Am I allowed to stare, or supposed to?

Today, in the course of doing my job, I met with someone who, aside from the modern rain jacket, looked like he had stepped out of the 1890s.

Round, wire-framed glasses. A bow tie. (Yes, a bow tie. Not cool unless you are 70, or Dr. Who.) And a moustache that twirled into curlicues on the end. (Note: this is the first time in my life I have written/typed the word "curlicue.")

OK, you're thinking he might just be a hipster (he was in his early 20s, is my guess.)

He talked like he was from 1891, too. A pretentious 1891.

"And now, we will go to the aforementioned meeting space."

He used the word "aforementioned" in the next sentence, too. Mind you, nothing was actually aforementioned. I booked the room over email. Afore-typed? Afore-emailed?

Trying to make small talk, because he was otherwise dead silent, I asked him if he had always been in this line of work.

"I had other positions before this, but nothing consequential."

What the fuck? I wanted to look at him and say, "Who the hell TALKS THAT WAY?"

More than anything, I wanted to know what he used to hold the curlicues in place.

Do they make moustache wax these days? Inquiring minds want to know.

I told the volunteer at work about it. She said years ago, she was working with someone who changed his hair color every week to a different hue of neon. Once, she asked him precisely what shade he used.

"That's rude!" snapped another co-worker.

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't want people to notice it," he replied.

Which makes me wonder. Was I allowed to stare at the barbershop quartet moustache?

Or was I supposed to?

Would you have said anything?

The gift that keeps on giving (Note: this is snarky, not sappy.)

As those of you reading this blog prior to this post know, 1) my family lives in California, 2) I recently visited them, and 3) my little brother B loves coffee.

Whenever I visit them or he visits here, part of the drill is going to get coffee out. There are a couple of reasons for this: I can only have a little bit of decaf (which my parents don't have), I don't have a coffee maker (I suppose I could get one, but who am I kidding?), and he likes getting out and about.

So even though his preferred position is on the couch with his laptop or iphone, all I need to say is, "Coffee?" and he's up and ready to go like one of Pavlov's dogs. (B, since I know you're reading this, I will say you are much smarter than said dogs.)

At one point during my visit, we were about to leave when my dad said, "Wait! You can use my gift card. I have a couple and I never use them."

Me: "Hey, isn't this the gift card I got you a few months ago?"
My dad: "Um, yes. But I just don't go to Starbucks."
Me: "What about the other one?"
My dad: "Your brother N sold that one to me. Someone gave it to him."

I start to wonder if it's the gift card I gave N last year as one of his birthday presents. I glance at the card and sure enough, it's one of their "Happy Birthday!" cards. Curious, I sent him an e-mail.

Subject: Regift
Message: Did you sell Pop the Starbucks card I got you for your birthday?

(I haven't heard back...) Now I'm curious who the bigger sucker is: me, having bought a gift card that was then sold, or my dad, having bought a gift card he couldn't use. (But thanks, Pop! It was delicious.)

I bought B a drink and he said, "Thanks...I think."
 
To which I replied, "Hey! I did pay for it, you know. It just wasn't intended for you."

To be fair, my dad is quite generous. He insists on paying for just about everything when I'm there - "You're a guest!" - or he's here - "You're providing the hospitality! You saved me money on a hotel!"

However, this time it was me who gave the gift that kept on giving.

Side note: I spent one of the cards on B, then gave the other one to a volunteer at work. She knows the entire story and thinks it's hilarious. With her sense of humor, she might just give it to me for Christmas.

People are strange

I mean, seriously. Is it only more noticeable when you're on an airplane, and the weirdos seem to come out of the woodwork?

Friday, I went down to California for a few days to visit my family. (No, I did not manage to bring the 65 degrees and sunny back to Oregon. It was 21 when I woke up. It was a whopping 29 when I went out to lunch a few hours later.)

On the way we had what looked to be an entire teenage girls' athletic team (read: tall - I don't know how they fit into this puddlejumper without banging their heads on the top, and loud: are they the last of their generation to refuse to have ipods and keep to themselves?)

The trip back was something else. On my right, someone who clearly thinks the height of style is Belinda Carlisle (hair and all), circa 1983. On my left, the one asshole left talking on his cell phone when the rest of us have shut them off before takeoff.

And why is it that the people who talk the loudest - and want to talk the most - are always the most boring and the most obnoxious?

This guy spends several minutes telling some poor fucker on the other end about how he went on a fishing trip before he got married ("We ate the marlin for the wedding dinner! An eight-foot marlin!") and spent the honeymoon - you guessed it - fishing.

