The Time Where I Almost Fucking Lost It Watching The World Cup

So I made the mistake of going to downtown to catch the last Matches of Group G almost a month ago.  I heard downtown was dead because it was dangerous (which of course is bullshit), plus there were no Twins or Lynx Games whose crowds I would have to worry about, so I thought I would have a good time digesting both Matches in relative peace.

I found a table where I would be able to see two TVs, each showing one of the Games.  One was farther from my vantage point than the other, but that was fine, or so I thought.  Shortly after I sat down, this group of three people sat at the table next to me.  That was OK, even though they got a little loud.  One guy ordered a round of shots and another guy was wondering if he could eat, and then I got a bit concerned.

Then, this fucking group grew like metastatic cancer.  A fourth dude came, then another group of some number, then another, then another.  They started blocking my view of the TV further from my eyesight, which was Egypt-Iran, the better of the two Matches going on simultaneously.  (That finished 1-all; in the other Game, Belgium routed New Zealand, 5-1.)  They of course started getting really loud, which only worsened when this same motherfucker who bought the first round of shots decided he was a bigshot and ordered a couple more rounds with even more shots.

As bad as that was, I really started to boil inside when they invaded my personal space which, in this specific environment, was my table.  The group got so big that a couple of them began standing inbetween my table and theirs, and their clothes and, for all I know, their body fat pushed up against and hovered over the side of my table.  I was already upset that I couldn't hear or see the World Cup Games I was there to see, so that shit really put me on red.

Then, some guy who probably was not part of their group (I'll get to why I say that in a bit) put his glass of water on my table.  The other end of this short table I was sitting at, but this was My.  Fucking.  Table.  And this asshole just walked away without it.  This was my red line.  This was the point where I lost it, or I had to do something while knowing I couldn't yell or punch someone.  I saw him talking to his group around the other side of the pillar against which my table was at.  I just grabbed the glass of water, went up to this dude, and said, "Hey, this is your water," then sat back down.  And he probably thought I was crazy and/or an asshole, but he, I guess, was puzzled enough to find another place to put the glass of water and then forget about it.  But at least that goddamn cup wasn't at my table.

As for these fuckers to the left of me, which seriously grew to about 20 or even two dozen people, it didn't get any better.  They got even louder and rowdier, and they even started pushing up against my table.  But hey, at least they got into the Eqypt-Iran Match like I was.  The only thing I can think as to why they seemed to be so OK with getting sorta close to me, and this is a complete guess, is that, and I was able to hear this with little difficulty because they were talking so fucking loud, they were in town for a conference of Asian journalists.  They were all Asian, as, of course, am I and, even though I didn't have that good of a look at him, the shit who left his water at my table.  They may have thought we were all a part of this conference in downtown Minneapolis.  I find it kind of funny since I have a degree in journalism.  I am out of the industry, way out.  And while looking at these drunk and dumb fucks ruin my night, it crossed my mind how many of these young, over-confident shits will wash out of the industry like I did.  From those who are able to carve out a career, I wonder how many of them will become "insiders" whose egos will be so big they'll become insufferable pricks who fall in love with the smell of their own shit.  Then again, they're Asian.  They might not be allowed to get that big.

Thinking/Wishing all of these journalists-to-be will fail was the only socially-acceptable way I could get back at these assholes that ruined my World Cup viewing.  Good luck in journalism.

When You See Your Mother Scared For Her Life, It Changes You

So the weekend after Mother got her knee replaced, I was woken up by Father knocking on the door.  My sister, who was still home at the time, told him to wake me up.

When I got myself together and went to the dining room, I saw Mother sitting straight up but with her eyes closed.  My sister asked me to hold her because, according to my sis, she was feeling really dizzy, and she wasn't responding.  While my sister called the clinic at which she got her surgery, I started to hold her in case she fell over.  Mother continued to close her eyes, but all she could do was mumble.

Father thought she was just tired and needed to go back to sleep.  But after getting only the clinic's voicemail, my sister decided to call 911.  That's when, I think, Mother's mumbling started to get worrisome, like she was trying to tell us she was scared, but couldn't say the words.  Suffice it to say, I have never seen her like this before in my life.

The paramedics came.  They saw that her blood pressure was very low, caused by a combination of dehydration, constipation, and the pills she was taking.  But this wasn't a case where they give her some medicine and she'd be OK; they decided they had to take her to the ER.

Then, I saw something I'd really never seen before ... and something from Mother I had never seen before.  The paramedics needed her to get on this hammock they laid on the floor; from there, they would carry her into the ambulance parked outside.  We reminded them that she had just gotten her knee fixed; they knew, but this had to be done.

So, like ripping off a bandage, the only way to get her to lie on this hammock was to do it right in one straight shot, even though it would hurt like hell for Mother.  And it did.  Finally, Mother was able to speak, and loudly; in Chinese, she screamed, "Ow!  It hurts!"  (All this time she didn't speak English.  She must have been in some pain so deep that it made her revert to the long-term memory spots in her brain where she only knew Chinese.)  And she was really, really screaming, as if she was a little girl, howling for her suffering to stop.  I have known My Mother all her life as a domineering and even mean woman, oftentimes indifferent to other people's feelings.  But her she was, begging, even pleading for help, almost to the point of tears.  I've never seen her sound so ... well, helpless before.

---

We met Mother at the ER about an hour later.  Her eyes were open, she seemed awake and lucid, and she could even speak English again.  She was released several hours later with advice that she should drink water and electrolytes a lot more.

Mother hasn't been in that dire straits since, thank Buddha.  But the memories of that day are flooding back now that our family friend passed away unexpectedly.  While I was seeing her act like a little girl, I was thinking, "No, this can't be serious.  She can't be in real danger, can she?"  And while I don't know all the details about our family friend's death, I wonder if her relatives thought the same thing.  Maybe I haven't appreciated how close Mother was to the end.  But maybe her cries for help are something I have to heed if ... no, when the time really comes.  And that scares the hell out of me.  Because I am not ready for that, at all, and I don't think I ever will be.

