL #10: Bufferin

TIL #9: Picking Your Battles

Having a strategy is a good thing. It sure beats careening around from one day to the next. But I’m not talking about those long game strategies: school, career, relationships, kids…picket fences along the way as you will.

No, I’m talking about those short game strategies that ice your life cake.

Think of these smaller strategies as if they are putting in a game of golf. You may get on the green in three on a par 5 hole, but if your short game is weak – or worse yet, sucks – you’ll be lucky to make it off the green with a par, probably a bogie.

But if you’ve got a good short game, maybe you come in with an eagle, at 1 under.

Now, Oldie Hawns have been openly indulging in this short strategy for decades – much to the enjoyment of more recent generations.

Namely, the early bird special. Dinner at 4:00? Trading cocktail hour for a food happy hour…that’s a good strategy. Home in time for a Wheel of Fortune binge before bed time.

Right

See? That’s what we do instead of learn from the professional lifers, we make fun of the situation.

Maybe it’s cute.

Witty.

Maybe they’re sitting there watching Wheel making fun of us stiffs that are still struggling with a homeward commute while they have a Dove Bar for dessert at 6:00. Yeah, who’s the sucker?

But, as most of us are living that Synchronicity nightmare while our shrinking senior citizens are settling up at Old Town Buffet – trapped like lemmings in our shining metal boxes – it’s not a great example of a viable short game strategy, right?

Well, here’s a few better ideas. Some I’ve learned by watching, others by doing, and others by trial and error.

Sidenote: now that I’ve gotten all wound up, each of the ideas I wanted to talk about…<pffft!> Gone. Let’s see if I can mind palace my way to the end of this entry…

Of course, the Silver Fox has inadvertently mentored me. He recently had an unusual experience at the doctors office. He had a 10:00 appointment and figured he’d be home for coffee at around 10:40, not 10:45…10:40. The man has routine down.

Except

His normal routine is to snag the first appointment after the office opens. Of course, because he’s a slave to what I call Fox Time, he’s usually – I imagine – sitting in his car 15 minutes before the doors are unlocked.

His claim: get in and out before they have a chance to fall behind.

I get that, I do. It makes sense…except as a worker bee, I don’t want to get up an hour early so I can go to the doctor before work, I want to build in a short day with an afternoon appointment! If it takes longer than expected, so much the better…I don’t feel so guilty about not going back to work, right?

But here he is, one of my favorite retirees: up and at it early when he has literally all the time in the world.

It is a sound strategy, though. He surprised me by not having an early appointment the other day. When I tried to get to our cafe on Fox Time, it backfired on us both. I sent him a pic of my coffee at 10:45 and he replied that he was still in the waiting room…45 minutes after his appointment time!

Proving his point…

One of my favorite strategies is Thursday night movie releases in DT Portland. Turns out, downtown theaters are empty on a “school” night!

Getting a jump on blockbuster weekends, the studios usually do a 7-ish and 10-ish Thursday night showing. That’s their strategy to boost release weekend ticket sales without cutting all the way back to Wednesday releases, like they used to.

Me, loving large crowds like I don’t, used to wait until Monday or Tuesday after the release and just avoid water coolers until I saw whatever I wanted to see. Now, I can be the first to see a new movie and there’s maybe two dozen people in the theater with me.

Captain Marvel.

Avengers: Endgame

Spiderman: Far From Home

You know where I’ll be on the Thursday night before their official release! It’s worth missing out on half price popcorn Tuesdays.

Hell, who am I kidding? I’ll probably see two shows those weeks…I’d hate to miss a sale.

However, if I were a patient person that didn’t have any hint of FOMO, I’d just wait a few weeks and catch the flick on a Tuesday as it’s box office stay wound down, right? Nah…you know I’ll double dip if it’s any good. I’ll probably see Captain Marvel on Tuesday before I see Avengers; likewise a second fix of Avengers before I get my Peter Parker European Vacation on Thursday.

