We Have A Hard Rock Cafe Rag Now

So I was going outside to the back deck, either to help close the door or just step out for some fresh air.  I was looking down, either to change shoes or because I was spacing out.  There was a rag down there, a white one, folded in on itself.  My parents rarely throw things away, especially when it comes to, uh, fabric that is there just to pick up dust and food particles or to be stepped on.  I thus wasn't going to think anything of it ... until I noticed that there were words on this rag.

And the words were ... "LAS VEGAS."  In a font that I recognize instantly: It's my Hard Rock Cafe shirt.  I unfolded it to see holes in much of the front, and a slightly ripped and frayed collar.

I didn't flip out.  In fact, I'm not mad.  I hope that I don't have a reason to be mad.  I collect Hard Rock shirts.  I have dozens, many of them going back decades, and I continually wear them, and so they naturally start to get beat up, if not torn up.  Therefore I can imagine a t-shirt getting so bad that, as My Father is washing my clothes (he's retired and has nothing else to do), he could make the executive decision to turn that t-shirt into a rag.

The only problem I have is that I cannot recall ever noticing holes or wear on my HRC LV tee.  I never thought to myself, "Shoot, you're so old I might need to get a new one."  I could be wrong; maybe I didn't notice.  But I wouldn't like it if Father decided to render a t-shirt useless that had little to nothing wrong with it.

I'll let it slide.  Hey, he could have just thrown it away.  In that case, there would be a good chance I would not have noticed that I lost my HRC LV t-shirt.  Now, I just have to go to the Hard Rock in Las Vegas and buy me a new one.  I'm a grown man, I have some money -- I can afford to do that.

See, the problem is that all day, I've been dreading meeting up with That Cunt starting on Tuesday, and I was hoping that talking with my boss about it would assuage my fears.  But that hasn't happened since I have been trying to meet with him since Tuesday and have been stymied, and so dread has been all I've been feeling for a week.  Sure, maybe what he would have told me would have not helped me at all.  But being stuck in limbo hasn't been good, either.

Maybe I'm just mad that I'm back to full-time.

Addendum To: Addendum To: Addendum To: Will No One Hear My Cries?

That Bitch was there again yesterday!  She's sidling up everywhere!  I set up a time to talk to my boss just before I had to leave for the day, but I was so afraid she was, like, coming up from the bathroom while I started to talk to my boss that I decided to bag the meeting.  (I got real busy too.)  I postponed till Monday, where I don't think she works, but knowing my like she would just be popping in on that day just to fucking foil my plans again.

There might be a reason that she just stayed around and didn't go home.  My boss told me that work has indeed picked up and thus I and people in a similar position as I will be back full-time starting Monday.  Too bad for me; I have already planned a car service, a session with my therapist, and a haircut for next week.  It may not look good to beg out of working 40 Hours next week, but I think he'll understand.  Well, he might not (and hopefully this doesn't impinge on him listening to my side of the story, aka the truth), but I could foresee a predicament like this coming -- an abrupt change to my work schedule when I had already made plans during what would be my workday -- and I don't feel obligated to change it now.  I'll go 40 the week after.

Beyond that, however, I will miss part-time.  I didn't deal with the change that well when we were shifted to 20 per seven weeks ago.  But I have to be honest: I came to love just popping in for four Hours each day, getting up later than usual, and having much of the afternoon all to myself.  And dammit, I loved getting unemployment and an extra $600 on top of it every week, too!  And now that's gone, and now I have to be there for 8 1/2 Hours every day, and I get to try and take a nap in my car during a hot summer's day, and I get to get tired in the middle of my day, and I get to be around That Cunt a third of my day. ...

Operation Haircut Is A Go ... I Think

I did some location scouting yesterday/Thursday, a day I had off according to my boss.  I spent the day fucking ****e, but I also went back down to a park close by ****e's place to see a park that had a shelter with a bench and an outlet so I could get a haircut from ****e* in a public, ventilated place.  I was there at this park once before, but I forgot to snap pictures the first time, and I wanted to show ****e* photos of the shelter to see if she's OK with it, and to give her images of what to look for if she drives over to this park so she won't get lost.

Barbershops can open in Minnesota, albeit at a low capacity, starting on Monday.  I figured I'd wait until then to get my hair cut because I think my parents would get freaked out before haircutting places were allowed to open (and thus risk getting the virus under auspices that were "illegal), even though I had told my folks already "my friend" would only cut my hair somewhere outside, so we wouldn't have to wait until salons opened.  Well, for dinner yesterday Mother noticed my long hair and suggested Father could cut it.  "He cut mine!" she said, and you know, I noticed Wednesday that both of my parents' hair seemed a little shorter than I remembered it.  I guess they cut each other's hair.  And frankly, they didn't do a too-bad job.  But I ultimately declined Mother volunteering Father because 1) ****e* is trained in cutting hair and 2) I don't want my parents getting anywhere close to my head.  I hope I don't regret this decision when they die.

Well, since my parents already got their hair cut, I no longer feel as though I have to wait, even though I might as well wait until next week, which is after the June 1 re-opening of barbershops.  Last/Thursday night I sent ****e* pictures of the park and shelter, and she gave her OK.  She was even enthusiastic about giving me a stylish hair cut, even though I just want a buzz cut.

But, and maybe you think about this from time to time, I spaced out my tweets.  I'm guessing people text almost (but not quite) like they talk, with no gaps inbetween.  Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.  This time I didn't because I 1) wanted to be on the Internet and 2) was looking at my city go up in flames because of The Floyd Riots.  You can drag the text menu a bit to the right and you'll see timestamps, the times when a text was sent.  And while ****e* was doing a great job immediately replying to my texts (and the photos of my long hair, which she requested!), I did not.  I took 13 Minutes before I replied to her.  She took four Minutes to text back.  And then I took 31 Minutes to get back to ****e*, asking if she can cut my hair next week.  I sent that text just before midnight.  And she hasn't given me a reply.

I feel as though she was waiting for me to get back to her, and because I was taking longer to get back to her, she just gave up.  I feel sad about that, even though I think -- I hope -- she'll just get back to me tomorrow.  Should've been more prompt.  Think I disappointed her.

Addendum To: Addendum To: Will No One Hear My Cries?

So my plan was that if my boss was there, I would, some time later in my shift but hopefully before he leaves, that I would quietly discuss what happened Saturday and how I did not like how my supervisor came at me.

He was there.  But so was she!  How in the hell is That Bitch working when I'm working?!  I'm working afternoons this week while she's still stuck in the morning, and yet I saunter in and she (and a bunch of others) are still there!  I wait till 1 and I go back to my desk ... and she's still there!  And she was the only one there, too!  And guess what?  It was 2 o'clock and still was fucking there!!  Goddammit, she blew up my whole fucking plan!!!

Well, my boss looked really busy, too, so I don't think I would have had a chance to speak with him even if she weren't around.  But this is another day that goes by without me speaking my piece.  I'm off today, so tomorrow/Friday is it.  Otherwise, I will have no time to talk to him before I'll be working with That Bitch again next week, and I'm afraid she'll take another dig at me, which means I'll have to fight back by digging back at her, and shit will just escalate, and my boss won't know how in the hell this bullshit all started.

