I’m not sure where or where the fuck I decided I liked some of these photos.  Look, three naked chicks and their shoulder blades.  And spines.  There’s a rug that was probably made by small children.  Oooh, sexy.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

And why the fuck aren’t I writing?

The answer to both of those questions is, I don’t fucking know.  I haven’t felt all that inspired recently and I’ve no clue why.  I also haven’t felt like meeting new people or fucking anyone but the Viking.  The other day I realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had an orgasm.  Crazy, I know.  I used to masturbate to orgasm several times a day, dammit.

I do not think my sex drive is gone (especially after last night when I had a very, very nice orgasm indeed), but I do think I’m probably on a down swing in my cycle.  Not my menstrual cycle, because I never have any idea where I am in those, having not had a period for over two years, but my sex cycle.  I, like everyone who will admit it, go through sexual phases.  I’m in a phase where I like having sex but I don’t feel the need to pursue it voraciously.

I suppose that makes me boring, and so be it.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

The stories are always about the dramatic breakup but they’re not true; what happens is that inertia takes over.  People get married because that’s what’s been planned and they don’t want to disappoint anyone.  What really happens is that the wedding happens and then the people realize they’re miserable; I was miserable for eight years after I married but I have a friend who was only miserable for nine months.  I was depressed for an additional period of over two years but my friend got with her guy and married him right away.  I assume they’re somewhat happy since they’re still together four years later.

Life isn’t nearly as dramatic as it’s made out to be on dramas. Yes, I do see the irony.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Here’s another one of “my” interesting photos that happens to have a “sexy” woman in it.  I like the back lighting and the way the light hits the model, who just happens to be naked. Our lady, here, is a tad skinny – you can see not only her hips but also her ribs – but the photo itself is nice and well lit.

I’m jealous of all those plants.  We’ve now been in our place for nearly a year and have yet to get any more than a couple of plants in novelty dinosaur planters.  Other than that, I just have cuttings of plants I had for years in San Francisco that I brought over on the plane.  Those have been sitting in water for about a year now.

One of the reasons I don’t have houseplants, which I love, is because I don’t have a place where I can repot them.  It’s a long story but basically it comes down to not having “outdoor” space protected from the weather in which I can conduct such activities.  I just wrote a letter to the landlord so hopefully that’ll be changing soon (but I don’t hold out much hope).

I’ve never lived in a place with a radiator but I have heard that they’re very drying to plants.  I don’t have that problem now, but I do have central heat (when the furnace is working, another “long story”), which is drying to the skin of us old folks.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I like architecture.  I like that it’s an art form that is both art and science.  If I were smarter when I was young, and if I’d had more mature influence and advice when I was in college, perhaps I would have gone into it.

Instead, I have to “resort” to living in a city that is rich with architecture.  I’ve gone on architectural tours on the obviously named Chicago River.  I’ve been to Oak Park, a suburb – oh, I mean a village – very close to Chicago that has bragging rights for being Frank Lloyd Wright’s home.  Other than a whole neighborhood full of homes FLW designed, and a marketing message of being “different” (at least that’s what I saw on adverts on the El), Oak Park doesn’t have much more to offer than any other Midwestern suburb as far as I can tell.

Just in case it’s not clear, I love architecture.  I’m an Art Institute of Chicago member, which allows me to see architecturally-related exhibitions “free” whenever I want, especially when I have/need to entertain guests.

The reason I like this photo is for the architectural aspects.  This is similar to the kinds of photos I “like” on Instagram.  [Follow me via info over there to the left.]  And I can’t remember much from my (pre-digital) photography courses (high school and junior college) but I know there was something about the photo being virtually divided into nine quadrants – three across and three down – the junctions of which are supposed to be the focal points.  Using that aesthetic, both the (center of the) darkened end of the tunnel and the woman’s knee are at the intersections of divisions of the top left and bottom right quadrants, respectively.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (2)."]

It was probably around noon when I got up.  Getting up for me is a process of relatively long duration; I don’t drink coffee.  The Viking was nice enough to make a brunch that would allow me to perform my chef duties.

And chef duties I did perform.  I ended up doing a shit-ton of delegating because despite all my planning I felt pressed for time and put my sous chef, the Viking, and most guests to work.