I tell you one thing, if Marvel didn’t manage a Chevy Chase/Beverly d’Angelo cameo, I will be slightly bummed.

The dwindling crowds at movie theaters as a movie’s run winds down is one thing. I’ve learned through trial and error, though, that the same does not follow for theater.

Closing night/day performances at Portland Center Stage are just packed…definitely not my favorite thing. But theater dates with Little Buddy and JOrtis are my thing, so it’s a tough call.

Nah, it’s not really.

Theater with some of my favorite peeps is a no brainer. Especially when they cry earlier and more than me.

I know that theater is packed because they have a finite run. Movie theaters don’t have a Leaving Soon campaign. Movies will just start showing less frequently, going from a showing every hour to a showing every three hours and then two shows a day…and then <poof!> they are just gone.

And these last play performances really feel different. It’s like the last chance for actors to deliver in these roles and they tend to leave everything on the stage.

Which makes the waterworks with me and my theater compatriots even more dramatic. We joke about having theater scarves to blot our eyes. Maybe we’ve just figured out why scarves are such an accessory at the theater.

Oh, gawd…what if my friends and I are slow?!?

Probably PCS just needs to change the filters in their HVAC system so shit stops blowing in our eyes…

So, what are your strategic life hacks? Sharing is caring…unless it’s an STD, that is.

TIL #9: Picking Your Battles

Today I Learned #13

Flashback Edition

Since I’m procrastinating finishing up a draft or two during my Publish Every Day January initiative, and just killing time before an interview…here’s some food for thought. More like food for grossing you out, but I’m not here to add idioms to our lexicon.

Oh, wait…Chrisisms.

But this isn’t that type of thing.

When I was in college, I guess I learned some things. However, 25 years later, what do I remember? I studied history, yet every time the Silver Fox starts a story with, “You were a History Major…” my mind utterly blanks.

Here’s what I remember from college:

1) 1066. That was the year of the last Norman invasion of England.

2) How to ride a motorcycle. Or, not. Let’s say that I learned that it was not a skill I naturally possessed.

3) Household toilets have a 6 foot spray radius.

Those last two things were both courtesy of one of my college roommates, Cindy.

She was pretty tough. A compact and stout girl a couple years older than me, but that didn’t stop me from calling her Cynthia just to annoy her. Come to think of it, the number of times she put me on the floor for being a wiseacre might have something to do with why I remember so little of what I learned in college.

Also, alcohol.

Anyway, yeah…just remember, water droplets are dispersed into the air every time you do this

without closing your toilet lid.

Cindy was a design major, so she shared this with me when she was studying bathrooms. Ever since, I’ve accepted that I’ve been brushing my teeth with poop in most of the places I’ve lived.

But, you know how I am…my mind doesn’t stop there.

I’m also aware that I store my towels and spare crapping paper on the shelves over my toilet. Even if I closed the lid every time I used the bathroom (I don’t) there’s no way that my guests will.

Basically, I just live with the knowledge that every time I bathe, I’m massaging poo splatter all over my clean body and whenever I use TP to blow my nose, I’m shoving shit into my nostrils.

Probably explains why my nose hair grows so well…fertilizer.

Today I Learned #13

Today I Learned #12

Calculated Risks

I don’t want anyone to mistake this entry for something serious.

Like wine.

I mean, I take wine seriously enough to not abuse it. I mean, waste it…I’m sure anything I do that could be described as wine abuse is actually closer to self-abuse or self-medication, depending on the circumstance.

That said, I feel like we should discuss decanting.

Sidebar: Autocorrect just changed “decanting” into “decaying” and I literally decant even.

Decanting a sure thing bottle is convenient for aerating the wine and opening it up do the acidic notes can mellow versus overwhelming the rest of the flavors when you…sip. So I’ve generally made a habit of decanting a bottle anytime I have company over, but switching to a by-glass aerator if that second bottle tries to get popular.