Goddammit! Day 1 Again!

And now I'm back down to Day 1 with the slot machine in Texas Hold 'Em again.  I swear I pulled that slot yesterday/Tuesday ... or, maybe I didn't.  Maybe I got too caught up watching the news about George Floyd.  But since this has happened several times the past several months, maybe, well, I really just don't care.

The thing that bothers me about this, and I know this doesn't make any sense, is that I know will have to make that fucking week-long climb to Day 7/400% once again, and that week, obviously next week, will overlap with me going back to work and seeing That Cunt who disrespected me, when our schedules overlap again.  Why does that overlapping bother me?  Don't know.

And the thing is, I care that I've lost my streak now, but once (if?) I get back to Day 7/400%, I probably will stop caring and I'll miss a day, again.

Addendum To: Will No One Hear My Cries?

I was ready to go talk to my boss about the crazy-ass supervisor.  I used what I talked about with my therapist to arrange my thoughts.  And then I discovered that he wasn't going to be in yesterday.

(He actually did come in because my co-worker wasn't able to key stuff.  He came in, but soon it became clear that it was an IT issue.)

So the earliest I can talk to him about it is today/Wednesday, which isn't ideal.  For one thing, this gives me another day to puss out of talking to him.  But also, That Bitch starts work today.  If she is upset about what happened Saturday as I'm afraid she is, she could connive and talk to him before I come into work this afternoon.  In other words, she might be able to set the narrative in my boss' head, and so I would have to fight that.

---

My psychotherapist gave me advice on how to talk about this with my boss, but he also gave me this motto that actually resonates with me: The less vulnerable I feel, the less angry I'll feel.  I want to remember that.

Will No One Hear My Cries?

What if my boss doesn't respect my feelings?
What if he doesn't believe me?
What if he blames me instead of her?
What if I lose my composure and babble to the point of incoherence?
What if I lose my nerve and decide I don't "need" to speak to him at all?

I get to talk to my therapist in the morning, and this time, I'll have a hell of a lot to talk about.

Knowing me and my luck, there will be a huge bombshell that comes in the morning, pertaining to work or happening outside it, that will force me to forget how traumatizing this situation is.

The only saving grace is that I doubt I'll have to see that cunt this week.  Next week, however. ...

Oh, by the way, I've been so upset by what she said to me that I've been wanting to throw anything, and I mean anything, around my room just to act out my anger.  I haven't done it, thankfully, but that bitch has been on my mind all weekend.  I let her live in my head rent-free, goddammit.  I tried meditation this weekend, once, but it didn't help.

Maybe talking about it with my psychologist will help.  If not, maybe complaining to my boss will.  Or, maybe not.

So I wanted to enjoy my first Sunday out of the house (because of work) and I decided to try out some BBQ.  It was OK, although the pulled pork I got clumped together.  (Is pulled pork supposed to clump together?  I assumed it wouldn't.)  Add that I had two pieces of cornbread and a cup of dill-flavored potato salad, and that I washed it down with Orange Vanilla Coke that I bought at the gas station before I got to the barbecue place.

(Oh, by the way, when I got to the BBQ place, my meal was already ready.  I don't like that.  It makes me wonder how long it has been sitting around.)

Didn't think my parents would have egg rolls waiting for me to eat.  Should have thought they would set something up since it's a holiday.  And then I drank a tallboy of Guinness later that evening.

When I was at ****e's a couple weeks ago I weighed myself, completely naked, and it told me I weighed 161.  I haven't been that skinny in years.  And I still don't believe it; I've been doing nothing except being at home, and somehow I've lost weight?  Well, I won't have to worry about it now, since I probably put on a bunch of extra pounds the past two days and pack a few more by tonight.

Now I Have A REAL Problem At Work

OK, so there was this co-worker who's now my supervisor, the one I thought was a bitch, then wasn't, then (maybe) was again and then (maybe) was not again?  Well, after how she treated me yesterday, she's a complete bitch -- a cunt even -- and she can't come back from that.

She has a penchant of, uh, jokingly complaining about someone.  She frequently says something to the effect of, "(insert name here) broke the computer again!"  She actually said it in the morning.  But a bit after that, after talking to the co-worker next to me, she muttered my name, and for what, I don't remember.  And I thought she was joking, like usual, so I said something not worth remembering back to her.  But she shot back: "I need to see if you're going to pull your weight."

Uh, excuse me?  I don't know what the hell she's talking about.  But I got blindsided that she came back at me with an insult like that.  That means that she isn't joking.  All I could do was stammer out something to the effect of, "We'll see about that," after the window for clever comebacks closed, if you know what I mean.

OK, so I'm already thinking that I need to raise this with my boss.  But she destroyed any chance we could have a workable relationship at the end of the day ... and it was my fault, even though I still don't really know what happened.  What I know is that there was a folder and there were applications that were missing, but ever since our hours were cut, I have seen that many times.  Now, I don't quite remember what happens in those cases, but I do know that I didn't want to speak to her, and usually when I do raise something to her, she says it's nothing.  So I thought it was nothing.  So I passed it through.

Ah, yeah, that was a big mistake.  On her way out, she was pissed at me.  Paraphrasing: "You know that folder you sent through?  There were, like, dozens of forms missing.  Why did you pass it through?  Why didn't you tell me?!"

So, what do you say to someone after you fucked up big time, but who passive-aggressively made an unfair accusation to your face a few hours before and now was walking away from you after shooting a look of disgust beneath her surgical mask?  You scream, "Sorry!  Have a nice weekend!" at her back with as much sarcasm as you can.  And I didn't have to wait a beat to think it up.  Now that's what you call a comeback!!!

Maybe I should have done better with that folder, to put it mildly.  But when her feelings for me aren't that great to begin with, and she told me as much, and her reasons for it are bullshit, I really don't have too many fucks to give ... even though I've been thinking about her behavior toward me ever since I got home.  Man, this water off a duck's back mindset I just cannot do. ...

So yeah, I really need to talk about this to my boss now.  He needs to know that if my supe wants to start a passive-aggressive war of insults, she'll fucking get one.  I have a right to stand up for myself.

Where I Tell You My Not-Good Day At Work

Yeah, yesterday at work was a fucking turd.

I was busy, man -- so busy that I wonder why there wasn't a second person working a full eight hours there.  I didn't mind that at first.  It was nice to be on your toes and have a full day of work, the first time in months.  And the crush of work I was dealing with wasn't a big deal ... until my supervisor yesterday kind of intimated that it was.

To kind of describe what I was doing while not totally blowing my cover ... there are three stations in this department.  My boss said that two of them have priority, and one of them should be done before the other.  That station has priority because we have to go through these folders and then hand them off to another department.  Sometimes these folders have applications which involve tests whose results people are waiting on, so it's very important to push the work through in order to get those results released to them.

