Demi Moore Needs to Die

The boyfriend rolled over and spoke. It was early on a Saturday morning and the light was filtered through the trees already. The early morning runners were making their way up the street outside, as it is their main path from ParkHill to Cheesman Park. The kind of chats that happen when two people take their bikes and head out for an adventure were wafting into the open window. The day had begun and, it appeared soon we would begin ours.

"Where's the cat? She never came to bed last night?" He said.  I groaned as I rolled from bed. I feared we locked her out on the balcony the previous night. I pictured the long-haired floofster in full diva mode after spending a night on the patio. We would pay the price for this transgression, that's for sure.  But, as I rounded the corner into the living room I noticed a different situation. Lamps toppled, their shades knocked out of wack. Items previously on tables scattered everywhere. And, in the middle of it all, the fluffy princess, staring intensely to the ceiling. A moth staring bake in mocking tone.

The common Miller Moth has an annual migration originating on the Plains of Colorado, Kansas and Nebraska and migrating west into the Rocky Mountains for the summer. They return to the Plains in September. I guess they take their summers in the mountains, I mean who wouldn't? Although it is an annual event every ten years or so the numbers are massive due to the change in climate. This year the numbers are massive.

So if I can list them, we have a Pandemic, the Race War,  and the icing on the cake is this swarms of insects? That's really all the signs of the apocalypse, right? I mean our local IKEA is also closed so I can't buy a new sofa and this may be the fourth sign. I personally think that is the signal for Demi Moore to die, Right?

I approach the kitty and notice deep bags under her eyes, and an ashtray filled with burnt-out cat cigarettes. She's mumbling about the moths.... "I'm gonnnaaaa get eweeeee.... eat your wings..... killlllll moths." Incomprehensible really. Poor thing staying up all night to capture a moth, knowing it will never fly down from the ceiling. The boyfriend swooped up kitty and I got out the vacuum to suck up the dusty-winged intruder. The cat still declares loudly to us how "she could of got it!" as we nod our heads in agreement. All the while hoping these weird times we are living in, clears up soon. 

It's the 1300's

I am "kind of" back on Facebook. I mean not really, as I despise all that it is, with every fiber of my being. I HATE Facebook like the Tiger King hates Carol Baskins. I hate Facebook like Trump hates the truth. (How's that for timely similes?) I believe Facebook is destroying society. But, this post is not about the undermining of rational and intelligent discord. It is about me; reporting to my family that I am not dead.

I made a Facebook account just to join my large families Facebook group. Seven kids, seven grandkids, a few third generation kids, and a cast of in-laws. Their discord is ongoing. I wanted to easily report of my non-COVIDedness. Apparently pandemics make people want to see who around them have succumb.

As I checked in, I thought of the black death of the 1300's, how royal families approached the pandemic. Royal households would cloister away their servants, so they could ensure the servant would not bring in the death, and yet the family members could still be served. Whole estates would be built far from civilization in order to have the whole extended family safe together. As you may guess, I would rather spend my pandemic laying in the base of a pledge pit, than in a palatial estate amongst my gene pool. So in comparison I can deal with a Facebook account until the mid-1350's when I can walk the city streets without a plague mask stuffed with poises.  

Boxes of Books

A couple of months ago I discovered I had a second bedroom...

After living in my house for a year I stopped by the open door of my second bedroom in my two-bedroom home and gazed upon my un-packed boxes of books. A new thought just naturally appeared in my head. It was time they saw the light again assembled on the bookcases. In 2019 my books were sealed away in highly-taped moving boxes, and shipped across the fair city of Denver.  These boxes were left scattered about this forgotten room in front of  empty bookcases and unassembled desk parts. The boxes sat were the movers left them at the start of that year.

The door was left ajar as the days blurred into weeks blending into months. It was a year of ordering the electronic textbook version of school books. A year of not reading for pleasure as the quiet downtime was too much to handle in the quite house. Solitary confinement for the books and the reader. Instead there was take-a-way in front of the TV as distraction entertainment filled the place of books.

Then it happened; I walked into my second bedroom and began to fill up the shelves. I assembled my desk, pushed up my chair, and began to read again. It is nice to be back. 

