Fun With “Mr. Sticky”

So, my sweetie and I were at the grocery store the other day, when we stumbled upon a demonstration of a “new” device, an “eco-friendly” lint roller, “Mr. Sticky.” Unlike most lint rollers, this one does not require the top layer be peeled off and thrown away, and unlike those bizarre lint brushes, if you accidently go backwards, you don’t get a wad of lint the size of a small dog sitting on your jacket.

My sweetie loves hats. Not just any hat, oh, no. She loves, and looks damn hot in Fedoras. Her favorite one is a black wool felt number that she wears in cooler weather and makes my knees weak.

The woman knows how to wear a hat. And a pin-stripe suit, but let’s not go there right now, ok?

One of the biggest issues with the aforementioned black Fedora is its penchant for collecting color-dulling lint. She goes through those damn paper lint rollers like nobody’s business. Ah, the price of total hotness…

Back to “Mr. Sticky” at the grocery store.

After the “Mr. Sticky” demo, we had a quick discussion and decided to take the plunge. After all, not only would we get the regular roller, we’d get a smaller “travel” roller that was perfectly suited for cleaning a hat. But wait, there was more! Besides the regular roller and the travel model, we were also getting the GIANT “Mr. Sticky!”

Now, this GIANT “Mr. Sticky” is about the size of a paint roller and sits on a long handle. He is perfect for getting under beds, and removing cobwebs from high, hard-to-reach places.

My darling dislikes cobwebs, and the thought of being able to remove them quickly and easily pleased her to no end.

When we returned home, my daughter (who wishes to remain known as Spawn) was at the house, so we (meaning my partner) decided to demonstrate our new friend, “Mr. Sticky.”

Before I continue, we have an odd habit of naming objects. The names are simple combinations of the title “Meester.” followed by the type of object, i.e. Meester. Toaster, Meester Cat… you get the picture. Why do we do it? Who the hell knows? We’re old enough to get away with shit like that and not care.

Anyway, once we convinced Spawn that we did NOT name Mr. Sticky, she was less confused and a little bit impressed with the device. Especially the GIANT one, which my love was eager to try out on the ceiling in the kitchen.

She pulled off the cover, extended the handle, and pressed the sticky roller to the smooth surface of the ceiling and stood there, not rolling.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s stuck.”
Spawn giggled.

My love gave it another push and the handle popped right off, leaving “Mr. Sticky” stuck over head.
“Great,” I said, “now what?”
Mr. Sticky answered that by suddenly releasing his grip on the ceiling and dropping into Spawn’s outstretched hand.

Fast forward a couple days. It was late, my love and I were exhausted from a day of yard work and were slowly crawling our aching bodies into bed. Just as I was about to turn out the light, I saw a spider on the ceiling. Not being a big fan of over-head type spiders, I exited the room and grabbed GIANT Mr. Sticky.

It. Did. Not. Go. Well.

There was sticking, swearing, and finally, gagging. Of course, the first thing to happen was the marvelous “Mr.” getting clingy with the rough texture of the bedroom ceiling. It took some time to figure out how I could roll it and still remove the offending critter. Or, sort of remove the spider. See, when “Mr. Sticky” is wet, either from water or spider goo, “Mr. Sticky” is no longer sticky, he’s disgusting.

The end result was a glob of guts smeared on the ceiling, more on Mr. Sticky, and a carcass dangling overhead.

Next time, I’ll just get Mr. Berretta and shoot the damn spider.

Fruit Dip

I’m thinking that might be the moniker I attach to my sweetie. See, she’s been pestering me about putting up a new blog post, which I would love to do, but it’s very difficult when the day is chopped up into little bits of “we need to be doing…”

So, we’re heading up to visit friends this afternoon. When I finally got her to tell me the time she wants to leave, I said, “ok, that gives me enough time to write a post.” This seemed to satisfy her.

As I began to put fingers to keyboard, she pulled out her latest food magazine, opened it up and said, “Fruit Dip.”