The other station I needed to dote over is, basically, filing.  Those folders I send over from the first station to that other department come back and are to be handled by the person manning the second station.  (Yesterday, I was handling both stations.)  Since the last time I was working in this department (and it has been months -- shoot, yesterday may have been the first time I pulled a full day there in 2020), the process for doing the folders which come into this station changed.  I got a crash course Thursday, but I still had to fend for myself yesterday.  Now, compound that with the fact I literally had to fend for myself yesterday, as in I was by myself in this department for the first few hours of my shift, and that these folders come back to us once that department is done with them, and you might be able to tell that if I had to prioritize this first station, the one that was pushing out work to another department, work was going to pile up at this second station.  Now, I had no idea it was going to get as crazy as it did yesterday, since I thought we are far from normal capacity work-wise.  But I got blindsided by how, well, normal the workload seemed.  In other words, when I had worked this second station back in ordinary days, I'm swamped.  And I was swamped yesterday.

And again, I didn't mind it, at least not at first.  The first hint that, you know, maybe I didn't do what I was supposed to was when, in the afternoon, my supervisor looked over my work.  All morning the folders coming into the first station kept coming.  (Oh, by the way, a part of this job is hunting down forms and folders that, it has been determined, belong to that folder.  I find this part to be fairly straightforward since I got trained some time ago, but it's time-consuming.)  She noted that.  However, she noted that I had neglected the second station.  She told me to get on that station and, in particular, concentrate on folders that have these forms that, in the first station, I pulled from other places to put into said folders.  I was reminded by her that the reporting process isn't done by the time a folder gets to this second station.  Those forms still need to have other things done to it, and those have been sitting on this table all morning.

Maybe I could have felt defensive when she said that.  I didn't feel defensive.  I was following orders -- her orders -- particularly that I have to do work coming into this first station first.  (Oh, by the way, did I say that another task in this first station is to personally fulfill fax requests for specific forms?  Those are even a higher priority than processing folders because someone is specifically saying he or she is waiting on the result of a test requested on this form.  It is my understanding that I should drop everything and do these requests toot suite.)  I don't think she was questioning my mindset, not even inadvertently.  In short, I believe I did the right thing, and I stand by the decision I made.

But with so many damn folders, and with more coming it was hard to keep up filing all the folders, let alone the "prioritized" one.  Plus, I had questions I had to ask my supe.  I don't think she answered out of frustration, but when I asked another one of my questions, she pointed out the mound of folders that got built up over the course of the day and noted that, ahem, I shouldn't have allowed such a tall pile of folders this late into the day.  And OK, that's when, internally, I got fed up.

Look, I have a good relationship with this supervisor.  She is a very good trainer.  We get along especially when we're not talking about work.  (I get along with many of my authority figures when we're not talking about work.)  I think she understands how overwhelmed I felt being back there for the first time in a long time and after learning a new process -- I think.  And I'm fairly certain she didn't mean to insult me -- fairly.  But unlike what she said earlier in the day, I felt sort of undermined by what she said.  Without context and just taking what she said at face value, she sounded like she didn't approve of what I did, or at least how I let things get out of hand.  Either that or, worse, she was insinuating I was working too slowly -- to which I would like to remind her that I was doing triage on the crush of paperwork I was doing on my own and assert, as a fact, that I was working my ass off.  And so I was kind of, you know, done after that.

It will be the same situation for me tomorrow/Sunday.  I don't know if the workflow will be the same, a lot less, or a lot more.  But it will be different in the sense that, with a possible exception of someone coming after a few hours by myself, I will have the entire department all to myself.  And so, even if the folders keep piling up all day, I don't think I'll be as upset as I quietly became yesterday afternoon, if only because there will be no one breathing down my neck judging my work.

I'll Work ... Wherever And Whenever You Need Me

Today begins the first week-plus of a weird schedule at work.  I am filling in for someone in a different department today, and that different department is weird these days in the sense that it's, well normal.  This department, for lack of a better word, is required to be staffed for much of the day to assist with other departments.  Yet, the people who are working there (and their substitutes, such as myself) are now working part-time hours.  Therefore, unlike my main department, where people are just working half-days, it's easier for people in this department to work two whole days and one half-day.  That is what I will be doing today.

Which means I am waking up at my normal time, which is super early.  And as someone who has enjoyed waking up 90 Minutes later than I usually do (even though I still get woken up by alarms and/or My Father), I'm not sure I'm going to like getting up at 6.  Hell, a part of me is afraid that I won't get up at all.  Maybe eating peanuts and drinking the coffee I got yesterday morning at McDonald's just before going to bed isn't the smartest thing to do.  Blog posting this with 5 1/2 Hours before I am planning to wake up may also not be the smartest thing to do.

I am also filling in for someone (same department) Sunday, just an hour earlier.  Waking up at 5 sucks, and going to bed early on Saturday also sucks.  That might be made up the rest of the week.  I will have Monday off for Memorial Day.  Moreover, I am filling for another person on the third department I work in next week.  Those days are half-days, and unlike my main department, I am covering afternoons.  That allows me to sleep in ... which I might do one day.  I'll probably talk to my therapist another day, and wake up early another day to get an early lunch.  Oh, and I have Thursday off, and I hope to find a girl I can get down with.

In other words, things are going to be weird, weirder than they have been.  Maybe I should go to bed now.

Oh yeah -- I just checked my mail because I need to check my hours for unemployment.  Yesterday afternoon, well after I left work, my boss -- surprise, surprise! -- asked me if I could fill in for yet another person Saturday.  Being a good soldier, I said yes.  Cobbling together this schedule makes me feel like I'm back full-time!

Summer Started Yesterday

How do I know?  For the first time all year, I've been thirsty as a motherfucker.  That typically happens when my body believes it's hot and tells me it needs as much liquid as possible.

What is atypical is that my thirst began as soon as I woke up, which I did a bit past 9 because I didn't have to go to work today.  I felt this was the only time for a long time where I could eat at a place called Hazel's, so I spent an hour getting ready, helping Mother try to call the DMV (and fail), and order online.  But this thirst, plus the need to wash down the sandwich I ordered from Hazel's, compelled me to drive past Hazel's and get apple juice from a gas station.  It made more sense to do that because I needed more money for the massage/handjob I was getting from ****a in the early afternoon.

It was hot.  I don't care if it only reached 78; it was hot.  And even though having lunch only 3 1/2 hours after having breakfast wasn't the smartest thing in the world to do, I certainly was thirsty.  So I went to Popeye's after getting my shoes shined downtown, even though I wanted to eat at a food truck (no one was there; downtown remains a ghost town).  Popeye's has this deal I can't remember, but it was advertised in a commercial, and it was only good between Monday and Wednesday.  I told the teller that I didn't know specifically what it was, but I wanted that.  And I washed that combo down with a lemonade ... a small lemonade, too small to quench me.  So I had to stop at a Cub Foods and get something else -- a kiwi-strawberry Snapple.  I drank it before I got home.

I feel quenched now.  In fact, I finished up the last of the bottle of lemonade I bought at Target last week even though I didn't have to.  My belly is sloshing.  Will I feel thirsty again tomorrow?