Hair Cuts of the Nazi Youth

Since the beginning of the pandemic I have been cutting my own hair. It has been a terrifying process, let me tell you.

Now, I am not a stranger to cutting my own hair. In the era beginning after posing for gay porn "photographers" and before being able to quit my second gay waiter jobs I did buzz my own hair. But that was just a study in Mohawks and flattops. This was followed by the timespan the gay community knows as the Caesar and Faux hawk generation. The late 90's was a non-stop cornucopia of pointy-pointy hairdos.

In 2020's shutdown, the need to cut my hair is dictated by my skill. Or lack of skill. It means my hair gets trimmed on the sides and blended to a longer top with a side-part. I can not go too tight on the sides as my hair can go directly into a style known as the "Hitler" and its begat tiki-torch scuzzzbag bastard goblins.  Side part combovers can move right into Nazi youth if not done correctly.  So longer and blending has me standing naked in the bathroom mirror for a minimum of two hours. Although I do get to listen to the collective works of Kate Bush on repeat four times, I don't get to listen to a paid hairstylist ramble on about finally moving out to the West Coast.

The experience is growing on me. Literally. 

School's Out

The semester of school is finally done. School's out for summer!

This last semester was a strange one, even though the classes were online; once the pandemic hit both of my professors, for the two separate classes, melted down and gave up. As the majority of their other classes were in person, switching over to online learning took most of their time. One also had to start home-schooling his 3rd grader and spent what would be the remainder of the semester talking about how hard 3rd grade math can be. The lessons in ancient rituals of Ireland faded away and all the assignments at the beginning of the semester stood in for the majority of the grade. For me, this was great as I actually cared at the beginning of the class, not so my towards the end.

The class was on Irish history, and I was really taking it to learn about the monastic era. This era being one of retrieving ancient works of great Greek/Roman thinkers, and transcribing them into modern language. To see how Socrates came to us in modern tongue. Once the class moved passed the era of the monasteries, I just kept getting mad over and over reading about the generational fight for freedom against the jerkish British. Gurl! eat a Snickers, you get all Colonialist when you are hungry.

So the strange semester is over. And next semester, in the Fall of 2020 surely will not be plagued by the... plague. It will be my "senior project" semester to finish my history degree. So yay. Other than the fact that I have run out of student loan money and have no idea how I am going to pay for it. Maybe Betty Devos with get the virus. We can only hope. 

Pandemic

Hey there; how's your pandemic going?

Mine is just fine. As an essential worker, I am guaranteed to not miss out of experiencing every bit of oddness this society has to offer during this strange time. My deep hatred of bars and clubs has turned into a positive. The city shutting down major avenues so walkers can social distance means walking adventures are more fun. I am actually having a decent pandemic.  Well, other than the gym. The gym closing down have not done me well.

Since I never did any cardio, and only lifted weights, not having the access to free weights was a shock to my system. I started to cry when I grabbed the handle to the gym's front door to find it locked. This meant that I would have to do.... home workout stuff... just imagine.  I first bought the typical dude-bro equipment. A pull-up bar for my office doorway, a fit ball to bounce around on, and new running shoes. Or, waddling shoes. Although I have warmed up to being the "workout outdoors type" wearing manly lycra leggings at all times now, the pull-ups are not ever going to by my favorite. Every time I reach the top of the stroke, my chin touching right below the frame of my well-appointed office, I see the a cartoon in my head from my childhood is stars an elephant. The elephant is attempting to pull his massive girth up a cliff. I am that elephant. Large, wrinkly, and grey.

I NEED the gyms to reopen.

I need to do arm curls using iron plates, not rubber bands. I need to rush out of work to go somewhere other than home. I find it strange to just leave work and go to my house. That's weird. But, at least I am non-dead. If you call not seeing your arm veins pop living. 

Snowy June

It’s summer, and The Pride celebrations here in Denver are over. For some reason this marks the official start of summer. And, the start of summer means to me the beginning of hiking season. However; in a stunning turn of events, it snowed this weekend up in the mountains. The twenty-two year old in me says "Hell yeah! A cold hike on the snowy trails!" While the forty-five year old in me says "what the hell?" Why is it snowing in June?

