Delightful!

I have been feeling the need to counterbalance the 'I Hate You' post with a more positive one, even before I thought I was going to shut down this blog. Usually, I can remember to focus on the simple pleasures in life, the things that delight me. I have always been inspired by Katherine Hepburn in "On Golden Pond," how her character, Ethel Thayer, was delighted by even just the calling of the loons on the lake ("The loons, Norman!")

What delights me? (and why do you care?)

I get so much pleasure from my pets on a daily basis. Domestic Partner and I enjoy indulging the codependent nature of our pugs. And we are happy to have a new feline friend in the house, again, even if she is a little vampire kitty, always biting and chewing on our hands and fingers in her play.

Can you believe I don't watch "Dancing With the Stars?" I know. Chastise me all you want. But I am delighted to recently learn about Mark Dacascos. Why am I just now discovering this sexy man, this Chairman of America's "Iron Chef?!" I don't care if he is a flat-footed dancer, as my coworkers have told me. This man is fine. Call it a combination of narcissism and just plain lust, but this part-Asian man is my new role model! Yes, he has trained for decades as a martial artist, but if he can maintain such physical perfection in his forties, then I have no excuse to give up on any of my own fitness efforts.

I continue to enjoy the TV series "Glee." It's like a new version of "Fame" to me. I delight in the new "Glee" soundtrack CD that I bought at Target last week, and I can't wait for the second one to come out next month! The cheerleader character, Quin, sings a cover of the Supremes' "Keep Me Hanging On." It may be an even more watered-down and vocally vapid version than Kim Wilde's, but it's one of the stand-out songs from the album that's had me rockin' all week. This version seems to hit the girl-power/feminist message more acutely somehow, at least, in a white girl kinda' way.

I delight in my scooter ride to work on sunny mornings, especially when it's a particularly safe and timely ride. I delight in the endorphins I am able to easily access when I jog, or go to the gym, or just dance around my kitchen. I take great delight in eating chocolate every day, especially Snickers, even though I shouldn't.

And I delight in the anticipation that comes along in life. The dancers I used to work with in Japan have started to find some of us Americans on facebook, and they have already set a date for a reunion next summer. It gives me continuing delight to look forward to flying across the Pacific to see them all again, in person.

It also gives me motivation to get my middle-aged ass in the gym regularly and out on my neighborhood jogging route.

Like I told you, it's also for the endorphins, my organically manufactured high and delight!

One Person

One person can make a difference.

I had every intention of writing a goodbye post tonight. I was going to retire from blogging, at least for now. I was going to pop the bubble, as it were. Then I noticed another follower. From Poland? How can I quit now when this reader just recently added my blog to his reading roll? How could I possibly risk exacerbating the precarious global conflict that's already rampant around the world by giving up on my blog?

Okay, really: How could I be so lazy and give up so easily?

Why did I start blogging in the first place? Honestly, it was another fun way to get attention. Why do you think I used to sing and dance? (Why do you think I still force my coworkers to endure my singing and dancing?) Also, I really thought I might discover that I have something substantial to say, unremarkable as my life can be, most of the time.

Why was I going to make tonight's post my last? My writing is suffering in general. Continuation of My First Novel attempt has been shamefully neglected, and I thought that cessation of this blog might help to resolve that. I feel the need, yet again, to clear away the clutter, even though that means wanting to clean out closets and getting rid of old clothes before sitting down to do any actual writing.

Maybe I am just anxious over the fact that Domestic Partner and I will be hosting my family in our home again for one of the holiday dinners this year, and I want to do as much prep cleaning as possible before that happens.

Also, my life may be too easy. My life is great, actually, and who wants to read about that? We have a new kitten in the house, another preemie we had rescued from abandonment in our backyard. Baby Kitty is playful, affectionate, and just too adorable for its own good at almost two months. She sleeps between the humans in bed, and sometimes between the pugs. Life is cozy and sweet.

We think Baby is a 'she.' We were wrong with the last cat.

I have nothing remarkable to write, most days, but I have good things in my life, and I am grateful for that. I am grateful for safe scooter rides on the freeway, and for the fact that I am employed. Sometimes, while riding into work, I remember to pray for the chance to be a light in this world, and for the chance to make a difference in someone's life, no matter how small.

Adam-from-Poland, today you are that one person to me. Because of you I will continue to write new posts for Plastic Bubble World.

And for that I thank you.

I Hate You

I can't write. All I want to do is rant and rave about my pet peeves. I don't want this blog to be an outlet for that - a dumping grounds.

Oh, well. Too bad.