Sure Is Not Yes

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Back Down To Day 1 Again

Last night, before I went to bed, I checked on the slot machine at Texas Hold 'Em on my Facebook to keep up with finally getting back to Day 7/400% -- and goddammit, I'm back down to Day 1?!?!?!  I swear -- I SWEAR!!! -- I did it before I went to bed Sunday night.  Fuck, I know I did it after I blog posted about the first part of the family trip to Wyoming six years ago.  I published that thing around a quarter past one, and I know I stayed up, so I had to have been on Facebook to get to Day 7.  But Facebook says I didn't get on at all on Monday.

Fucking Christ.  I'm not mad at myself anymore.  This is becoming a goddamn pain-in-the-ass.

Yeah ... I've Got Nothing To Say

Ever since the pandemic, when my psychiatrist shut down in-person meetings and went to tele-health, I have spoken to him every week.  I had not been doing visiting him at his office that frequently for some time.  When I first started out seeing him, about six (?) years ago, it was weekly.  But, well, things got better.  Before the shutdown, I was seeing him about once a month.  And it felt enough.

I don't exactly remember how I got back on a weekly schedule with him.  I was freaking out over the virus, so I think I had a lot to say that first time over the phone.  But even though the air of danger has not subsided (if you've looked at the number of new cases, hospitalizations, admissions into ICUs and deaths, they have in fact only increased), I have run out of things to say.  It is tough to talk about the same thing over and over, which the virus is.  It is dangerous, but it has been as dangerous as it has ever been, so it's difficult to approach it to your therapist from a different angle, you know?  And frankly, I have grown tired of being afraid of the virus.  I wouldn't call it confidence so much as fear fatigue.

So yes, I literally have nothing to say.  Well, I have managed to reach almost an hour the last few sessions.  I've been able to pull some coronavirus-/lockdown-related things to talk about.  For my session this afternoon (that's why I'm blog posting about this now), for example, I think I'll tell him about my trip to fuck ****e last week, and planning on getting a haircut outside.  But I have concentrated on non-virus things, such as my parents driving me nuts and work driving me nuts.  But other than that, well, what is there to say?

So I don't know how I got to be on a weekly schedule, and frankly, it's starting to get exhausting to keep up.  I think after my first session over the phone, he told me to call him back next week, and due to a combination of inertia and expectation, I haven't stopped.  Maybe I should.  Or maybe I'll just come to a point in a future phone call where I'll just fall quiet, at which point it'll be impossible to avoid the fact that a week isn't enough for me to build up an hour's worth of stuff to say.

Road Trip, Part III (Wyoming -- Sub-Part A)

This was, my goodness, six years ago, so I should get on this:

• So we left this gorgeous, palatial room after one day.  I wish we could have stayed longer, but Yellowstone was big enough whereby we wanted to get from the eastern side of the park to the western, just to make the next leg of our journey that much closer to get to.  Besides, there were only two beds and my parents took one and my sister took the other.  I guess I could have slept in the same bed as my sis, but I think it was less icky that I slept on the floor in between the two beds.  Just a day before I typed this particular bullet point I looked up whether sleeping on the floor is bad for you, and it turns out (at least according to the two websites I looked at) it actually is good for you.  Go figure.
• Since it's been so long I think I'm going to be skimpy on the details because they're not clear in my mind.  What I do remember, however, is that we spent two days at Yellowstone.  I think -- I think -- we went to see Yellowstone Falls on this first day, which was cool.  Did a lot of hiking.  Does a body good.
• Since the next day we were on our way out of Yellowstone some time in the afternoon, I'm almost certain this was the day we saw Old Faithful.  The reliability of the geyser -- at least in terms of location -- allowed the area to frame it as if it were a fountain.  There were seats around the mouth of Old Faithful, and there was an office with park rangers staffed to assist.  There was also a made-up sign estimating the next time it was going to blow.  Now I learned in school that the geyser would erupt strictly at every, like 48 minutes.  Guess Mother Nature is on her own timetable.  In fact, Old Faithful was not faithful; not only did it not go off at the estimated time, but I think we had to wait another half-hour before she blew.  Interesting to watch, but I'm glad I didn't get sprayed like we were at a dolphin show.  I am glad to cross that off my bucket list.
• In the early evening we had a picnic dinner.  The five of us were able to find a table next to a bluff, and we ate stuff Mother bought from the store -- baguette sandwiches with deli meats and cheese and pate, too, maybe?  No fighting amongst the family, thankfully.  But I had to break away for a bit anyway; the view of the reddening, setting sun from our vantage point was breathtaking.  I was filled with peace, I kid you not.
• I think that was it for our first day at Yellowstone.  After we got done eating, we drove to the most rustic of the hotels we would be staying at for our road trip.  It was an actual dude ranch with a horse in a pen in the middle of it.  (Wished I had enough time to ride it.  Wish that horse is being treated well.)  Since the area was mostly grassland, the gnats and flies were out in force.  They swarmed us as soon as we opened our doors, and everybody, especially Mother and my sister, were screaming as they fled to the building where check-in was.  I, I must say, did not run, nor did I have to.  I had the foresight, just before we got into the car to leave Yellowstone, to drench myself in bug spray.  Those damn insects came after the rest of my family, but not me.  Score one for me.
• Once we got into the front office, we stepped forward in time from the, like, 1800's to the modern day.  The inside looked like a small hotel.  There were even computers for guests to use.  Unfortunately I could not use them after a certain time; I wanted to slip back in to check my e-mail at, oh, 10 at night, and as I opened the door I saw the staff had a meeting.  And they were closed for the night.  Whoops.
• The rooms were cabins.  My parents stayed in one, my sister and I in the other.  First, though, we had an, uh, extra dinner at their cabin.  There wasn't much when it came to tables, so we sat on the floor.  There were no TVs either -- made me gasp at first, but hey, this is a ranch.
• Otherwise, the cabins were modern.  The bathroom looked like a modern bathroom, and we had running water and stuff, don't get me wrong.  My sister and I had bunk beds.  My sister is afraid of heights, so she took the bottom one.  The ladder was a little shaky as I climbed it, but even though I don't remember the last time I slept in a bunk bed, if ever, it was a most refreshing rest.  The bed, the big sky night, the exhausting but fulfilling day, the communing with nature, spending positive time with my family ... I slept with happiness and gratitude.

Hottest Babe In The Hooters Calendar: April

Very underwhelming month.  It may just be my mood right now.  But nearly all of the dozen women for the month are either covering up their bodies (with either one-piece swimsuits or their arms) or they're posed in a side profile that, taken together, is very frustrating for me.

I am struggling to find five shots I like, but here goes.  In fifth is Keely, from Fairview Heights, Ill.  She is posed coming out of what looks like a jacuzzi, but her left arm is blocking a part of her cute stomach, and the darkness from being posed away from the light obscures the rest of it.  She's on here only because I might be able to get her signature in October ... if I feel really, really secure on the flight I booked to St. Louis.