My entire life I have been concerned with and watch constantly for news of the snow pack in the Rocky Mountains. Not sure how this started? Probably when I was a child with only three TV channels where the local news would report the mountain snowpack constantly during Spring. I would score the snow levels like straight kids scored football. This year Colorado snowpack is five times bigger than it was a year ago. Score! This weekend’s June snow dumped several more inches of snow on the mountains were I should be hiking. This last storm came during a time of the year when spring melt is usually underway. 

So yassss Queen, this boosts reservoirs and reduces wildfires later this year. Also it helps boosting the watershed going eventually to Lake Mead. You’re welcome California. But for my gay ass, on a major push to shed another ten pounds; it means That instead of hiking season it’s more Like mud season dragging significantly into the summer months.

Fabulous Up Lighting

When I was twelve, my mother bought me a lava lamp. Apparently wanting to stir up some straight-dude stoner tendencies in me. It was one of the first generation knock-offs and had red wax inside the glass cylinder. I watched in a transfixed manner as the red lava slowly moved up and down due to the heat from a 60 watt light bulb in the base of the lamp. This fascination lasted three days. Since I was a flaming gay twelve year old, I soon pulled out the glass portion of the lamp and placed the base behind a tall plant in the corner of my room to make fabulous up lighting. I still see how the light interacted with the leafy foliage on my bedroom ceiling. Much more hypnotizing than a lava lamp could ever be.

It took me just about a month to set up the "lighting scheme" in my new house. With my inner gay boy directing how to emotional impact the white walls with a lightscape. The first step was to drag out the countless number of extension cords, then map out the best use of each fixture. The best part; however, is the Wi-Fi. Every light, every switch, is controlled by my Wi-Fi network and controlled by my iPhone. It’s just like living in the god-damn future. This network, via a wireless hub, senses when I come home and triggers a light-scape before I enter my front door. When triggered, via the sun going down, a soft dimmed glow comes from most lights. All while being voice controlled by my Google Home thingy. I simply say "Hey Google, turn on the closet lights." And the closets are dramatically bathed in LED glow.

Yes, I am aware that really this stems from two much free time and a disposable income. But, the potted palms have never looked lovelier in the late evening. As their leafy foliage dances on the Livingroom ceiling.

Tasty Tasty Murder

I was always that guy who brought that green box to the BBQ. There is always one; you host a cookout and spend a lot of time shaping and flavoring burgers to grill, and someone shows up with a Garden Burger box and asks you to place the frozen, grey pucks on the corner of the grill. Yep. I was the guy who smeared his sense of personal superiority on the plant-based food item like mustard. Side eyeing the cow murderers. All while clouds of dust came from my mouth as I chewed on the cardboardish facsimile of a real burger patty.

I was thinking about this as I was line at Brother’s BBQ Sunday afternoon. I was deciding whether I had to start the charade that I was buying a full rack of ribs for my large, and hungry family. Instead I made a stand; I ordered my full rack, proud to be free from the meat-binge closet. Oh, how time changes you.

That being said, I still have the "Meat is Murder" bumper sticker boy living inside of me. He will always be there. I have to say, I am happy eating at my local vegan restaurant and maintaining a plant based diet. My freezer is filled those green boxes of Garden Burgers frosting away. And yet, there are a few times when the carnivorous cow or pig hating murderer comes out. I guess the saying of "Everything in Moderation" is true.

Editors note: full rack eaten in record time. 

In a Mustang listening to Radiohead

Ever have date anxiety? That feeling of nervousness that rushes over you, making your brain convince you that you don’t really need to interact with the outside world. That delivery Taco Bell and YouTube Vloggers are enough of a friend base to sustain you in this world.

This week had my brain playing this game of sabotage. Like picking shredded cheese out of my chest on the couch is a viable social strategy. I still managed to pilot my car to the top of parking garage adjacent to Racines Restaurant to meet a solid massive of man. Like solid thickness. Which is weird for me, and also completely refreshing. For the last thousand years I’ve been the big spoon, I think it’s time to little spoon for a while. 

May I take this opportunity to advocate for Denver’s centrally located "date" restaurant, Racines? It really is the best "first date" eating establishment. It’s calm, it’s low pressure, and it has low walls around the patio to leap over in case the date is going badly. A Wendy’s is right next door, so after your great escape you can walk over and drown your sorrows in a Frosty as the date collects his car from valet. Then you can drive home without dripping Frosty on your seats. Trust me; I speak from experience. But! Not this week. 