And he spent the entire conversation talking about the kinds of fish he caught and how many.

Meanwhile, his poor (I assume) wife (who else would voluntarily travel with this moron?) is just sitting, staring into space, unfazed.

At least Belinda Carlisle tucks into a book. I hate it when people want to be chatty on planes, because 1) they're usually boring and 2) I'm usually terrified. I hate planes. I hate flying. I especially hate flying on small planes. Our plane had a whopping 40 rows and a bathroom so tiny there was no sink, just a bottle of hand sanitizer. Luckily, I have a small butt, otherwise I might not have made it through the door.

I'm trying not to contemplate the small plane during takeoff, when fishboy leans over and says, "If your car made this noise (that the plane was making), wouldn't you take it back? HAHA!"

I don't laugh. Actually, no one laughs. I pretend I didn't hear him, try to read and not focus on the fact that I think we all might die, and then he spends the next 20 minutes staring at me. When I look up, he looks away. Then he looks back again.

I look out the window, thinking he's looking at the scenery below. It's pitch black.

I should have yelled, "What the fuck is so interesting? I'm not even a marlin!" But you know, we had turbulence and I was once again thinking about not thinking about how the plane could, at any minute, fall out of the sky.

How's your week going?

I can has customer servez? (No.)

I ordered some flowers online for my great aunt's birthday. I had a feeling the order would get fucked up. She lives in bumblefuck Egypt, and I couldn't find a local flower store online, so I ordered through a service.

Guess what? The flowers didn't arrive.

So I called. The phone menu instructed me to send an email...which wasn't answered.

I called again the next day to complain.

Customer service guy: "What probably happened is that they didn't have all of the flowers in stock so they just waited a day."

Um. Seriously? Isn't this what, um, they are supposed to be doing for a living? Isn't that sort of like, say, Taco Bell running out of tacos?

Me: "So it's 1 pm the day after her birthday, and they're still not there. Can you tell me when they're going to arrive?"
Him: "I don't know. They're open until 7."
Me: "Can you let me know what store it is and I can just call them?"
Him: "No, I'd get fired."
Me: "So what am I supposed to do?"
Him: "I can call them."

I wait on hold.

Him: "Apparently they're really busy."

A florist too busy to deliver flowers?

Him: "I can offer you a $40 store  credit."
Me: "On this order?"
Him: "No. On your next one."
Me: "This is my first order with you, and it hasn't even arrived on the right day. Why would I want to order again?"

Eventually they got there, and she was very gracious. But if she didn't live several hours away, I guarantee you someone would have a fork in their ass.

So I'll settle for doing it virtually, for now.

Yes, it's really like Portlandia.

Here's proof. One of the volunteers at work was looking at rooms to rent on Craigslist and she found this (I have deleted the address, email, and websites they're on, sorry if that disappoints any of you.)

My two cents added in italics. 

 

300 Furry, Gay, Kinky Haus of Blue looking for roomate (United States) (If you're going to go for broke, at least learn to spell!)

---

Date:  2013-01-11, 12:08AM PST

---

Ideally, we are seeking a gay male. (Um. For what?)

Around Feb 1st, I have a room for rent in a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom, 2 car garage. fenced back yard and great people in the household. There will be 3 of us that live here when you move in. And one more coming end of this month to possibly feburary. (plus you if you move in). The one moving out is 19 and he is moving in with his new boyfriend.

For (code name here), I'm 37, work 2 jobs and am the one on the lease of the house. I have full permission to sublease with the landlord. ((See below as to details about myself and the others which you may want to know)) (I MAY want to know? After your headline, I'm fucking dying to know.)

The one coming is 21, he will be sleeping in my room as he and I are in a relationship see below for details (Details? Wait for it...he likes to dress up like Fluffy the Bear when we have sex.)

The other two are a straight couple (A guy and his girl) in there 20's. They share a room. (With what? Animal, mineral, or vegetable?)

The spare room would be yours. (As opposed to sleeping with him and Fluffy?) Rest of house is furnished. (That's reassuring.)

I have 2 dogs, they have 2 rats and a cat (which I'm allergic too) preferably no more pets. (Because it's not like we have a zoo or anything.)

Ideally seeking a young gay male who needs a mellow, calm but fun place to lay his head (and your genitals) and just be FULLY comfortable. (Because a zoo full of furries is sooooo laid back!)
This is a NON judgmental household. (No shit, Sherlock.) (see below for details). We are EXTREMELY open minded and open to gay, trans, straight, FtM or MtF, or whatever you maybe into. (Like Care Bears.)