Fourth is Christa, out of Harlingen, Tex.  She's side profile and touching elbow and ass next to a tree, and her top (blue with white border) covers her sternum.  But her photograph is one of the few where the model's arms are not in front of her abs.  Third is the main girl, Mackenzie, out of Daytona Beach, Fla.  She is wearing a purple one-piece, but it's one of those with a V-neckline that plunges between her cleavage and down almost to her belly button.  Also, she has long, dark hair and striking dark eyes.  Second place goes to Jerika, out of Hialeah, Fla.  Like Mackenzie, Jerika also has dark, long hair and dark eyes, and is also wearing a plunging V-neck one-piece swimsuit.  But that swimsuit is black and has a complicated white lace pattern on it.  I have never seen a swimsuit that ornate on a Hooters girl in the calendar, and that's a good thing.

However, the big winner is Karlie, out of Sarasota, Fla.  She's posing with a running shower to her right; the photographer is making her cup her hands to lazily cup the water, so her left hand and arm is in front of her hot body.  But this long-haired blonde (with dark roots) is wearing a yellow two-piece bikini, and well, she's got a gigantic set of tits.  Yes, mostly for that reason, Karlie wins.

And yes, I will eventually masturbate to all of these fine young women.

Expenses Without Receipts

You know, I don't have anything to talk about at this time, so I think I'll just knock out an EWR.  Starting from Friday, May 15:

• Go back to Wednesday the 13th where I went down to ****e's place and fucked her twice.  She has become my go-to, Buddha bless her: $120.
• And then, back on Wednesday the 6th, I got a massage (a completely chaste one) from ******a while helping her get back into her locked iPad.  Wasn't able to do it that day because I forgot my dongle, but since I was there and wanted a massage from her, I went through with it.  Cost: $25.

It is ironic that I am able to get around to doing an EWR at a frequency better than longer than monthly, but since I have just about stopped using cash, these lists will be so small that I could probably wait three months and not stress over how long it would be.

Good through May 15.

It Is A Sign After All ...

Today at work my boss e-mailed everyone to ask for an update to their unemployment weekly benefit.  He says it could change.  I don't think it ever has for me when I was on the dole, so that doesn't make much sense.  But he wanted an answer, so this evening I looked it up -- and, so long as I needed to be on the unemployment website to look up this answer, I might as well move applying for last week's benefits up a day and do it last/Thursday night.

To apply, I needed to punch in the amount I made last week.  To compute that I needed to know precisely how many hours I worked.  (It is supposed to be 20 hours, but I had to stay late a couple days so it ended up being more than that.)  However, I inadvertently logged into my company e-mail.  There were a couple new messages for me, and one piqued my curiosity.

It was from the CEO of the company updating us on the company's employment situation in the face of the various lockdown orders due to the novel coronavirus pandemic.  It said that even though some parts of the company are picking up, the dearth of testing for anything not related to COVID-19 has forced the company to, uh, make decisions on future employment for employees.  The announcement of said changes, whatever they are, is supposed to made some time next week.

Now, what my boss asked makes some sense.  And it frightens me.

"Taking Care" Of A Friend

So yesterday I did.  I bit the bullet.  I had sex with someone.

I know I shouldn't do that.  In fact, this technically isn't legal under the current stay-at-home order.  But you can leave in order to "take care" of family members and friends.  And you know, I sometimes think ****e wants sex as much if not more than I do, so if that was the case this time around, you goddamn right I took care of her!

Really though, I just couldn't help it any longer.  I needed some human contact.  I needed someone to touch me.  And boy, did ****e deliver yesterday.

So I didn't go to work yesterday/Wednesday and, after getting breakfast from Chick-Fil-A, going to the bank to get a money order (bad idea) and going to the park to find an outlet (long story, might talk about it later), I went over to ****e's house.  Eating Chick-Fil-A was probably a bad idea because she usually cooks me something to eat, and this time around she gave me a feast: Chicken, Moroccan salad and toast.  I was afraid I wouldn't be able to eat it all (let alone down the bottle of Bud), but I did.

In the meantime I sat on her recliner and watched (or at least tried; I think it ran into technical difficulties) Stephanie Miller and (technical difficulty-free) Thom Hartmann on Free Speech TV, something I have never done before.  I wanted to look something up, so I asked ****e if she had wi-fi at her place.  She didn't know the password, but (and I think she misinterpreted what I said) she pointed out that the satellite system had YouTube.  I wanted to look up nearby parks, but I used the occasion to look up porn, specifically Jayne Mansfield in Promises, Promises! the first time a modern movie had female nudity in it.  (I was thinking about it the night before, don't know why.)  I had seen one nude scene before, but the YouTube clip I brought up had that and two other scenes where she is naked.  Because of that and what was about to come, I reclined on that chair, took out my dick, and starting wanking myself a bit.  ****e may have seen me do it once.

Got done eating.  Retreating to the bedroom.  Stripped her.  The last time we fucked, ****e didn't seem all that into me.  This time, she was.  And she did something she rarely does: While I was behind her and completely clothed, she (naked) reached behind her and started groping my dick, which was completely sheathed in my porno pants.  "Oh, you're so big!" she said over and over, and I still don't quite believe my cock is that big, even though (humblebrag) she's not the first one to say that!

She stripped me upon my request, grabbed my main vein a couple more times, then we went onto her bed, where, in another act she doesn't do often, she willfully sucked my dick.  She doesn't go deep, but anytime a women gives you a blowjob without asking, you have a keeper.  Finally we did the deed in our usual position: "Victory" style, sort of, with her splaying out her legs while I entered her.  Her hands alternated between keeping her legs apart and pushing my ass towards her.  I did not use a condom -- of course! -- but I pulled out way before I orgasmed.  I came all over her stomach, per usual.

A few hours later I was ready to leave, but I had to be a pervert one last time.  I went out to the living room, where she was, and I took myself out of my open fly right in front of her.  ****e knew instinctively to start giving me a handjob and, after a bit said, "You want to do it a second time?" to which I replied, "Fuck yeah!"  (Well, I just said, "Yeah.")  And so we dashed back into the bedroom, we ripped each other's clothes off, and we went straight to sex.  I thought I was going to cum twice, but in my old age my penis' reaction to friction is a false alarm; the second time I just had to finish myself off on her stomach, but I was lucky to do that.  After that I got dressed, gave her $120 (a two-for-one!), changed back into my upstanding clothes, and off I went.

My left hip is a little shaky after all that thrusting, but other than that, I feel like a man again!

And let's hope I didn't catch the coronavirus from her!

Forgot to spin the Texas Hold 'Em slot machine on Facebook Monday, so I went all the way back down to Day 1.  It used to get to me, but now I've done it so often, and have forgotten to the point where I don't stress that I need to do it every day, that I've begun to think maintaining my Day 7 is just a pain in the ass that I don't need.

You can do a lot when you stop caring.

But after I blog post this I'm going to go to Facebook and spin the wheel for Day 2.

Slow To Start ... Hasn't Gone Unnoticed

Oh yeah, I should talk about this now.

I had a sneaking suspicion someone would bring it up, but it finally happened a few weeks ago.  One of my bosses e-mailed me a reminder that I was supposed to start on time, even (or especially) with these cut hours.  I had to be punched in at a certain time plus or minus "x" minutes from my start time, and then I am supposed to be in a position to work shortly thereafter.