Before that, I pulled the turkey out of the brine, but not before noticing the security of the bag in which the turkey and brine were to be protected from the surrounding icy water had been breached.  Instead of turkey and brine staying in the bag and the properly concentrated brine doing its job on the turkey, sometime during the night the bag had sprung a leek.  When I opened the lid of the ice chest I saw a turkey carcass floating in a tea-colored, ice-laden liquid.  I figured the turkey could spend even more time in the not-so-briny liquid before it became too salty.

That may have been one of my many mistakes of the day, thinking I had more time than I did.  Eventually, I put the turkey in the roasting pan and put it in the fridge to give the skin a chance a dry out.  After making the achiote butter and making room between the turkey’s skin and its breasts for it to rest and baste, I made a chile and spice rub and caressed it into the turkey’s skin.

Then it was time for me to do my hair.  I had seen a video of a woman with seemingly thick hair put her hair into a cute up do within minutes and I wanted to give it a go.  I didn’t have the right kind of hair pins or any dry shampoo, but I thought bobby pins and mouse would make do.  I was kind of wrong because bobby pins weren’t wide enough to take on my hair; the mousse worked pretty well.  Because the pins weren’t strong enough, they didn’t hold up my hair, which was supposed to be in a cute bun-like configuration off-center on the back of my head.  I ended up having a side pony tail that hopefully didn’t look too stupid.

My hair might have been less than it could have because when I was doing it our first guests arrived.  We had told them to come over any time after 3pm but that it was very casual so I didn’t expect them until at the earliest, 3:30pm.  However, they must have had a different idea because the doorbell buzzed at 3:02pm.

Of course they were welcomed, just not by me since I was doing my hair.  The Viking let them in and showed them the snacks available on the sideboard.  In addition to buying olives, pickles, and such from Whole Foods, I had made my own seasoned nut mix that was very “fall” with pumpkin seeds and maple syrup; the Viking put them all out in a very inviting manner.

After finishing my hair I greeted our guests and endeavored to get the turkey in the oven.  Yes, guests had arrived and I had yet to put the turkey in.  I knew from a few years of cooking them that turkeys don’t take nearly as long to cook as our mothers led us to believe they do so I wasn’t worried.  Also, I did some math with the Viking’s help and we determined that the turkey should go in right around 3pm.  Our guests thought the turkey was done – apparently because the chile and spice rub gave it a nice patina – so they weren’t worried either.  I put the turkey with a temperature probe in a thigh in the preheated oven.

Then I endeavored to prep the dressing and the vegetable side dish, both of which needed time in the oven.  Because they needed to go into the oven, and out of the oven, the oven door was opened quite a bit.  Anyone who cooks knows a lot of heat is lost every time an oven door is opened.  I knew that, I did.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes I feel like I’m still a kid myself and my peers who have children are “adults.”  I know this isn’t necessarily true; I’m as much as an adult as anyone my age and they as immature as anyone who’s realized that growing up isn’t all that fun.

The most fun is playing like a kid but without having to stop on someone else’s schedule.  And with alcohol.  And sex.  A whole lot of sex.

Yes, I’m selfish.  Yes, I’m immature.  I also don’t have to think much about the future.

I don’t have to worry about sending anyone to college, or feeling badly that I can’t afford to do so.  I don’t have to worry about smothering my kids, thereby retarding their emotional growth, making them fuck-ups as adults; the animals need me to dote on them their whole lives.  I’m glad I haven’t contributed to the overpopulation of the world.  I’m glad I don’t have to think about the kind of world my kids or my grandkids, or so on, will live in because they won’t exist.  When I die that will be it.

I don’t have an urge to see what my kid would look like.  I don’t have an urge for the immortality that passing on one’s genetic material provides.  I do want to live the life I’m living now whilst having a lot of fun.

Lest y’all think that since I’m not worried about my progeny or how it will fare on this planet, that I’m a douche, let me assure you that I do what I can environmentally.  I don’t have a car and haven’t for years; when driving is necessary ZipCar works just fine.  I separate recycling from trash, and when I could – in San Francisco where the city collected it – I composted like a motherfucker.  I pick up after my dog religiously (though I don’t worship her shit or anything – that’s gross).  I use all natural kitty litter.  You know those bags that dog food and kitty litter and such come in?  The kind that can’t be recycled?  Yeah, those I turn into trash bags themselves; they’re going in the trash anyway, they might as well be full of trash when they go.  So I’m doing my part for all the kids of people who were too stupid or too arrogant to use birth control correctly.

