Blogging has been light due to circumstances beyond my control. I appreciate the emails inquiring as to my plight, but all is relatively well, IÂ’ve just been busy. And it brought Jim out of retirement. I wondered what would happen the day the page turned white, and sure as eggs is eggs, Jim mounted up and rode onto the field. I am pleased.

On to new business.

If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s an unannounced visitor. When I’m at home relaxing after a hard day, the last thing I want to hear is the doorbell. I used to pretend I wasn’t at home—I’d quietly sneak up to the door and peer out the little hole to see who was invading my privacy, at which point I’d either slink away or open up, depending on who it was.

For some reason the doorbell only rings when my wife is out, leaving me to deal with it. SheÂ’s out a lot. IÂ’m a homebody and sheÂ’s a social creature so it works out well, with me getting my alone time. Except for when the doorbell rings.

Neighbors are never given an audience. I donÂ’t care if music was blaring and both cars were in the driveway. Yes, they know IÂ’m in there and I donÂ’t care. IÂ’m not putting on pants for them. I generally opened up for my wifeÂ’s friends because I enjoy standing there in my underwear watching them try to look me in the eye instead of looking at my drawers, and they were always invited in to wait so that I might prolong the uneasiness. After a while they came to expect it and it was no longer fun, and in fact, started to present a danger.

But those days are over now. As soon as the doorbell rings my kid jumps up and runs towards the door yelping. ThereÂ’s no way to pretend youÂ’re asleep or not home with all the racket that kid makes. I long for the days of old, when a butler answered the door and visitors were expected to present a calling card, which would be brought to the master on a silver tray.

“Send them away, Throckmorton. I shan’t be receiving today.”

Since thatÂ’s not going to happen any time soon I have adapted. I generally just swing the door open and stand there in my drawers regardless of who might be on the other side. I imagine itÂ’s a sight, what with the kid trying to get around me and run out like a mad dog and me standing there with a glass of scotch, but you know, thatÂ’s not really my problem.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:10 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I donÂ’t know why this bugs me so much, but it does.

Why wonÂ’t people use their front doors? Last week I stayed with some friends and during the entire weekend we were not permitted to use the front doors. We had to go in and out through the garage. IÂ’ve noticed that many people instill this rule and it makes me nuts.

Instead of opening the door and walking out we had to go through “the tunnels” as I began to refer to them. A roundabout ass-backwards route to the driveway. What the hell is so special about your front door that you can’t open it to general use?

I’ve also noticed that the same people who won’t use the front door also have “the museum room.” The “museum room” is one room in the house, usually a big room, that no one s allowed to go in. Years ago people called them formal living rooms. Old people insist on covering all the furniture in the museum room with plastic.

Regardless, a shitload of people still have a museum room that people are forbidden to enter. I guess they figure if no one ever walks on the carpet it will last forever, like a shrine. Museum rooms usually have at least one white couch. I think thatÂ’s in the handbook somewhere. Anyway, people spend a lot of money for a house and then they cordon off the biggest and best room and declare it off limits. I can only assume whatÂ’s in their heads, that maybe someday, maybe, someone important enough will visit and they will enter the museum room and sit very carefully on the furniture for a little while. I donÂ’t know who will qualify, but IÂ’m pretty sure it would have to be a royal, or at least a Baron or a Viscount.

ItÂ’s been my experience that no family members will ever qualify to enter the museum room. And since the Queen Mother will probably not be visiting the Detroit suburbs or wherever any time soon, the whole thing is moronic. Three hundred square feet of house is roped off like a police crime seen; completely unusable. I have seen people live in a house for twenty years and never use that room.

In addition, the people who do this don’t have fifteen dollar per square foot wool carpet, priceless oriental rugs or even decent furniture. All I ever see is the standard, middle-class fare, including a shitload of small, inexpensive knick-knacks. Usually white ceramic pieces that are terribly old-fashioned. Maybe some cut glass—certainly not Venetian.

I have also noticed that if the family has a dog, he has been beaten into submission and will never enter the museum room except to shit on the carpet, because thatÂ’s the logical place, it will not be found for while.

So. Go ahead people. Keep roping off a big room that your family could use on a daily basis. Keep it reserved for the occasional poodle turd. Because you never know when someone better than you might drop by for a cup of Earl Grey.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 10:37 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I havenÂ’t been able to receive email for who knows how long but it seems to be fixed now.

My car is leaking something again. Just enough to worry about.

I have a world class migraine and a dinner meeting tonight.

Every time my computer comes out of sleep mode the CD door flies open.

My lawn has giant patches of yellow spots from the sprinklers not functioning properly. Soon to be brown spots. The HOA will likely throw a grenade through my window over this.

All of my friends appear to be MIA. Please make yours whereabouts known.

Every time I try to print something I get the message “incorrect ink cartridges installed” even though it’s new and they came with the damn printer and it has worked for the past two weeks.

That pretty much sums it up.

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 02:53 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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