That is the expectation during normal hours, and I have a problem meeting that.  But the combination of the pandemic and the economic fallout from the pandemic have made "being ready to work at the appointed time" all but impossible.  Here are some of the reasons why.

We are now being screened at work; it's just a few questions about how we are feeling.  We are then checked off and given a mask.  However, we are now required to go through a certain door in order to meet up with our supervisor.  For me, this particular door is front-facing.  We have lot parking, but nearly all the spaces out front are taken.  Actually, nearly all of the ones in the back are taken, too, but the nearest one to this door is in the back.  So, I have to park and walk all the way to the front in order to get to the door I have to go through now.

Moreover, even though we are told to punch in not too soon nor too far from our start time, we are not allowed into the building until five minutes before our start time.  So picture this: I have to find parking, stop the car, get all my stuff, walk around to the front and report to my supervisor (or the supervisor manning that particular door), but not too late, but not too early, either.  Pain in the ass.

I still get food that I have to take from home.  Don't need food since I'm working only four hours and I often get fast food, but I need to keep the peace at home or I'll be thrown out.  I need to walk to the work fridge and toss that in there.  That takes time.

And then I get coffee.  Not just anywhere, oh no.  We have two breakrooms.  One of them has this special coffeemaker whereby once you bring up a cup of coffee, this machine grinds beans in order to make a brewed cup for you.  It's much better than the other one, which is just coffee sitting in thermoses.  Totally makes a difference.  Anyway, this is something that I know I cannot do on company time.  So I punch in after I get this coffee (and get creamer too, that's so important).  And I usually am a few, if not several, minutes after my start time when I punch in.  (Getting coffee usually is not an issue, but under a "normal" day I would get it for morning break, when I have time to leisurely get coffee, not when I'm in a rush to show that I'm at work when I'm supposed to be at work.  And even though I still get one break these days, I need my coffee to start the day, so I will not wait till my break, nosiree.)

So, you can tell all the obstacles in my way to get to my desk on time, right?  (OK, I sometimes get drive-thru at McDonald's in the morning before work, and I usually don't get up early enough whereby I don't rush to work.  I admit that I make it easier on myself when I don't get Mickey D's, but I'll call that another obstacle.)  The trouble doesn't stop there; I may be finally punched in, but now the perception that I'm not working kicks in.  You see, stopping the spread of the virus has called for now cleaning protocols at work.  We are now supposed to clean our desk at the beginning and the end of our shift with disinfectant wipes and/or bottles of sanitizer.  Totally understand that, and I agree with that protocol because of the advanced age of my parents.  But I am thorough.  Very thorough -- I wipe down the desk and the keyboard and the mouse and the scanner and the desk height not and the handles of my chair and the monitor and the pens and, even, my personal items like my phone and badge and keys and glasses.  Hey, this fucking virus is a killer.

Oh, and did I mention that I need to log into my computer ... and then bring up all the software I need to work, many of which are veeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeery slooooooooooooooooow... and, well, I need to get out my satellite radio and attach all the wires together, and then take out my headphones because hey, I can't get through a day without listening to something.  And then there's the radio for once Stephanie Miller ends.  And because my hands are so darn sticky from the wipes/sanitizer, I just have to wash my hands; hey, you're supposed to wash your hands when you enter a building anyway, amirite?  Finally, I'm ready!  And, uh, I'm about ten or fifteen minutes late.  So that's all that e-mail is complaining about.

My actual boss (the one who controls my performance review and my pay) followed up, thankfully, with a more detailed discussion where he allowed me to explain my plight.  He understood that when I was cleaning my desk I was following company protocol, he understood that I needed to be fastidious in this cleaning because of my parents, and he believed me when I said I get coffee before I clock in.  So I gave a little and have compromised: I will boot up my computer before I start cleaning, and I will use sanitizer for my hands instead of going to the bathroom to wash them.  Everything else I guess I have to try and hurry up.

It's not helping too much.  Since that talk, which was more than a week ago, I was able to cut my time down so that I'm ready to start keying at, uh, ten minutes after my start time.  That's ... progress?  Good enough?  I don't know.  What I do know is that I haven't heard any flak from either my authority figures or supervisor or co-workers, so if there is any talk that I'm slacking, well, I can say that no one told me.

I'll be able to tolerate starting my day like this -- rushing to work, walking all the way down to the breakroom and back, cleaning like the dickens, boosting the feng shui of my desk and waiting for my computer to start -- by looking a tad tardy to begin work until, well, someone else complains.

Fucker's Eavesdropping On What I Do In The Bathroom Now?!?!?!

Of all the intrusive, rude after-dinner "suggestions" he's offered, My Fucking Father served up the weirdest, by far.  Still pisses me the fuck off.  Offends me, too.  But this is weird.

He asked me what time I woke up tomorrow (which would be today).  I knew this was an in to telling me something stupid as an insult, but because I have to live here, I answered honestly.  So he thinks I should wake up a half-hour sooner to brush my teeth.  "You only turn on the water for like a minute," he said.

"You checking on me while I'm in the bathroom?" I reply.

"I hear things, let's just say."

OK.  He caught me.  I think I let my guard down while my parents were away, and I didn't go through my usual lie of turning on the faucet, getting the toothbrush wet, then waiting around to build in enough time where I would ostensibly wash my hands before I open the door.  I think I got more complacent ever since my hours were cut, and maybe the fact that I actually brush my teeth at night makes me think I could be honest and skip it in the morning.  Also, I have to now worry that he'll make this a big deal -- like, brush your teeth in the morning or I'll throw you out of the house.  Motherfucker will do it, I swear.

But to bring it up ... brushing your teeth ... I don't care that I don't do it in the morning -- who is he to tell me to do it?  Why does he care?  And why in the fuckety-fuck is he checking on me and how long I turn on the faucet in the morning?  Does he actually make it a point to check in the morning?  Is that what he does in the morning?  Is that why he gets up so early in the morning?  How ... fucking nuts do you have to be that figuring out whether or not your son is brushing his teeth in the morning is something you actually want to do?  That's not just rude, that's fucking crazy.

Just to get back at him I'll turn on the water for a good five minutes tomorrow morning.  I'll keep it on even as I pee.  And if he gets to checking my breath as I leave for work, I will punch My Fucking Father in the face.  I will do it, I swear.

Now Where Did It Go?

Disputing a credit card bill for Mother.  This happened back in December.  She didn't know she needed to send a letter explaining the charges, so that's why the credit card company closed the case.  Now I have to reopen it.

In order to finish off the letter, I went downstairs to her office.  I then noticed something.  In the top shelf there are books and other ... stuff.  But I thought there was something else up there: A wooden replica of Riverfront Stadium, home of the Cincinnati Reds before it was torn down in 2002.  As is my hobby, I go to Major League Baseball stadia in its last season of use.  I went to the third-to-the-last and penultimate Games of the Reds there (I think the opponent was the San Diego Padres), and for that last Saturday Game I was given that replica.  I didn't open it or anything, just took it home with me intact.  And I have no idea how it got to Mother's office on the top shelf -- I didn't bring it down or anything, she sure as hell didn't ask for it -- but it was safe up there, so why bother?