You people who leave your shopping carts in the parking lot? I hate you. If you can't push it back to the front of the supermarket entrance, at least take it to the designated area in the parking lot. Think of the people working on staff. Do it for them.

Stop littering in the parks and around the DMV by my house. I hate you for doing that. Bushes and small trees are not there for you to place empty soda cans and cigarette boxes. Trash cans are only a few feet away.

And stop leaving empty In'N'Out bags, boxes, and soft drink cups by the curb, in front of my neighbors' houses. And beer bottles. Take it away in your car, you know, in the same way you brought it to our neighborhood.

To the guy who dropped his salsa on the floor in El Pollo Loco. I hate you. I can't believe you just left it there and went back to the salsa bar to get some more. Think of the people working on staff and clean up your own damn mess. I feel sorry for your girlfriend/wife/sister (whatever). She has to put up with your apathy for however long you two are together.

Be reasonable. Be like me and do things my way so I won't have to hate you.

And to everyone driving in Los Angeles? Use your frickin' turn signals. Give me a clue if you are about to change lanes or make a turn, so I don't crash into you.

I know my life is good. If this is the worst my life gets, then I should just be grateful. But, still. Quit it.

Get off my lawn, you damn kids!

Plaid Polyester and Plastic Name Tags

I served my time in the fast food industry, in the early 80's at Le Box du Jacque, and I had a great time. Usually. Once or twice, I had run into the freezer to yell and scream my frustration out. But as with most memories from more than twenty years ago, the good outweighs the bad.

We had fun at work. Half of the staff was comprised of high school band geeks, including BFF Kathy, Knucklehead, and BMWinLaguna. We called our place of employment "Jerk in the Box," "Jack in the Crack," "Jerk Off in the Box" - everything but the actual name.

I started out on fries, and eventually I was promoted to the grill. I loved working the grill because I got to eat the extra hamburgers when they became more than thirty minutes old. I probably made more hamburgers than I was supposed to, even for the dinner rush hour.

Kathy worked the front counter and sometimes the drive-thru. She would bag the hamburgers I had wrapped in the shiny, logo-marked foil before handing them through the window. "What if you took a single bite out of the burger before wrapping it up?" she had asked me once. That still makes me laugh. I can just picture the surprised or pissed off look on some one's face after they drive away and pull the burger out of the bag.

Knucklehead was a year older than me, and therefore much wiser and more dignified. We had been cast mates in the school musical, "The Fantasticks." I was comfortable singing show tunes in front of him while on dish washer duty in the back room. Sometimes I would switch from show tunes to Madonna.

"Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight - starlight."

Knucklehead's tone was thick with condescension. "Oh, those are difficult lyrics!"

The training methods were probably Pavlovian-based. We learned to automatically respond to a series of beeps and boops for taking the french fries out of the fryer before they burned, and for flipping over the burger patties in time, etc.

The taco salad (at the time) was crowned with a ladle full of seasoned, soupy ground beef. The taco meat was kept in a kind of crock pot and would congeal if it wasn't stirred every fifteen minutes.

"Doo-doo, doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo," was what I heard every time the short medley would play over the taco meat crock pot.

BMW, with his perpetually dry wit, came up with original lyrics on his own. "Stir the taco meat, yeah-yeah-yeah," he would sing in perfect pitch.

We had a great boss, Penny, a woman with a blond bun on her head and concerned blue eyes. She would let us eat anything we wanted, "as long as the customers don't see you." I guess she figured that we would end up eating much less that way than if we had snuck around behind her back.

So, we really liked Penny. She got fired. She had been collecting cash from the register drawers, to take to the back and count in the office. She wanted all of the cash in one place, so she grabbed the most logical and handy item available: a logo-marked paper bag. That paper bag got handed out the drive-thru window. The bag contained over $1,000.

It was never seen again.

Penny's career at Junk in the Box may have been cut short, but Madonna's is closing in on three decades.

Eat those difficult lyrics, Knucklehead!

Ghosts of Halloween Past

Once upon a time, in the land of Boys Town, on a late October night, the Animaniacs met the Del Rubio Triplets.

The year was 1994. Pagers were still the rage and Billy Clinton was almost a quarter of the way through his time in the Oval Office.

The Animaniacs approached the three stately and elegant ladies a-strollin' down The Boulevard, to ask for a group photo.

The First Triplet was a little hairy.
The Second Triplet was more hairy.
The Third Triplet was too hairy.

The Animaniacs relied on the the kindness of strangers to stroke their egos and take their photos (the Kind Stranger was actually BFF Kathy).

The Animanics were chatty with excitement while arranging the tableaux of six, especially Wakko.

"Okay! One more, please."

