Jan

31

Explosive cheesy butt.

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Years ago, when D was taking care of her friend J’s two felines during an absence, I first encountered the phenomenon known colloquially as “cheesy butt.” Cats, it turns out, have anal glands alongside the poop chute that ooze a pus that smells significantly of particularly odorous cheese. The goo comes in small quantities, usually, and sticks to furniture, etc. on a regular basis so that other cats can be alerted about the property rights regime in effect ’round these parts. Sometimes, though, the glands’ holes get, well, stuck. The swollen glands are a source of discomfort. Aggravated ass-scraping results. Which, when the orifice gets unclogged, means larger-than-usual quantities of foul-smelling yellow discharge on the carpet.

What I learned last week is what happens when the ass-scraping is ineffective at removing the blockage. The pus builds up so much that the gland gets infected. And the infection eats away at the glandular wall. And a new hole is formed. Blood and pus are discharged. And a lot of pain results. Followed by antibiotics and stitches, if a veteranarian gets involved.

How do I know this? Cooper recently had the “explosive” variety of cheesy butt. And is recovering nicely, thank you.

Jan

18

Snapple = crap?

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I’ve never been much a fan of Snapple. Seemed like unnecessarily corn-syrupized fruit juice. Or flat soda. But after the events of yesterday, I can no longer abide the stuff.

When D and I bought a house last year, many of the rooms were covered in somewhat cheap carpeting. Before purchasing the house, we peeked under a few corners to discover the original hardwood floors appeared to be in relatively good shape. So before we moved in, we tore out the carpet and had a guy come in to refinish the floors. [By the by, pulling up carpet tack strips is a pain in the fucking ass.] What we were left with was a lot of carpet and padding. Which lived in the garage. Until this past weekend.

D and I rented a pickup truck to run a few errands, including hauling the carpet to the dump. [Apparently used carpet is non-donatable. At least I couldn't find any charity, recycler business, or government entity in Olympia that would take it.] We arrived and started hurling the bed full of waste into a giant dumpster. Fine. The overall smell of the dump was unpleasant, but fairly mellow. A well run solid waste treatment center.

Until a van pulled in next to us and started unloading garbage cans filled with, well, Snapple bottles. Snapple bottles that appeared to be filled with liquefied feces. Judging by the overpowering odor of shit, I’m reasonably certain these cretins, rather than using a toilet or hole in the ground, had placed their puckered anuses on top of wide-mouthed Snapple bottles and let the diarrhea flow.

The dry heaves followed as the garbage cans were upturned. Apparently some of the Snapple bottles had broken, pouring out their repulsive human waste directly into the can. Why would these folks have driven in a van–with the windows up, mind you–for who knows how far with a night soil-and-Snapple slurry sitting in the back seat? Who knows.

All I do know is that, with apologies to its purveyors, I can no longer abide Snapple.

Jan

1

2010.

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Welcome, new year. Don’t want to put any undue stress on you, but I would definitely prefer if you were one of the good years. Overall, I mean. Not just in parts.

Dec

27

Paradise by the Dashboard Light.

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A couple of months ago, I was asked to come up with an embarrassing personal story. The one I came up with on the fly was lame, so I won’t bother sharing it. Instead, I’ll reminisce about the time I was in the passenger seat of an automobile. The vehicle in question was a Ford Festiva. Owned and operated by my then-high-school-girlfriend. Who I had been seeing for a few weeks. And with whom I had fooled around, but had not, as it happens, scored.

So I had created a mixed tape. A real conversation piece. What I thought of, in my sixteen year old, late 90s mind, as classic songs that suited the motoring experience. Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream.” Eagles’ “Take It Easy.” Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River.” And–and this is the embarrassing part–Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light.”

Now it isn’t that “Paradise” isn’t a classic song, mind you. It’s more that it’s a duet. And I insisted that my then-girlfriend sing along with the Ellen Foley part. Insisted repeatedly, because she seemed reluctant.

Now, for those of you who grew up under a rock, “Paradise” is an eight minute song in three acts. The first act is simply a lovely, relatively traditional love song about having sex in a car. “Ain’t no doubt about it, we were doubly blessed; ’cause we were barely seventeen and we were barely dressed.” Some faux doo-wop, some car-themed raunch.

The second act features a baseball-themed play-by-play of the couple’s interactions. “A line shot up the middle. Look at him go, this boy can really fly, he’s rounding first and really turning it on now, he’s not letting up at all, he’s gonna try for second; the ball is bobbled out in center, and here comes the
throw, and what a throw! He’s gonna slide in head first, here he comes, he’s out! No, wait, safe-safe at second base, this kid really makes things happen out there.” Lovely, no?

The third and final act has the female of the couple asking, “Will you love me forever?” To which the male of the couple requests she let him sleep on it, and give her an answer in the morning. Predictably, the balling ensues, but only after he assures her he will love her forever. Predictably, also, the balling is followed by regret.

Now think about the setting again: I was seated in a Ford Festiva with my girlfriend. I chose to play Meat Loaf. I chose to play “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” specifically. And I chose to sing part of the duet. And insisted she sing the other part of the duet. This regarding a girl I would have liked to have laid. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot, right? Well, at least it wasn’t “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.”

Now share your embarrassing stories!

Nov

28

$100.

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Decided to drive around the Olympic peninsula yesterday on a lark. Stopped off at Quinault for lunch, Ruby Beach and La Push’s 1st Beach for beauty, and Poulsbo for dinner. [Yes, I know, I know, if you take the Hood Canal bridge to Kitsap, you're cheating the whole "around Olympic" conceit. But have you ever had to try to find vegetarian fare in those rinky dink towns on the east side of the peninsula?] A problem arose when we arrived at the Narrows going toward Tacoma, which is the “with fare” direction. All I had was a $100 bill. And apparently, against all odds, the toll booth operator refused my cash. Pointed at a sign that indicated the toll booth operator cannot accept bills in denominations larger than fifty. Asked if I had a card. Or a smaller bill. So we paid him in quarters. And gave him a nasty look.