Well, I should have bothered, because now it's gone.  I don't know where it is.  And I'm afraid to ask Mother (or, worse, Father) because they'll be flippant about it and say they threw it away, and that would just trigger me because I care for something that was just on the top shelf of Mother's office and they will act like they don't give a damn about something that has obvious sentimental value to me.

Just because I don't think about it 24/7 doesn't mean I don't care for it.  I care for it now; that's all that matters.  Goddammit.

Where I Have To Bribe My Fucking Parents Again

Mother's Day's today.  Going to give Mother $100 because.

Still remember two, three years ago.  Just before that Mother's Day she just went off on me for some bullshit.  To keep the peace, My Father said I should give her money.  That's seemed to quell the beast.  I've been fucking doing that ever since.

Spent ten minutes tonight trying to right "mother" in Chinese on the big white envelope I'm presenting the money in to her.  I don't think I wrote it right.

I do that for My Father, too.  Can't give a present to her on her day without giving one to him on his, right?  I'll probably be giving money to both until they both hit the dirt.

Such fucking bullshit.  They never gave a good goddamn about the day or money until then.  Now I have to, otherwise they'll wonder what the fuck is going on.

And the irony of all this: For Chinese New Year they gave me a total of, get this, $200.  Three and four months later, I'm giving Mother $100 and Father $100.  We're just recycling money at this point.  Why don't we just keep our money?

This is so fucking stupid.

Raising My Hygiene Game

Actually, you know, there is something I want to talk about, and have wanted to talk about and forgot.

Ever since The 'Rona started and the state has been on relative lockdown, I have showered, brushed my teeth, and used my mouth rinse with some regularity.  The spread of the virus convinced me that I needed to shower every day after I got home from work to ensure that none of it stayed on my skin.  I think the teeth-brushing and mouthwash-using flowed from that re-dedication to cleanliness, although knowing that dental clinics (up until now) were deemed non-essential and thus closed to accepting patients meant that a semi-annual cleaning may not be available in order to save my teeth from my neglect, and so I had to, finally, take the maintenance of my teeth into my own hands.

It's not as much of a pain-in-the-ass as I once thought it was.  Honestly, I know I should be doing all of those things every day, but I give myself sort of a break and skip it for one day on the weekend.  (And I know that you're supposed to brush your teeth twice daily -- don't push me.)  But even though my anxiety over getting the virus has sort-of subsided, the habit of cleaning myself has taken hold.  It kind of has become routine to the point where I just don't think about, I just do it.  Maybe that's a good thing, and maybe I'll continue to do and think that after All Of This Is Over.

Nothing To Do ... And Thus Nothing To Say

I should admit something: Ever since the stay-at-home order, I don't feel as though I have a whole lot to say.  In a sense, that shouldn't happen: I have a lot of time now, and WAF gives me an outlet to just talk about stuff I'm feeling.  Then again, maybe having blogger's block is inevitable.  There is no sports, I can't go out, I'm not seeing anything, so there isn't much to blog about when it comes to those things.  And so now I have one hour left to get my daily blog post in, and I'm kind of being ... meta about blog posting.  Which, come to think of it, I decided would be OK when I started Wailing And Failing.

In turn, I have been struggling to come up with titles for these blog posts, as you may have noticed.  With having a paucity of inspiration to come up with blog posts, I naturally have trouble coming up with a title for said blog posts.

You know, I have all this time in the world, especially on weekends, aka now.  And I could go through my papers and clean up my room, but instead I just flail around complaining that I don't have anything to write about.  I mentioned this to a Facebook model friend last night; I am scared that if we live through this and if all this is over, I will look back on these days I'm in right now and regret that I didn't do anything.  She replied that we're living in the middle of a pandemic and we aren't in some productivity contest.  But, well, still.  But, you know, she's right, too.

That's all I got.

Eh, I'm just so pissed off today.  Woke up to more banging and stomping by My Fucking Father.  I should have moved back to my old room instead of Grandmother's so I would have to hear that asshole storm back and forth between the kitchen and pantry.

Thus I was so tired at work.  Even for half a day I was pooped.  I was tirangry.  Never should be happening, especially now.

I was bracing for my dumb shenanigans at this stripper's place while I restore her iPad.  But actually, things worked out.  That allowed me some peace and quiet at a part where I tried to take a nap but couldn't.

My Fucking Father was pissed about something.  That's why I put my defenses up -- no talking, tense body language, eat as fast as possible, wash the old mask as fast as possible, iron the new mask as fast as possible.

But then My Fucking Mother calls me out for some help.  Turns out she tried to dispute a credit card charge I think she just changed her mind on, and the credit card company rejected her because she didn't send them the letter they wanted.  So now, this weekend, I need to help them write a fucking letter ... past the deadline at which the credit card company closed the case ... without being able to type anything at all ... and while My Fucking Mother is still trying to remember the details of what happened.

Fuck it, I hate everything and everyone right now.

Forgot Again

Man, I went over to a stripper girlfriend's place to help her unlock her iPad and I forgot to bring the dongle that would connect my laptop to her device.  And since I couldn't just go back home and pick it up and bring it over to her -- "Why are you going again?  Where would you be going in the middle of a pandemic?" my parents would ask -- I had to give up on today and go back probably tomorrow.

Pisses me the fuck off, and I can only be mad at myself.  I swear I stuck the dongle in my backpack, but instead I put it in my computer bag.  I would have brought my computer bag, but bringing it with me in the morning would have made Mother suspicious.  And now I have to waste a day going back to her place --  a day I had planned on working out, or patronizing a small business by buying their food.  And maybe I shouldn't have, but I got a massage from her, so I spent money today, which means I shouldn't spend money tomorrow even though I planned on it and ... sorry, I got tired of blogging about this.  Let's just say I'm pissed that I forgot something again, and I have to do it over.

OK, Sunday evening, instead of checking ESPN Streak, I was watching TV, scrolling through my phone and trying to fall asleep.  There were a couple horse races that night that I could have played on.  I did my research that afternoon, and I decided that if I had remembered and had the energy to open up my laptop, I would pick on one or even both races.  But, like with all things ultimately not important, it slipped my mind.

Either late that night or the next day I checked.  Damn, I would have been right on both.  I didn't really lose anything; I was sitting on a one-Game winning streak that would have stretched to three.  But that was a bummer because I would have been right on both races.  And by the way, I would have been right on both races despite being in the minority in both races.  That would have been extra strokes to my ego.

But, alas, I was too lazy to care.

Just wanted to say this, just for the record.

Eavesdropping On My Shrink Session

I have to talk to my therapist over the phone; he's old and we would be in close quarters inside his office otherwise.  But I can't talk to home while I'm at home because, you know, parents.  So I go somewhere public that's private, if you know what I mean.  It's usually a park, and ever since I started talking to him over the phone, I go to the park closest to me.

It's also warm these days.  It doesn't feel warm outside, especially on days when it's windy, such as today.  But if I sit in my car nowadays, it gets pretty goddamn hot.