My logic? Maybe that second bottle doesn’t get finished, right?

What? I’ve heard of that happening…

Here’s what I’ve learned.

Wine is much like friends vs dating later in life.

You get to know the quality peeps in your life that deserve and have earned decanting rights. Then there are the new unknowns that are best taken on a by-glass basis.

As I’ve managed to overcome my desire for a relationship and remain a Singleton this past year, I’ve engaged in a little thought exercise. I examined my urge to open or order what I consider great bottles of wine on a first date. Was I simply indulging my tastes and myself as I did something I’m not super comfortable doing?

Sidenote: Roller Coasters should have wine stands at the beginning of the line.

Or, was I trying to show off?

Ugh.

I’m going to skip over the grisly details. Suffice it to say, hearing an attractive man say that my wine was really good as he leaves are perhaps the least validating final words to hear from someone.

In case that needed to be mentioned.

The last time someone came over for wine in a dating capacity, I legitimately caught myself thinking – as I reached up for my decanter – “Am I prepared to try and switch bottles because ‘This doesn’t taste right, let’s try something else’ if this guy doesn’t seem worth the rest of the bottle?” More importantly, am I cool enough to pull off that switch to a bottle of TJ’s finest?!?

But, like I said, this isn’t a post about wine.

Exclusively

It’s about any variety of risks we take. Moreover, it’s about how our own opinions of those risks change over time. And how we assess and prioritize those opinions.

A fairly blue case study – oh, I should write about Gee sometime – to illustrate my point:

Yesterday, I had a solo lunch date with dad. Mom had gone shopping with my sister and his usual Friday lunch with his own dad was rescheduled for a doctor’s appointment.

Usually when mom, dad and I go to lunch, I can bank on each of them making use of the facility’s facilities. Occasionally it’s all three of us, which affords my dad and I the opportunity for a rather humorous take on what frequently happens at Portland intersections.

Yesterday, as our departure from the restaurant became imminent, I caved and asked dad if he wanted you use the restroom before we left.

He passed.

I raised my eyebrows.

When we got to my place, I asked if he wanted to come up and talk for a while longer. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to more kill time while my mom and sister were out. He said no, so we sat in the car and chatted a while before I got out of the car and chatted more while standing at the door.

When he drove off, I crossed the street, fobbed into my building and then tapped my toe impatiently while waiting for the world’s slowest elevator to return to the main floor.

Then I did a full on pee-pee dance in the elevator as we made our glacial ascent to the building’s fourth floor.

Seriously…it is so slow. I’m tempted right now to go take a ride and count off the “thousands” it takes to climb from the Ground floor to 3. Sadly, I have to meet friends in two hours and nine minutes, so I’m afraid there isn’t time.

By the time we reached my floor, I was straining so hard to keep my bladder sealed that I accidentally let a fart fly.

That felt better!

But I consciously tightened everything up again as I prepared to engage my legs and leave the lift. My concern? Was that just gas or was it a…warning?!?

I farted out a few letters of the alphabet on the way to my door and while I was fumbling to get my door unlocked. Fortunately, neither of the other two residents on my floor chose that time to leave their units!

There I was, sitting victorious upon my throne. The contents of my bladder successfully vanquished, I reflected upon the Battle of the Bladder.

Were my check-ins with dad legitimate concern or projection on my part?

I want to say legitimate concern, since he drives about 35 miles home after he visits.

But the reality was that this was my second elevator dance of the week, so…

Either I need to move to a building with a faster elevator – or, better yet, a turbo lift! – or I need to stop projecting and openly check-in with my own plumbing to calculate risk vs transit time between cans.

So far, I’m not there. I have only gotten as far as calculating the height of a curb as it relates to chances of a fart in my body’s state of misadventures. Maybe it’s time to up that game.

Bet you wished this had only been about wine now, right?

Wine and poop. I’m a real enigma, aren’t I?