Now, as a former cash register operator, I’m sympathetic to the plight of the small transactioner attempting to use large bills. I intentionally procure a number of $5 bills from the WSECU ATM when I get cash because, well, I don’t think it’s appropriate to pay for a pack of gum with a twenty. At least not if you can help it. But sometimes you just can’t help it. What if I was cardless and changeless? If all the funds I’ve had were wrapped up in this legal tender? Would he still have refused me? Was this him suggesting I be considerate? Because the printed and posted sign didn’t make it seem that way. It seemed as if the toll booth operator was denying that the Franklin I handed him was “legal tender for all debts, public and private.” Odd, no?

Nov

21

Mud flats.

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When D and I moved this past summer, the new digs had, shall we say, a rather low-key garden. A nice flowering tree in the front, a few azaleas and rhododendrons and small conifers to frame the front door, and a lot of grass. So we decided to build some raised beds and fill them with dirt. As it turns out, it is much cheaper, on a per-unit-volume basis, to buy dirt in bulk. So when the man came with five cubic yards, it made rather the dirt pile.

The dirt pile was placed upon the gravel in the front of the house, right alongside the street. The idea being that, when we were done moving what we wanted to move around back or to elsewhere in the front, we’d knock down the pile and plant grass. Or some other ground cover. Great idea, if we’d been speedier.

Unfortunately, we weren’t quick enough. The pile stayed in the front in one form or another for months. Until, two weeks ago, we finally gave up moving anything else and knocked the fucker down. And planted grass seed. In November. The rainy season in Olympia. Needless to say, we now have a mud puddle with a bunch of unsprouted and likely decaying grass seed buried therein in our front yard. Pretty, no?

The thought now is to purchase sod. Or else see if we can get moss to intervene. Any other suggestions?

Oct

31

Halloween.

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So, are children so far removed from their responsibilities to society at this point that the first two words of “trick or treat” have been rendered meaningless? If I refuse to hand out candy to today’s youth, am I safe? If so, I’m disappointed, and fear for the future.

On a related note, unlike in years past, on this go-around, D and I received a sizeable number of minors at our house, begging for sweets. Double digits, actually. Which, based upon our experiences at past residences in Olympia, we were unprepared for. As in, we hadn’t purchased sufficient quantity of chocolate. Oops. In a moment of panic, as we disgorged our last two pieces into the pillowcase of a lonely, straw-haired child, we scrambled to find alternate forms of sugar that might be acceptable.

Should we bake brownies? Should we hand out this Fall’s crop of Mallomars? Of course not: they’re not individually wrapped. We might have put poison on them. Or whatever it is that the insane parents of today worry about. What is prepackaged? Hmm…we’ve got a few bars of Trader Joe’s 72% cacao darks, originally procured for personal use. But what if more than three costumed solicitors come a-knocking? What about inedibles, where poison is less of a concern? Perhaps coins? No…remember what we did to the house that gave out the pennies when we were children. Shudder. Maybe…applesauce? Individually foiled applesauce containers? Can we really stoop to handing out applesauce?

We left four tubs of applesauce by the door until ten, at which point we breathed a sigh of relief that we didn’t need to test whether a “treat” of applesauce would be more insulting than no treat at all. Dodged a bullet with that one, no?

Oct

14

MarQueen.

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The NLG Conference this weekend in Seattle has accompanying festivities such that a drive back to Olympia was deemed inadvisable. Especially on Friday night, when the student party is bound to render me more than a little puzzled.

Therefore, I decided that lodgings were in order. As it turns out, the futon at A’s house is decidedly full, what with being covered by a pair of felines and a recovering Fulbright scholar. And, as attractive as the offer may have been at a younger time, as B pointed out, I’m too goddamned old to sleep on the floor.

Thus, a room at the MarQueen. Which is a fabulous hotel, with an odd history. Apparently it was an automotive repair college, with dorms atop, for a time. And then low-income housing. And now a “boutique” hotel. Which is sort of like “luxurious” without the luxury. Quirky. Not owned by Choice Hotels International, Inc. Or something.

The kicker is, when I went to book a room through Hotels.com or Orbitz or one of those fuckers, they said it was sold out. But when I called, they recognized me. “Oh, are you the Christopher Taylor who lives at [street address] in Olympia who stayed with us before”? Yes, miss, I am. I’m your loyal fucking customer. Now give me a room for Friday and Saturday night. And you know what? They fucking did. Rah, rah.

Oct

12

JoAnn Fabrics is the devil.

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Had a 50% off single item coupon at JoAnn Fabrics. Decided to purchase a mirror for the foyer. Also decided, since I was there anyway, to procure the mounting brackets for our curtain rods. Because the brackets that came with the house were improperly installed, making a mess of the drywall, and were too small to boot.

Mistake. Apparently no one informed JoAnn that the quality of the screws that come with the brackets actually matters. As in, when you’re screwing into the wall, you shouldn’t have flecks of metal coming off on the screwdriver. Especially not at a rate that means you never actually can get the screw entirely into the wall. Or remove it once it’s there. Stripped to hell.

Lesson: JoAnn Fabrics is the devil. Don’t shop there. Their products are of absurdly low quality. At least with respect to hardware. I cannot speak to their fabrics.

Sep

19

Funeral.

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Flying to Maryland tomorrow for a funeral. Accompanied by Lou Reed, Kath Bloom, and Arcade Fire.

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