So, today for my session, I pulled both back windows down to make sure the car was cool before I spoke to my psychotherapist for about 50 Minutes.  I didn't mind the white truck with the camper shell that pulled up to the same parking lot before my sesh began.

After I got done talking I decided I needed to get my walk in -- just to the end of this very short trail and back.  And as I got out, I look at the bench next to the playground (there's a playground at the front of this park) ... and oh, the driver of the truck and his dog are just sitting there, maybe, oh, at most 40 Yards away?

He heard everything, didn't he?  My bickering parents, me going to fuck ****e -- all of it?

Should've pulled my windows up.  Goddammit.

Addendum To: Still Fucking Up At Work

Monday I was just as shitty at work as I was on Friday.  Forgot to reset the setting on the scanner before my co-worker used it.  Forgot to print off a page that I needed to attach with a folder I worked through.  And because of the virus I now use a napkin whenever I write with a common-use pen that the department uses, and I left that napkin, filled with my germs, right on that common-use pen for another co-worker to use.

I will offer an excuse: All day I was distracted by the prospect of My Fucking Father coming down on me for not cleaning my room.  I was woken up at 6 this morning by his heavy stomping feet and his incessant, allergy-triggered (at least I hope) coughing.  Fucker's about to throw a tantrum, that's what that means.  (He didn't at dinner, at least not yet.)  Somehow I was able to fall back asleep for another two hours, but all day at work I was worried about what he would threaten.  And then I spiraled down into self-pitying thoughts, situations where I was either helpless or led astray, and through their (Father's and Mother's) decisions or actions or inactions, I was, well, ran over, had my food spill onto the ground, hit by a part of a tree while I was in the middle of rapids, etc.  (I have very weird dreams when I'm feeling sorry for myself.)  All the while I was missing things I needed to do at work.

Hmmm.  Maybe I can now create a list of what I need to remember to do from now on:

• Make sure "those folders" go to the person who does them that day.
• Scan those "special applications" to the sixth and bottom directory.
• Reset the setting on the scanner once I'm done scanning said "special applications."
• Print off those pages you need to send with the folders, get them from the printer, and put them in the folder.  (This is a big one; I've forgotten to do that a lot in, like, the past six months.)
• Finally, take my napkin with me once I use it to write with something.

Still Fucking Up At Work

Friday was not a good day at work.  Not only did I file a folder that needed to be sent to one of my co-workers, I accidentally scanned the images of a folder to the wrong directory.  Maybe I could be cut some slack because I was distracted due to COVID-19, but I am disappointed in myself that I have made these mistakes before and I continue to make them.

So I swing the pendulum to the other side and think that it's not NBD, but then I have to think about my supervisor who, it feels safe to say, is done with me.  I have vacillated about how she feels about me, but ever since we've been cut to half-days I feel as though she's giving me the silent treatment.  (When she told me I scanned those applications into the wrong directory, that was the first time she spoke to me in weeks.)  I think this babyish silent treatment has to do with me preparing my desk to be free of viruses.  I might blog post about that later.

I could vow to do better, but I'm sure I'll commit the same mistakes again.  Maybe that will be the reason why I'll get fired ... if I do get fired. ...

I Find Travel-Sized Bottles Lacking And Impractical

I got something to blog about!

So I ran out of my generic mouthwash Thursday -- not like the Listerine, but the ACT (or generic ACT) that the FDA has approved to actually rebuild the enamel on your teeth.  I had already bought its backup at Target last week, so running out isn't an issue.  Besides, all those trips to the U. Dental School has given me packets of extra mouthwashes, as well as toothbrushes and toothpastes.  (Do other dental clinics do this?)

Felt it was high time to start using these free bottles.  So, by earliest date of expiration -- I have, like, a lot of these bottles -- it was time to use the Listerine mini-bottle that expired way back in 2014.  But I needed to figure out how much I'm supposed to use each time out.

That reminded me of something that grinds my gears.  And it's something I had noticed some time ago.  Two things, actually.

My big bottle of enamel-building mouthwash has a measurement line inside of its cap.  That way I know when to fill it up to 10 mL, which, according to the instructions, is the amount of mouthrinse I need to use each time.  (Caps doubling as cups is one of the miracle inventions ever made.)  I sure could use a cap with a measuring mark on its inside for this mini-bottle of Listerine.  But since it's a mini-bottle, and presuming that the amount I'm supposed to swish is going to be larger than the capacity of the mini-bottlecap, it's ridiculous to wish for such a thing.  I just remember I was on vacation and I brought a mini-bottle of Listerine with me, and I didn't know how much I should have poured out, and so I just guesstimated while directly taking it into my mouth.

The more annoying thing is when I actually looked at the instructions to see exactly how many milliliters I am supposed to use at one time.  When I peeled the instructions open (two-sided instructions on bottles is another one of the miracle inventions ever made), I found it, and it read, "Use 20 mL twice a day."

I looked at the front of the bottle.  The mini-Listerine has a total of 36 mL.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.  It's a travel-sized bottle, of course.  But it makes no sense to me that the bottle is large enough only to be used twice -- and technically, if you want to go by actual amounts, less than twice.  And you're supposed to use the Listerine twice a day, so if you follow its rules to a T, one would be finished with that bottle in a day.  What the hell good is a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash if you're done with it in a day?  If you're on vacation, you're on vacation for more than a day.  Come on now.

And by the way, what in the fuckety-fuck is with the non-round number of mL in the bottle?  I'm supposed to swig 20 mL, but you can't give me 40 mL?  You have to shortchange me 4 mL the second and final time I use this product?  You can't add four more milliliters to that tiny bottle?  Listerine can't manufacture a slightly bigger mini-bottle?

Anyway, I kept around the old bottle of mouthrinse because I knew I would need the measuring cap.  I used that to pour out only 9 mL of Listerine because nine divides into 36 evenly.  And I am going to use that mouthwash only once nightly, when I go to bed.  That means I will get four nights of Listerine out of that mini-bottle.  Beats the shit out of one night, that's for damn sure.

Expenses Without Receipt

This is going to be too easy, and a diametric opposite to how I generally get overwhelmed with EWRs that go on and on and on because I don't get around to making shorter, more frequent blog posts about them.

Starting from Friday, May 1:

• ETA on May 8 at 1 a.m. that I totally forgot that on Friday, April 24 Mother sent me out to Menard's to buy toilet paper because they were 1) on sale and 2) there.  The place was emphasizing social distancing as much as this liquor store was, and once I "lined up" approximately six feet away from the guy ahead of me, I was sort of freaked out.  I do not want The New Normal.  Once I got back home, Father reimbursed me for the toilet paper, therefore this was an Infusion of: $20.
• I only doled out cash once: On Wednesday, April 22, I went to Lisa's to get my Doc's shined up.  With tip I gave her: $20.

That's it.  That's the tweet.

Good through May 1.

Alright, My Fucking Mother once again asks my help in writing an e-mail, and then she tells me what she wants me to write, to the point where she, as usual, is fucking yelling at me for asking questions because I don't understand what the hell she's talking about.  If she thinks she's fucking smart, why in the fuck doesn't she just write the goddamn thing herself?

My God, I fucking hate both of them.