Maybe this whole Calculated Risks thing is more about food and drink, now that I think about it. The last example that popped into my head was about coffee. While that folds nicely into the bathroom urgency risk, it’s more about heartburn!

I’ve long maintained that I only need one good cup of coffee to satisfy my craving.

And the occasional need for a jump start.

The end of that saying of mine is that I’ll drink diner coffee all morning and still not feel satisfied. But I will end up with a banger of a case of heartburn. But I understood the risk and how my body worked.

Now, since I haven’t been working, I’ve sat at f&b for a second cup of their cold brew while chatting-ish with the Silver Fox. As my unemployment has dragged on, though, I’ve had to re-examine that habit.

The cold brew at f&b is brewed using the Japanese method for iced coffee.

Cold brew, iced coffee, Japanese iced coffee; three very different things. At least inasmuch as acidity is concerned.

Cold brew has very little acid, meaning I can drink it all day. That it’s made with good, medium roast beans means I really can sip it all day, but feel satisfied after a single cup.

Iced coffee, Japanese brew method or not, medium roast bean or not…has all the regular acidity of coffee.

When I have that second cup, I’m weighing the risk factors. Usually, with The Fox, the calculations come out in his – and mine, by extension – favor. When I’m alone, I’ll stop at one cup, go somewhere else or skip it altogether.

The cost/benefit calculated risk exercise I go through when it comes to the debate over taking a shower and getting presentable just to go out for a cup of coffee are a little…embarrassing.

How about some interaction? Surely, I’m not the only one that does this type of calculating…although, maybe I’m the only one that admits to it.

Tell me in the comments, what are your Calculated Risks?

Today I Learned #12

TIL #8: Coded Language

So, I’m trying to get through January with a post a day. I was challenged – by two followers! – after yesterday’s peek into my mental whirlpool to not cop out. There goes my Joke Monday crutch – er…idea. But I took an inventory in my Draft Hopper and there are 20 posts chilling in limbo there.

This is one of them.

No promises, though, that this is any less of a mental whirlpool. But, as my first year of the second half century of my life closes, maybe it’s time to mothball the Today I Learned theme.

So, here’s the first. We’ll see whether the others end up bearing fruit or going into the WordPress compost!

Several weeks ago, the Silver Fox and I had the good fortune to walk behind a couple of nice looking young men while on our way to see Bohemian Rhapsody.

It’s important to say “walk behind” versus “follow”. I learned that living in SoCal in the 90s.

But this TIL theme isn’t about what I learned ~20 years ago. No, on this particular day I learned something else.

I was reminded that my best friend is a better person than he is a cool person. While we crossed Couch St on Park Ave (I know…) a few blocks from our homes, these nice looking men rounded onto Park a few yards ahead of us.

There was no doubt they were each genetically gifted in their own right. Neither trying too hard in their casual clothes. One shorter and more compact, the other taller and a little more lithe.

As far as generic tastes in men go, I bemusedly noted that there was one each for the The Fox and I to enjoy.

Not that anything besides an appreciative glance was going on here.

Speaking of glances, I glanced over at my dearest friend after a few feet and was met with crazy eyes and Linda Blair caliber above the shoulder happenings.

Apparently, these young men hadn’t escaped his notice, either. I used my inconsiderable power of mental telepathy to send him a message to be cool.

We dropped back a couple paces and laughed at how they had pinged both of our gaydar at the same time. They were coming up on Burnside – the busiest East/West street in the downtown area and the divider between the NW and SW quadrants of town.

We were still talking about them, The Fox was commenting as I did above that there was one of each of our usual tastes. Obviously, I agreed with him, but both were just so easy on the eyes. They actually put off a nice vibe. As we’d passed the door to f&b cafe – our default coffee shop – the one on the inside of the sidewalk had looked to make sure no one was coming out through the door.

Just nice.

Someone raised these guys.

Actually, it’s quite a Sophie’s Choice, eh?