And with that, I’ll get myself another drink.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Your Seat, Milady (2)."]

I’m not sure when I first heard of sploshing.  I saw A Dirty Shame where such practices were highlighted.  Then, when I met Charles Gatewood I was introduced to his book, Messy Girls!

Overall, playing with food looked like a lot of fun but I had never had a chance to do it.  Charles had offered to take pictures of Sugar and I playing with food.  He suggested he bring a kiddie pool into his living room so we could make a mess without, you know, making a mess.  It never happened.

But that didn’t stop me from thinking about it, something the Viking had obviously kept in mind.

He told me that I could do what I wanted with the cake.  I walked over, my feet sticking to the plastic drop cloth with every step, and I looked at the cake.  It was a half-sheet size with white frosting.  Other than the scalloped border and my name there was no other decoration.

I turned around and hovered my ass over the cake.  I knew I wanted to sit on it.  I knew I wanted to feel it squish up between my ass cheeks.  I knew that the mess that would inevitably result would be contained by the drop cloth, but I was still hesitant.

I’d never sat in a cake before, but I had had frosting fights.  When I was around 10 years old my mother had a lover (her word), Peggy.  Peggy and I got along very well, and I can attribute my sarcasm and smart-ass attitude to her.  She and I used to make chocolate chip cookies together, and sometimes we’d make cakes.  Cakes need to be frosted, of course.

That's frosting on my face. The hair is a product of the 1980s.

More than once Peggy and I got into mini food fights where we chased each other around with frosting and smeared it on each others’ faces.  I remember having a whole lot of fun.  I also remember that my mother wasn’t too happy and that she’d make us play our messy games outside.  I’m not sure if that’s what made me want to sit in cakes, but it made me realize that playing with food can be a lot of fun.

Though I’m an adult it can still be difficult for me to get past rules I learned as a child.  One of those rules had to do with not playing with one’s food.  So despite the fact that I was invited to do so, it was hard for me to sit on that cake.

I hovered.  And then I sat my big fat ass down on the cake.

It felt cold.  The Viking had just picked up the cake from the bakery of our closest grocery store, a few blocks away.  It was barely fall so the walk home didn’t cool the cake, but the store had refrigerated it to preserve it; they didn’t know that the cake was meant for sploshing, not eating.

When I sat on the cake it didn’t squish up between my ass cheeks like I had hoped; it flattened.  It was a single-layer cake so it simply got flatter.  I had wanted my ass to be covered with cake and frosting and for the cake to look destroyed.  I got up and I barely had anything on my ass and the cake was just a flatter version of itself.  My name was even still legible.

Meanwhile, the Viking had the camera out and was taking pictures.  For the sake of his photos as well as for my own satisfaction I felt like there should be more than a flattened cake.  I reached down and grabbed a handful of cake and smashed it into the Viking’s face.

I had already been laughing.  The Viking had already been laughing.  By the time the Viking had cake on his face we were a couple of silly giggling idiots.  A couple of idiots who were having a whole lot of fun.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I haven’t died.  I haven’t decided to stop posting.  I haven’t blog-faded.  What I have been is busy.

But Shazam, you don’t have a job, how can you possibly be busy?  Well, asshats, working for the man isn’t the only thing that can fill one’s time.  Do any of you really just work?  No, you do other shit too, and so do I.

I will explain to y’all some of the “other shit” I do, something I didn’t bother to do for the Jazz Man.  I had met the Jazz Man through OkCupid and knew I probably wouldn’t be having sex with him.  I’m not sure if all people do the attraction math, but I do.

Attraction math works something like this:  within the first five seconds or so of meeting someone I decide if, knowing nothing else about the person, I’d fuck him or her.  From that point, various things will make me more or less likely to fuck the person.  Or, looked at it another way, the person’s grooming, accent, teeth, attitude, for example, can add too or subtract from the original “score.”

Jazz Man’s hair was long and kind of gross – minus.  Jazz Man explained to me, in a very condescending way, what “ovo-lacto vegetarian” meant – minus.  I told him I was from California.  Jazz Man then tried to explain to me, after many assertions on my part that I was not smart enough to get it, how into he was into some sort of perfect number or something – minus.  He was a math professor who apparently hadn’t spoken to anyone not in his department for a while.