Halfway through the cobb salad, I began to be thankful for leaving my sofa and YouTube friends at home and for venturing into the cool summer breeze of Denver’s early evening. The conversation was easy, both agreeing that Betty Friedan is a product of her time, and still should be celebrated as sparking the second wave of feminism. Ya, know dudes on dates conversation. I began to have a rising internalized squee as all the anxiety washed from my brain due to a sense of happiness. Happiness based upon the connecting to someone with a similar world outlook, but not to similar…. We also made-out like teenagers in his car, steaming up the windows like I was in a Mustang listening to Radiohead.

Naked Pool Land

I have had a swimming pool in every place I have lived since the ancient year of 2000. Yet in this time, I have been actually in these pools just once. Never have I stopped to enjoy the amenities and go for a swim. Mostly I blame the people living in the neighborhood overrunning the pool with their loud noise, and feral children. There’s nothing worse than a child enjoying its self. I kid.... kinda. 

I know it’s not swimming as a concept because I can spend the whole day naked at Denver’s bathhouse outdoor pool. Maybe I hate my local pools due to having to wear trunks. Probably so. As summer has arrived, it’s probably time to make a trip to naked pool land. 

I was determined to actually use the pool near my new house. And by near, I mean if I’m not careful leaving my front door, I’ll fall in. As it opened on Memorial Day.  Within half a day an email was sent out the the pool had to be closed due to broken glass being found in the pool bottom. Hours after it’s opening. So... okay. Guess I’m not getting in that pool either.  Off to the naked pool.  

Hiking

I went on my first hike of the summer last weekend. It was a "date hike" so that was pretty awesome. A strange sense came into my mind in the middle of the hike. The person I was hiking with, spent the whole hike matching my stride and speed. This made me aware that sometimes I hike at a slower than "standard" speed for the trail, mostly due to my desire to soke up the atmosphere. However; our hike, around Dillon Resivour was perfectly matched in speed and gate. 

The reason I was thinking about this was that in the last several years, my hiking partner had a faster speed, and quicker movement. I always had a feeling I was never keeping up with the movement on the hike. Never did I acknowledge this, but internally I began to avoid hiking due to this mid-match in hiking philosophy. Simply to stop an activity I enjoyed due to a partner radiating a sense of "ineptness" in my speed and style. 

Yet, hiking with a person who matches in style, and also has consideration, rekindled my passions for hiking. 

Minuteman

The family is attempting to schedule our Father’s Memorial. It is a bit difficult to get seven kids and seven grandkids in one place, but we are shooting for August. It’s a bit strange working with four sisters on this. Mostly because they all had, what seemed to be a close relationship with their Dad. For me, he was a total stranger. Not a necessarily bad relationship, just not a relationship at all. Now, I tend to think this started with the public acknowledgement of my fabulous gay-ness, but it is more than this. As far back as I remember, there was the family dynamic trope of a Dad spending time and energy on the daughter and no effort on the sons. Even as a kid I knew was the status quo. 

This is in no way a negative statement or an an angsty blog post about my relationship with my Dad. It’s more an examination of how kids can have differing viewpoints on their parents based upon birth order. Also, I was explaining to a friend on where the memorial was to be held. As kids, our parents took us to a camp site and picnic place in Northern Colorado. Every family outing was in the same place.  Even at the time, in the mid-eighties, we knew the location wasn’t just a picnic ground and hiking trail. It doubled as a then active Minuteman Missile launch site. Picnic tables and nature trails woven around concrete blast doors covering armed nuclear missiles. 

"Woah! That’s fucked up!" Exclaimed my friend. "Meh, it was the eighties. They were everywhere." Yet, I began to think of the irony. The only positive family memories I have where played out on top of weapons of mass destruction. To which my Mother would tell me not to worry about it, because we would all be raptured if they were launched. 

So, I guess I’ll bring deviled eggs to the picnic / memorial / return visit to the Minuteman Missiles. 