"Peter?!" The Hairiest Triplet exclaimed. "Peter Varvel, is that you?"

Wakko wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Um . . . Sean?" Fortunately, Wakko was right. The six of them laughed and hugged and took a few more photos before parting friendly ways.

Later that evening, the Animaniacs came across a portly drag queen.

"Oh, look," she said. "The Disneys are here."

Silly, portly drag queen. It wasn't the Disneys. It was the Warner Brothers.

And sister!

Happy Halloween, Blog-o-Friends!

Put On a Little Makeup, Makeup

One of the reasons I love Halloween is that it gives me an acceptable reason to wear makeup. Having to wear makeup on stage showed me how much it can help to even out your skin tone, even with just a little foundation and powder. And some blush and eye shadow, too. Eventually, I learned what would read as subtle and appropriate amounts under the lights - for a guy.

I also learned what a hassle it is to try to towel the sweat off of your face backstage and avoid smudging your makeup, between aerobic dance numbers. Pretty as the full makeup job made me, I would end up applying only eyeliner for shows.

Eyeliner is my favorite. I love the way it makes me look, kind of like Keith Richards in a strange and mysterious way, maybe even a little dangerous. Or maybe it just makes me look really faggy. Whatever. I like the way it brings out my eyes and helps to highlight my dark hair and my features, in general.

I also use eyeliner to draw facial hair since I can't grow my own in very thick. I first started drawing in a mustache and goatee when I attended 50's parties in high school. I would go dressed as a beatnik, all in black and with bongo drums.

I drew in a a mustache and goatee last year when I went to Disneyland on Halloween day with BFF Kathy and her two kids. Of course, I also drew under my eyes and on most of my eyelids, to match. I was wearing a rocker pirate costume which I had bought at Target and thought was pretty cool - it was sort of Adam Ant-ish. Kids were encouraged to wear their Halloween costumes into Disneyland. Adults were not. I was made to take the costume pieces off and walk around the theme park in my boring plain tee shirt and basic black pants. I kept the makeup on, though.

I received a strange and direct look from Jack Sparrow when he came back out from his break in Critter Country. Kathy thought that he might be secretly flirting with me a little. My heart fluttered - a little.

Lucky 13

I live in a dream world. I found my prince and I lived Happily Ever After.
But I’ll tell you a secret. Domestic Partner is not my soul mate and I am not his.

‘Compatible’ is not the most appropriate word for us. ‘Peaceful coexistence’ may be a better description, but that sounds too pessimistic to me. What we have is rather unremarkable and conflict free, on a day to day basis, different as we are from each other.

He is so introverted and I revel in being extroverted. Where he is practical and pragmatic, I am impulsive and emotional. I prefer variety and spontaneity, while he likes things organized, orderly, and under control. People perceive him as the quiet type. I talk too much, all of the time.

And I need him. He is my stability.

How many different ways can I say that? He is my anchor. He counterbalances my foolishness. He is the thinking brain to my bleeding heart. He grounds me, seemingly against my will. But truly, I wouldn't let him do that if I didn't want it.

“If we were not together,” I told him, “I would not have even gone back to school. I would still be trying to work as a performer on cruise ships and in Japan, as long as people were still willing to hire me - and my pending retirement and future would be more pathetic than it already is.”

This is not the type of man with whom I thought I would end up. I keep thinking about Chandler's ex-girlfriend, Janice, on 'Friends.' "This is movie love," she told him when they had gotten back together, briefly, one season. That's the kind of lifelong relationship I had imagined I would be in some day, the complete fairy tale.

But how long do those fairy tales last? I also think that if I were with someone who was more like me, it probably wouldn't last very long. We might even come close to strangling each other (as BFF Kathy says about us if she and I had ended up marrying each other).

Domestic Partner and I may not have the bright, flaring flame of passion that I used to think I wanted in a relationship. But I have learned from him to appreciate how steady and long-lasting a low burning flame can be.

We are not at all alike. Some days it seems as if the only thing we have in common is our love for our dogs. Do I wish he was more emotionally open and physically affectionate? Yes. Does he wish for me to be more sensible and to contribute more to house cleaning? Oh, yes! But he is very good about just allowing me to be who I am, so I can usually remember to do the same for him.

This month, it will be thirteen years that Domestic Partner and I have been together. I feel extremely lucky to have him in my life, and I sincerely hope that we stay together and grow old together.

Domestic Partner is on my list of a dozen items that I am grateful for on a daily basis. He is second on the list. First on the list is the dog he had when I first met him, Caesar, who was the First and Best Pug, Ever.

Happy Anniversary, DP. Here's to thirteen more years together and beyond.