Really? RIGHT NOW?!?

Fruit Dip. Kind of fitting, now that I think about it. Oh, and yes, I’ll be paying for this post for a few days. There will be pouting. It will be everywhere, getting all over everything and do you have ANY idea how difficult it is to get pout out of clothes and furniture? Man, that stuff lingers.

I am so toast.

Anyway…

We’ve been very busy lately, working on the yard. It’s not a huge yard, but it is large enough to require a lot of attention, which is something we’ve not been giving it. Neither did my ex (although he did do his share, but his share usually involved chopping the hell out of some poor plant that I wanted to keep). My parents weren’t much on yard work either, and since they lived here for 40 years before I got the place, you can imagine the size of some of the shrubs. My mother has an amazing green thumb and can make just about anything grow anywhere. I swear, she could plant palm trees in Antarctica and they’d flourish.

The one thing she didn’t do was plan well. She planted them wherever there was space, and often times it was supposed to be temporary “until she could figure out the best spot to plant it permanently.” That’s why we have the slap-happy lilac bush that stands next to the front walk. Nothing says Western Washington like being smacked by a branch of wet leaves.

But, there is a neighborhood bitch fairy who doesn’t like chaos of any kind. Thanks to my mother, our yard is chaotic. The bitch fairy hates our yard. She left an ugly note on our front door, then called the city. The city guy was embarrassed and said, “well, just trim the overgrown stuff back, tidy up the side yard, and we’ll call it good. Until the next time she calls, anyway.” I’m guessing the Code Enforcement department is very familiar with my neighbor.

Yard work rhymes with hard work for a reason. There are parts of my body that are hurting a lot. But, the side yard looks pretty damn good, and after I finish stacking the firewood, it will look even better. However, the bushes that the bitch fairy was pitching her fit about have not been touched. I have a couple weeks before the city guy will come back for an inspection, so I’m taking my time getting to the thorns in her side (yard).

Mind you, the yard doesn’t look much different than it did when my ex lived here, but now that I’m out of the closet and living with the woman I love, all of a sudden, things get ugly over the fence. She hasn’t said anything directly, and I doubt she ever will, but if she does, I have a plan.

I’m going to ignore her. Pointedly ignore her. Turn my back on her and everything. I won’t flip her off, I won’t call her “bitch” (to her face, anyway). I will give her nothing to take to any more city officials. I will, however, annoy the shit out of her by kissing my girlfriend full on the lips while standing in my own backyard.

Because the most satisfying type of bitchery, is the subtle type. Well, subtly “in-your-face.” We gays can be good at that.

Some Answers, Some Plans

It took me a while, but I finally figured out why blogging had become such a difficult thing for me to do on a regular basis. Not only was my job taking up inordinate amounts of my time and energy, but so were my attempts to keep something alive that needed to be let go.

Like that blog about my life. The life that I changed so much it no longer existed, yet I was still trying to write in the same way. Stuff changes, the blog had to go. Besides, every time I read some of those older posts, I would start tearing up and get all morose.

I hate being morose.

So, I saved those posts and deleted the blog. Why did I save them? They're part of my history, and good or bad, that is still part of my life.

So, for those of you looking to hear about Spawn, Bubba, or Thing... well, I'm not sure you'll find them here. Or, what I'll call them. Those are their real nicknames, but those names are also tied to the old blog, so I'm a bit torn. Besides Killer has decided she no longer wants to be known as Killer, especially since that's not what I call her at home, so...

How much of my past do I want to bring forward? How much of my past wants to be moved?

I'll get with everyone and find out just how much of their lives they want on the blog and we'll go from there.

I make no promises on the frequency of posts, the humor content (or total lack thereof). In this blog, I'll talk about life as a gay woman adjusting to this new life while living in her childhood home.

That topic alone would fill a dozen blogs. But I’m only going to have this one about my life. My other blog is about writing.

Because there are some things that just won’t change, and my love of writing and sharing my world are two of them.