Al Fresco

Well, this is a turning point my friends. Summer starts, and I begin to demand that I only eat out on restaurant patios. This demand is placed upon all friends that ask "where do you want to eat?" Last Friday Jimmy was able to oblige and we ate al fresco at the very tasty Uno Mas, on Denver’s famous 6th ave. This was followed by my first visit to a Denver gay bar in just about three years. I know, it boggles my mind too. Daddy’s on Sixth was a great "Friday after work" kind of place. They also had a patio. 

Saturday brought a long hike around Dillon  reservoir, followed by a sunshine filled lunch. Sunday Brunch was Syrup on City Park, where my stunning date and I, sat in the sunshine and ate coconut French toast. 

So if Memorial Day is any indication of how the Summer May create itself, then it may just be a  great summer. 

Birthday

Today’s my Birthday. I turn 225 today. And I don’t feel a day over 175. I feel comfortable in my skin, so I started by dying my grey beard...

After it settles I guess I’ll go get pancakes.

Noob

Five years ago was I really a noob that took bathroom selfies with a iPad???? Yes. The answer is yes.

Spring Heads Towards Me

Apparently I know less about The Monroe Doctrine than I thought. 

That’s correct; school has started again. I am taking a advanced class on the detailed history of World War Dos this semester. Along with a “History of the Modern World (which, spoiler alert is all white European centric) Like the modern world only happened in fashionable Europe.  The winter break flew by way to fast. It seems I cooked a turkey, bought a tree put lights around by balcony and then hauled the tree to the trash and… well I haven’t taken the lights off of the balcony yet. They’re just tooooo adorable…. I love them. But, seriously. I really need to take the Christmas light down. 

So, as the WWII class is on-line;  this week was the start of the never-ending cycle. Read several chapters, write a paper, take a quiz. The first week was on the ramifications of Thomas Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points. Like easy. Everyone knows that stuff. So, I skimmed the weeks assignment and started a Woodrow quiz. Then, I found myself suck in Monroeland. Jerk. Ya, know the United States policy of opposing European colonialism in the Americas beginning in 1823 God there was a lot of details. I guess I need to shrug off the Holiday break and crack open a book. Until May. 

Also in May, Mike has decided to move back home to Seattle at the end of our lease. This will mark the end of our four year living relationship. Roommates for four years and friends for eight years. All ending at the end of April. I haven’t begun to process what this means. Leaving the home I adore, separating the best living arrangement I hav ever had. I think I’ll just bury myself in the second world war. It’s less stressful. 

Hit the Slopes

The Christmas and New Year celebrations were amazing. A lot of home time, spent watching Christmas movies with Mike and Naveen. Yes, I got the presents I wanted, and it seams they too were happy with the gifts I gave. We now have our living room view back, as the tree was deconsecrated on news day. By this, I mean as I placed the last string of lights in their box, Mike picked up the tree marched to the balcony and tossed it over. The gleam in his eye told me he’d been wanting to do that act for awhile. 

The Christmas holiday also brought changes to  my relationship. Naveen started a new relationship outside of ours. As I don’t believe in monogamy, (a viewpoint just for me-not others) I was more than happy to encourage this behavior. Right after Thanksgiving He became a snowboarder. A six-foot-two, Indian, snowboarder. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the outdoors, but sliding down mountains doesn’t not speak to me. 

The only interference with our blissful household is that he wants to borrow my car to do this endeavor. Taking my all-wheel drive up the mountain. And hopefully, backdown again. When this happens I receive my German sport wagon back covered in grime. I clutch pearls and clench my jaw every time I lay eyes on my Deutschwagon, ice packed and mud covered. 

I fear asking him to get my car cleaned. This is because I am so obsessive about my car being perfect that I don’t trust just how he may clean my wolfsbaby. When I attempted to explain the difference between a brush verses brushless car wash I just recieved an eye roll. So... clearly I’m the only one who sees the difference in quality car maintenance. Yes, I didn’t get a chance to put a solid wax on before winter. But, you just can’t send you car through a car wash with those rolling brushes. What are we? Monsters? 

There needs to be a concierge service for rich dude-bro boarder...dudes. One at the base of the mountains where they can stop by after shredding it all day and have their borrowed luxury cars cleaned and pressed. Great idea for a ski town business. There ya go. 

Until then, I’ll be content getting flaming hot Cheetos out of my vegan leather interior. 