We are IDEALLY (but as of yet, unsuccessfully) seeking, BUT NOT REQUIRED:

A NON smoker (though the female does smoke).
A NON weed smoker, (unless you have your medical card as the guy has his).
A NON felon, (though I am an ex felon)


(In other words, we're a bunch of furries who also happen to be hypocrites!)

REQUIRED:

NO DRUGS
NO ANIMALS
Must Have An Income To Pay Bills And Rent Each Month
Must be openminded and respectful
You pay for and eat your own food
Strickly plantonic. (this is not an ad for sex or trade of houseboy or anything like that)
(And by plantonic, we mean you enjoy having sex with plants, because we're having sex with everything else in the house already. We didn't mean 'platonic.')

The rent is $300 plus portion of ultitlites (divided by how many are living in house for that month) (usually less then $100 a month). There is a Security Deposit, but I'm willing to work with you if needed for up to 2 months to attain it. (Or are willing to dress up as Garfield, and...Oh, let's not bother with details just yet.)

HERE IS THE CATCH: (WAT! This all seemed so normal until now.)

The 2 car garage is a mostly a play space (The Haus of Blue Dungeon), (Copyright!) hang out area. We are a kinky household. Though this is strictly Platonic, we are kinksters. (Shocker!) We do NOT play with each other. (well let me explain this, the straight couple do play together ONLY. and are into flogging, spanking, and play in the dungeon TOGETHER by themselfs). (Oh, wait. Oops. We don't except for, well, we do. )They are in a D/s (Dominate/submissive) type of relationship whereas the female is the submissive. She wears a collar which her Dominate put on her by her own submission.

The guy coming for me at end of this month will be my play partner and "slave". (its fully consenqual) (Is that a mix of consensual and consequence?) but also a companion. He will be wearing a collar which I'd be putting on him when he arrives. I am a "Master"/Dominate type. I am also a furry (if you know what that is). (At this point, if you don't, I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out.)

So you are not required to be kinky, just open minded. (Like the kind of open minded after you smoke an entire of weed. Expensive weed.)You are NOT to come to be a play partner. You'd be JUST a roommate with nothing connected as we are not seeking that. Just need someone to rent the room to help cover the total rent of the house. (Because the rest of us are so fucking normal.)

If you are interested, please email me and ask questions. I am also on Facebook with two accounts. You can look up the more public one which is also my kinky one. Name is (name). My name on EVERYTHING else is (name.)

I have a group on Facebook called (haha) (if you want to explore more of what I (we) are into. And we are on (this) and I'm on (that). (Because, you know, you won't be able to do it here, or anything, but just in case you're curious.)

KEYWORDS: Kink, BDSM, fetish, sissy, cross dressing, flogging, chains, ropes, bondage, suspension, Dominate, submissive, Master, slave, furry, MAST, Leather, pup, Dungeon, Diapers, Roommate.



What I really want to know is this: have I run into these people at Starbucks?

Odds and ends

First off, thanks to the lovely Claire for doing a post on this blog, in her "I love your blog" series! She gave me all kinds of compliments I paid her to say.

As an aside, I've been feeling rather old lately. I bought some wine for a gift yesterday and was thrilled to be carded!

The clerk looked at me like I was some kind of freak.

"Mostly people give me dirty looks. No one ever thanks me," she said.

Then I come home to find out a cousin I haven't seen since he was in grade school is getting married. Another cousin I have never even met (we have a HUGE extended family - I have 25 first cousins - and I'm not particularly close to anyone on that side of the family) sent me an invitation to his wedding. Is it me, or is it weird to invite people (or show up!) when you've never met the person?

Speaking of old, my little brother is 17 tomorrow. YIKES. There is nothing like the thought that someone you saw through diapers will soon be legally adult. I sent him a card that looked like this:

Inside I wrote, "Sending you a card that is equivalent to your maturity level." Hopefully he'll forgive me, because he got a good present (Netflix.)

It's also my great aunt's birthday tomorrow. I won't tell you what I got her because she might be reading this. This is the awesome great aunt that I only got to know recently. So glad I did! She also swears and tells it like it is. I knew there was a genetic link somewhere.

Speaking of family , I am going to visit the family this weekend. It's about time. I haven't seen my parents or my little sister for a year and a half. I was supposed to see them last June, but I was too sick to go anywhere for awhile.

Whenever my dad forgets something, he says, "FOA!" Which is his joke for "Fucking Old Age." I forgot to tell him something the other day and wrote, "FOA!"

To which he replied, "You are still young, so it can't be FOA. It's a fuck up."

I wrote back, "So I should have said it was my FU?"