I told him I wasn’t looking to fuck, but to be friends.  He was kind of offended but tried to play it off.  We were trying to schedule another get-together but our schedules weren’t meshing; he went to France for a while, I had various things going on.

He showed his true colors when he said that I couldn’t possibly be busy since I don’t have a job.  Maybe I’m defensive.  I’m probably defensive.  But not working does not mean not doing anything.  I’ve been enjoying my art classes.  I started yoga and I really am going to go more than once a week.  I walk Isis.  I just had a visit from my dad.  I enjoy cooking and procuring things to cook.  I volunteer.  Archery.  Kayaking.  Sex.  Film class.  Book club.  I do shit, dammit.

Well, Jazz Man didn’t think so.  He thought I should be free whenever he was free since he had a job and I did not.

So I’ve been slacking here on Random Rim Jobs.  It’s been nearly two weeks since I posted.  While I don’t have a good excuse or reason, I’d been thinking for some time of cutting back from daily to five days a week, but that’s lame.  Five days a week mimics the typical work week, something that I don’t have.

I’ve decided to post when I want to post.  That way I don’t feel obligated to put out posts just for the sake of it.  So maybe there’ll be a couple of posts a day.  Or not.  I sincerely hope not to have an absence of nearly two weeks.  I’d be happy to post more things written by y’all.  (ShazamChi@yahoo.com for submissions, which can be attributed anonymously or pseudonymously.)

I’m still alive.  I’m living quite well in Chicago with the Viking and the animals.  Winter’s coming.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Your Seat, Milady (1)."]

Because we were some of the few people who braved the inclement weather to make it all the way (a walk of several blocks) to the farmers market, we were able to not only pick up our usual share of produce but also sample prepared goods at booths at which there were always lines when the weather was better.  We had “hand pies” both savory and sweet that were quite tasty, but not necessarily worth waiting in line for more than a couple of minutes.

By the time we walked home the rain had stopped.  It wasn’t cold at all so it was quite pleasant.  At home we settled in for a relaxing Saturday.  The Viking and I like to take it easy on the weekends.

Throughout the day the Viking kept telling me how excited he was about the night’s surprise.  I was as well, but I didn’t want to guess and possibly ruin the surprise.

Finally it came time for me to shower and the Viking to get what he called “last-minute supplies.”

Right after I got out of the shower I donned my fluffy white robe – a birthday present from the Viking – and, after swabbing out my ears (with cotton buds), my ear buds (a term I loathe).  I didn’t hear when the Viking returned but I did know he returned based on some noises coming down the long hall from the front of the apartment.

The Viking had told me to be naked on the bed at 7pm.  Blindfolded.  I relaxed in the bedroom and listened to whatever it was I was listening to – definitely a podcast; probably one about sick and disgusting news stories.  (Look to the right to see the sort of shit I love.)

I knew I had some time before I had to put on the blindfold when I heard the Viking walk down the hall.  He told me that everything was ready.  I took off my robe and stopped listening to the iPod and put on the blindfold.

The Viking led me out of the bedroom in a manner that would have gotten me hurt if I didn’t know the place, but then the Viking never told me he was good at leading the naked blind.

Down the hall, zig for the bar stools, zag for the bookshelf.  Then the Viking took off my blindfold.

The sight made me think of “Dexter” immediately.  Knowing that I’d never killed anyone, I was only a little tiny bit nervous when I saw that the couch and the coffee table were covered in a clear plastic drop cloth.  Since I’ve always been pretty good at purposely forgetting unpleasant things, I again went through my history – definitely never killed anyone, don’t like children enough to put the energy into diddling them, and no animal torture.  So the Viking was probably not going to kill me for any of those reasons.  And it would be pretty dumb to kill me in the home we shared.  The Viking’s not dumb.

Besides, how would he explain that just before I “disappeared” he picked up a cake with my name on it from the local chain grocery store?  That was the last-minute supply the Viking had to get, a half-sheet cake decorated simply with my name.  The cake was sitting on the plastic draped over the coffee table.

As soon as I saw the cake I knew what it was for.  I was going to get to sit in the cake.  Naked.  Fun!

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.