Zesty

Apparently I need a new Zester. There’s nothing more fun than starting a baking recipe just to find yourself digging through every kitchen drawer for a tool. I repeated this act about a month ago when I was attempting to find my meat tenderizer. So, the growls were loud when my lemmon zester was missing in action. 

I spend Sunday wanting to make my first batch of Christmas cookies with Italian Lemmon Cookies. I had purchased some beautiful  Meyer Lemmons to add in the dough, but it was not to be. I did attempt to chop the skins super fine, hoping that would be the same. It’s not. I now have a batch of super delicious cookies with fine bits of lemmon peel to chew. 

I feel like I need to inventory my kitchen just so I know that items I own. Maybe Santa will bring me my missing tools. 

Two Things This Week

Two things are bugging me this week. The first is my ski rack on the top of my car. It whistles. At highway speeds a high pitch squeal begins to sound above my head. "Okay, I guess I need to buy an air screen to change to air dinamics." I casually thought. Then I discovered that my VW cross bars don’t work with my Thule racks and $90 new air screen. I have spent this week attempting to find a way to attach the two without using duct tape. 

The second is porn. My porn. I have unique tastes in porn; which has been satisfied for free via Tumblr. The site; however, just announced that they will be deleting all graphic content. Meaning, all the tumblr pages that I follow will go away on the 17th of December. I have spent the week grabbing as many images as I can to supply me until I can locate a new source of smut. Hundreds of gay Japanese suit  porn images have been flying across my desk top. If you’re aware of a good Japanese "young businessman in suits” porn site, please be in touch. Not; however, if you’re reading this and you also happen to be one of my sisters. 

Done with School

Today was the last day of class. I have to say this is the very first time I’m sad about this. Historically, I’m counting down the days until the semester ends. Dreading the last couple of weeks. But, this semester has been completely different. My classes have been amazingly interesting; Feminist/Queer Philosophy and a history class about Denver. 

This is ironic as the history class was based upon the racist KKK dickheads that controlled Denver in the early days. Followed by a class based on liberating modern voices in queer literature. In fact this morning I received this...

It didn’t hurt that I’m 100 years old and actually lived the ‘80’s/‘90’s AIDS crisis. At one point I was explaining Act Up to 20 year old girls. Like I was on the front porch of a gay retirement home in a rocking chair. But, hey, I guess I got an "A". 

The Denver history class is motivating me to start a new YouTube channel. Based loosely around the traditional history narrative about a western US city, but with a marginalized voice perspective. Like what happened to Denver’s China Town? Spoiler: Racists. It’s callled the "1880 Race Riot", but really it was a "white assholes with torches" 

So, yeah. This semester was actually amazing and I’m sad to see it go. 

Wreath Be With You

Every season, in my head anyway, starts with the changing of the door wreath. I’m not sure how this seems to be hardwired into me. I do know that it was something I was raised with, a sort of family tradition. One in which my sisters and I still do religiously.

It is pretty odd, this tradition growing up in a household without a lot of traditions. Apart from the ones pressed upon us by the Mormon Church doctrine. None of us children have multiple spouses, stockpile food stores for the coming apocalypse, or the very worst of them all….use white bread. It is a testament to our development that we escaped the churches brainwashing of "all food must be highly processed."

I thought about this while I placed my holiday wreath upon my door. Then I stood back to survey my fantastic wreath. The wreath, as one would expect, then gets compared to the next door neighbors. The Nguyen’s. Oh, man…. I. Hate. Them. With their stinking wreath all made of home-decorated pine cones. Each pine cone individually wrapped with colorful ric-rac trimming. Where do they get off?! Last year, after I placed my silver-glitter dipped "winter-wonder land" wreath on our entry way door, they had the nerve to come back with battery operated garland festooned about their door. I guess money can’t buy taste.

This year I have decided to not descend to their level of one-upmanship. A classic evergreen wreath, deconstructed; if you will. Maybe a bit like Mormon Christ would of carried as he roamed the mid-west.

Not That Cool

I posted a picture online recently. It depicts the new snowboard rack I had installed on top of my Alltrack. I really didn’t think about it, mostly because the intent was to show off my roof-rack installing skills. Yet, I would never dream of strapping a laminated plank to my feet and slide down a frozen mountain. No thank you.  Soon the comments and questions came in about my snowboarding prowess. I installed the rack so that the boyfriend could take my all wheel drive up the mountain. So, even though I am now one of those Colorado dudes driving around with a roof-rack, it's not really mine.