The apple doesn't fall that far from the tree!

Happy anniversary

I love you, Mr. RK. You are my best friend. Eight is not enough!

Enough already!

I don't like most fantasy, and I don't like Tolkien. I couldn't get through The Hobbit as a kid, even when my dad offered me $20 to read it, and I couldn't get through it as an adult, even though I thought I should read it.

I haven't seen any of the new versions of the movies.

I haven't finished any of the books.

Now mind you, I can understand why people enjoy this type of fantasy, but now we have Winter Storm Gandalf?

For reals.

I am not making this up. And I will feel like a complete asshole if I have to call into work tomorrow and say that Gandalf has me snowed in.

What's next? 50 Shades of Grey, rainy weather? Hurricane Harry Potter? Since when did Hollywood take over the weather?

There is my Wednesday rant, take it or leave it.

No TV, no Facebook - yep, I'm an elitist. (Snark.)

Apparently someone from my alma mater, and a few other people, now say it's "elitist" to quit Facebook, or not be on Facebook.

Seriously?

I am in charge of social media at work, and it serves a purpose - it helps our organization connect with people we might not otherwise connect with.

But I don't have my own Facebook or Twitter accounts, and I don't plan to. I talk to people I want to talk to, and they know where to find me. No offense to people who do Facebook or Twitter. I can see how it would be of value in some cases. I had dinner with a writer friend last night and actually encouraged him to use his Facebook account to do some of the marketing for his e-book.

But not having an account makes me an elitist? Isn't it more elitist to assume (like the professor from my school did) that people have the means and access to smart phones, computers, etc., to sign up for Facebook in the first place? (Mind you, I don't know anyone who has a Facebook account and can only check it at the library.)

Someone quoted in the story said she'd miss out "on probably 75% of invitations to go out" with friends if she wasn't on Facebook. I think that's pathetic!

Am I old-fashioned, or just getting old?

And for those of you who watch the story, I don't watch TV either, so apparently I'm just a real snob!

What's wrong with books, music, workouts, cooking, hanging out with friends? I wonder.

Goals (and no, this isn't about Russell Brand)

Mr. RK was sweet enough to go out and get me Japanese food. I've been a bit under the weather - you know how it is, when the one thing you want isn't in your house?

Mr. RK: "Well, hopefully you don't feel that way about me. I mean, I'd hate for you to be sick and only want Russell Brand."

(Someone has been reading too many of my blog comments...)

Anyhow, this post has nothing to do with my celebrity crush. It has to do with goals.

Many people have posted about goals for 2013, and Charles Gramlich wrote a really interesting post about how we have the psychological need to start afresh, and how that makes us hopeful in the new year.

I agree. I couldn't put that into words, so I'm glad he did.

On the flip side, I've seen so many "news" articles - or shall I say pop psych articles - saying we shouldn't set the bar too high, lest we let ourselves down, etc., etc.

To that I say: bullshit! Why not aim high? As Mr. RK told me when I was first learning to cook, and always had "Plan B" in case I burned down the kitchen, "Don't plan for failure!"

Two of my writer friends, including blog buddy GB Miller, had their novels accepted for publication in 2012, which I believe beat their expectations (following a lot of hard work, of course.)

A new year brings hope and renewal, and why not? Why shouldn't we think positively and try our best? Will we meet every far-reaching goal? Perhaps not. But why set the bar low? Would you feel better coming close to accomplishing - or flat-out accomplishing - something to make you proud, or something you could do in your sleep? (Please note: if you can juggle or work out new laws of physics in your sleep, ignore that last bit.)

I hope I don't sound too hunky-dory here because I have many moments of self-doubt even when I accomplish goals, or beat them. Like, I have a children's book that I wrote a few years ago and haven't submitted anywhere in forever. And another one I haven't finished writing. That is going to change this year. (I have already picked up the second one, by the way.)

Because I was reminded the other day of something that happened right after I graduated from college. It was a few months out and I had no prospects. My dad had basically come to my rescue and set me up in a new apartment, and taken me shopping for "work" clothes (even though I didn't have a job yet.) He and I were in a gift shop on a road trip back home from Disneyland. He found a clock depicting desk with a stack of newspapers on it and said, "How about I get this for you, and you can put it on your desk when you're a reporter?"

I mumbled something about that not happening anytime soon and I believe he gave me some kind of positive thinking lecture, and bought me the clock.

Less than six months later, it was on my desk at my first newspaper job. It has followed me to every job since. He encouraged me then, and he still encourages me now.

So here's to all of you reaching your goals this year. A little encouragement from someone else, as I've learned, never hurts.