I found myself thinking I really would not mind sitting across from either of these fine young lads on one of my $20 first dates. Of course, we were only a week off of my most recent dating failure, so potential return on a $20 investment was top of mind.

Speaking of guys I wouldn’t mind sitting across the table from, I mentioned we were on our way to see Rami Malek as Freddie, right? The Fox is coming over in a bit to watch the Golden Globes and I’m rooting for this fella.

I had intentionally used obscure words to describe my indecisiveness over which guy I found more appealing between the two of these gents. It struck me that neither of the guys ahead of us were alive when the movie I referenced was released.

Nor had they probably ever had an opportunity to be exposed to it. No matter how well they were raised…

Perhaps my caution to prevent them from realizing we were talking about them was unnecessary, but better safe than sorry. Fortunately, our Sophie’s Choice was just a thought exercise for a couple old men versus something with potential real life trauma as described in the movie/book.

But the occurrence got me thinking about how making generational references was pretty much a coded language, allowing overt subtlety, if that makes sense. I enjoy making statements like “back before the turn of the century” that tend to invite young people to stop paying attention, but using references with a time stamp prior to their birthdate applies some extra security to conversations. Beyond

…ABBA and early Madonna music, I’m not sure guys in their 30s would get 80s pop culture reference. Forget guys in their 20s.

Actually, forget most guys in their 20s knowing anything but Drag Race or “thank u, next” until Miley or whoever drops their next single/video/what-have-you.

Heaven forbid I should refer to someone as a Mary or a Rhoda. Talk about an unbreakable code!

While two decades ago, people would go to the mattresses about whether they were the Mary or the Rhoda, the Patsy or the Edina or the Will, The Grace, the Jack or the Karen of their group; nowadays you’re likely to get a blank stare if you mention it now.

You might get some traction if you call someone a Carrie or a Miranda or a Charlotte or a – what most gays seem to aspire to – Samantha. Sadly, after seeing a friend on the Facebook complain that someone missed a Will & Grace reference – rightfully ending the date early – I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Hell, I’d be impressed to meet an industrious person who would Google an overheard something and then respond appropriately.

Let’s face it, though, being (well) over 30, the Silver Fox and I are both Gay Invisible. I’m sure the other senses of younger gays are not heightened in this particular case if blindness. Add to that shituation that we both have the audacity to exist strictly in reality versus in someone’s phone universe, and I can virtually guarantee our anonymity, regardless of our chosen conversational topic.

But good manners are good manners and if you’re going to engage in potentially unwelcome conversation about someone in your vicinity, a whispered tone and some coded lingo are a nice courtesy.

Plus, The Fox’s whisper is hilariously not quiet.

I get after him about it in the moment, but it always makes me laugh afterward.

As I’ve kicked this around, it’s made me curious about older people I’ve known and whether they engaged in such conversational subterfuge.

Looking at younger generations, I’m not confident that there’s a substance to create a generational code. Again, there’s a great communal enthusiasm for all things RuPaul, Kardashian and pop diva…outside of that all I can think of is “yeet“, which for all my inquiring only makes me want to develop a nuke that targets people who use “yeet” conversationally.

For my part as a former younger person, any time my grandmother brought up her family – whom I’d met only a fraction of and then maybe only once or twice – I considered myself free to do some mental wandering. And just about anytime my grandfather mentioned “bits” I would lose track of the conversation because in my head I was screaming

It’s a quarter or fifty cents, not two-bits or four bits!

For all that internalized resistance, though, now I do the same damn thing. Usually at my aforementioned coffee house where a refill is fourbits.

That’s a very reasonable price for a cup of coffee in this day and age.

Who knows, maybe my attempt at using supposedly coded language when I want my conversation to be semi-private is just my way of having fun with the reality that – regardless of what generation we belong to – we all be a little attention centric toward our particular age group.

But that’s just my two-bits.

TIL #8: Coded Language