The Day Before Thanksgiving

Ah.... the day before Thanksgiving. That time when I completely question my culinary skills. 

Every year on this day I start the day sure I have the recipes I’ve spent hours choosing, and hours of shopping for their ingredients. Then soon I began to realize that my recipes aren’t saved on my iPad, and I remember that I’m missing most of my ingredients. 

Suit and Tie

I am currently in a multi-stage interviewing process with four separate new positions outside of my current company. Have conservative suit; will travel. The quick answer is that I am desperate to work on a team that doesn’t end their sentences with prepositions. If I get asked "where you at?" one more time…. Truthfully I am happy in my current position, (sort-of) but I need to grow, and it’s apparent this cannot happen.

For one position within a multi-state eating disorder recovery corporation, I feel I have now interviewed with every member of staff. I mean, I haven’t met ALL the janitorial staff, maybe next week. For all these interviews I figured it would be okay if I wear the same suit every time, I just switch out the tie. It is me just stopping by their headquarters every once in a while to hang out. Another is a non-profit education company. Also multiple interviews. Glenda on the first floor reception says I’m the best candidate, but if she hears anything she’ll let me know… I’m going to start bring her doughnuts.

Their problem is understandable. You cannot interview a HR Manager. Every question they give me, I am just hardwired to give the best response for the sake of the printed interview questionnaire. My dream is that a CEO will just come out and say "Look, you’re the person that should be doing the interviewing of candidates, just come out and tell me what you’re gonna do for me!" And, I’d tell them the good about me and the bad about me. I’ll put myself in payroll and send my interview suit to the drycleaner. Because it’s beginning to stink.

Until then, I interview. Again. And again. I hope to have good news for you soon.

Eleven Years of StevieB

Seriously, eleven years?  Today makes eleven years I have been blogging.

It boggles my mind how different one person can be in eleven years. My drives, goals, and desires have really no similarities to the thirty-five year old who started blogging. I have had six cars, three longterm relationships, many casual boyfriends, three dogs, and one blog. One blog to unite them all.

Yes, I spend to much time writing papers about third wave Feminists and too little time blogging; I guess I should just post my term papers. But, I feel that will actually make my blog even less readable. And it is pretty damn un-read as it is.

Let's just cheer that I am having a eleven year anniversary as a blogger. Not many humans can actually say this. Mostly because blogging died about six years ago.

Alltrack

When thinking about saying goodbye to my Wrangler, I had trouble walking away.  It was like being in a  relationship where you only see the thrills even though you  know they're treating you wrong. Yes, the fuel pump had to be replaced multiple times; but it was sexy sitting in a trailhead's parking lot. Sure, the oil seemed to disappear every three weeks, but I could drive over any shopping center's curbing. Which is truly the best measure of the American males' ego.  There comes a time; however, when even in the most dysfunctional of relationships you eventually wake up to the fact that you are putting more effort into it than you could possibly get back.

My main motivation in replacing my Jeep is how sexy-cool a new car would compare in its level of coolness in trailhead parking lots. This is why I chose the VW Alltrack. It just oozes off roady snobbiness. Yet snowflake uniqueness.

 

The Philosophy of She/Her

This semester I am taking a Feminist Philosophy class. Now, I guess I should of read the description, not that it matters, but I guess I just assumed its content.

I was overly excited to finally take a class on feminist philosophers. Meaning the study of philosophy via a feminist lens. Like the collective works of Hypatia of Alexandria and Ayn Rand.  I didn’t really read the fine-print the (philosophy verses philosophers) part of the title. However, I am very delighted with the surprise. The readings of proto-utilitarianism ideals, mixed with gender equality getting their foundation in the 1700’s is quite cool to see unfold throughout time.

Also, this is the first class that I am actually connecting with and feel comfortable interacting.  In the typical class I am the large bear squeezed into a desk/chair, A Chesk, if you will, usually twenty years older than the other students. While in this class I am still over twenty years older than my classmates, they actually have smart, and witty opinions to share. The tiny gay boy, eighteen years old,  that sits next to me has his own YouTube channel dedicated to make-up and making one’s own gender neutral clothing. He literally says literally every-other word, but he’s engaging and asks incredible questions.

Another reason why this class is great is that it’s held in the Philosophy Department’s conference room. No chesks, just a long table with sixteen open, and interested individuals. The only hiccup is Clara. Clara is the self-appointed political correctness thought police. She attempts to remind us that trans individuals need to have open gender-role labels. When turning this to me, it was followed by me explaining that the dude I was referencing at the time had self-disclosed male pronouns, and his own trans experience did not need to be defended. Clara admittedly doesn’t know any trans individuals, but wants to make sure we get the pronouns right. Good for her.

All-in-all I am happy for this class. It makes me want to change my major, again, to gender studies. Then I’ll be able to say that I am thirty years older than my classmates as I will never actually graduate.

The Astral Plane of Chinese Delivery

 

Yes, we probably order Chinese food too often in our household. By, this I mean we have Chinese delivered about twice or three times a week. This comes from the fact that Grub Hub has our standard order, from the same place on record. It just seems the easiest thing to click a button on the iPhone and soon after have piping hot dinner on the kitchen bar.  All this whilst the spinach leafs slowly turn brown in the refrigerator. Death comes quickly to spinach as the intent to make butter chicken dies.

The odd bit is the delivery driver. I assume he’s an INFJ or first year Hufflepuff. Or maybe he’s magical.  Now I have seen a lot of porn movies involving delivery drivers. I also have years of experience avoiding cooking and relying on a random stranger to bring me dinner. And yet, I have never had much experience with a possible inhuman, or maybe spirit-being delivery dude.

Here’s what happens.

When the time comes for the delivery, a soft thud, not unlike the sound of a fluffy bunny being tossed at out front door, can be heard. Then a text…. “Your food is outside…” opening the door is like if Santa came, but you didn’t have a chimney. No knock. No awkward interaction with a delivery driver. Just a text. I; of course, cannot leave this alone… To me, this was a challenge of see the delivery dude. A quest of interacting with the delivery spirit.

When the text comes, I started to quickly run to the window to catch sight of him. Like a kid looking for Santa.  I only witnessed a half-primered, lowered Intra peel away from the curb.  But, then I knew he could exist on the astral plane, if even for a small time. Then I waited inside, next to the front door. When I heard the distinct sound of General Tso's name-sake dish thumping against the door I pounced. Swinging the door open I caught just a glimpse of bleached anime hair zipping around the corner. “Run mystical delivery dude! Run like the wind!” I whispered as the smell of wontons filled my nose.

This is when I learned that I am not meant to meet my delivery dude. Even if I forced it, I may only destroy the magical sphere in which he exists.  He departs the muggle existence, slips this dimension, as it should be… in an Acura with miss-matching wheels. As I scarf down my Moo-Shu chicken I re-read his communication. “Your food is outside” someday I might text back.   

Denver

I had to finish my paper for my “History of Denver” class. Yes, I feel that this choice in class was a softball class. I had a choice from the Denver history, or the entire history of Islam. I really should have learned more about an entire part of the globe, filled with rich beauty, and religious meaning. Nah, I chose Denver history. This was driven by the deep desire to be that dude who can bore you to death by tales of historic buildings in downtown being the first department store, or why there are no Asians in Denver.

 

Funny story. Denver was founded by a group of Racist bigots. Racist bigots whom hated everyone and everything. That was my paper….. How white men are assholes. This is why I won’t take any American history classes because I just turn every paper into a non-stop manifesto of why straight-white-men suck. I didn’t think this class would be the same…. It is.

 

My paper was about the Anti-Chinese Riot of 1880. Yeah…. Already you know where this is heading. Apparently the Denver working class got tired of compete for the small supply of back-breaking labor jobs in laundry sweat shops. Also they felt threatened by a mixed culture of eating establishments. So… in October 1880 a mob gathered and destroyed Denver’s China Town.

 

On a side note, I always wondered why Denver doesn’t have a China Town, I also wondered why there was not any cultural diversity in the city. Now I know. We’re assholes. Murdering assholes, as the riot led to the deaths of Chinese minority business owners. This is why.