Too Much In Two Ways

Eating Mother's food is a double-edged sword.  Had egg rolls last night for dinner.  Damn, it's fantastic.  There might be one or two other things she makes that are better, but when I was devouring the egg rolls, it was the best damn thing she ever made.

However, I'm feeling the aftereffects of eating so much right now.  When I eat a lot of certain foods, I get thirsty as hell, and I am thirsty as hell, even as I type this.  I'm almost done with my Coke, but I'm not desperate enough to drink it all.  Had some lemonade that I'm almost finished with, too.  Drank all of the mocha I bought in the morning to bring into work, but let's face it, mochas aren't "quenching."  And while I need to drink more water, dammit, the water ain't cutting it.  I might need to buy a Big Gulp tomorrow if I'm still thirsty.

Oh yeah, there's also getting fat as hell.  That is one reason I kind of threw my parents a curveball late last night and told them I'm not eating dinner tonight.  If I do eat after work, I get to control what I eat, and I hope to Buddha I am smart enough to not buy something big.  Then again, I still might buy a huge bottle of pop.  And I might also feel as though I deserve to eat big if work is a bear today.  See, that's another reason I told my folks (well, just Mother, and I hope she told Father) that I'm not eating tonight.  The work that was supposed to come in from down South didn't.  There were hellacious storms (including nighttime tornadoes, yikes) that cancelled all flights from there.  I still stayed a half-hour over because there is just so much darn work in The Third Department -- and, as an addendum to my previous blog post, my boss gave me a quick rundown of all the changes that are to be made there yesterday, but I will hold off on talking about them until I implement these changes and see if they work -- but that indicates to me that there should have been a hell of a lot of work that came in yesterday, and that will (maybe?) come in today, along with the work that would normally come in today.  So we have two days' worth of work when I can obviously do only one.

See how the crap continues to roll down?  I'm fully expecting to be asked to come in to work tomorrow, and I'm debating whether to wake up early and do a normal day, come in for only a few hours so I can have lunch and dinner with my parents, or a hybrid of both.  (Heck, I'm still thinking I should take back not having dinner with my folks tonight because I might not have dinner with them tomorrow night.  We probably will be that backed up.)  And that affects something else I need to do: My taxes.  Yeah, I haven't even started on them yet.  I was going to this week, but I got both depressed over my team and tired because of, well, me, and so I was going to do them this weekend, but this damn storm has upended everything and given me the opportunity to take back the paid time off I took Tuesday and Wednesday.  Maybe I shouldn't take that opportunity; I really do need to look at my tax forms now.  But I won't make that choice until I absolutely have to, because that's, well, me.

Got Fired From An Experiment

If I have been rejected for research studies before, I haven't been "fired" like this.  This particular research study comes from a group affiliated with the University of Minnesota for whom I had been a guinea pig for another of their experiments previously.  Moreover, I have struck a rapport with these guys.  They invited me to their office and brought me in for a discussion group.  I'm not saying we were going to have beers together or anything, but as far as research studies go, we had a, well, guess you would say a "relationship."  And it was neat.

But then came last/Wednesday night.  The head researcher, someone I have never met, is a gruff personality, which I chalk up to him being, I believe with evidence, to be a native of China by his accent and directness.  From my previous interactions with him, we were never buddy-buddy, but he never led me to think that I would be rejected for the experiment he is spearheading as I went through screening after screening, progressing like nothing was wrong.  But there was, apparently.  I was at home waiting for last/Wednesday night to conduct another phone screening that could last an hour.  I was kind of surprised when the head researcher called me; an obligatory screening is something one of his subordinates would usually do.  Turns out he wasn't doing a screening either; he told me that, based on the answers I gave on the online surveys I had to do before this screening, I was ineligible.  What I thought would take at least 30 minutes took only five.  He said goodbye; I think I beat him to hanging up the call.

I don't know what the fuck I did.  The research study had to do with pain, and boy, I have a lot of it right now.  Eventually, I would be enrolled -- and get paid to -- take part in classes that deal with rehabilitating the places where I hurt.  These classes would take a few months, and the surveys from those classes would last into the summer.  I have done these intermediate-term experiments before, and I enjoy them ... and the money that goes along with it.  But there would be no money beyond the $20 the head researcher paid me for the privilege of telling me over the phone, "Nope."

Have to look on the bright side.  It frees up time I would have had to devote to these classes.  And for last night, I could get to what I wanted to do after the call -- go out to my storage unit, bin my garbage at a gas station trash can, and eat at Taco Bell -- earlier than I planned.  But shit, man, I could've used the money, not gonna lie.

#1! Trusted News!

Those stupid billboards for The Epoch Times suddenly arose about a couple months ago (maybe?) and they're still around.  Wonder how many Minnesotans know that this is a Chinese-originated newspaper built by Falun Gong, that weirdo pro-tai chi Chinese cult that wants to overthrow the Chinese government?  I wouldn't mind a coup to take those Communists out as well, but I sure as shit won't vote to put the fucking Falun Gong in there.  Those people are fucking nuts!!!

And yet it's nutso groups like these that seem to have all the money these days.  Hence, the billboards.  But there are so many crude, if not primitive, elements to these billboards (which are basically all the same) that I have to point them out.  For one thing, their slogan, "#1 Trusted News," sounds like broken English ... as if a Chinese person was trying to speak English without understanding the language's syntax.  That bothers me to no end.  And second, there is a headshot of some White guy right next to "#1 Trusted News."  Doesn't seem like anyone famous, but this guy's fucking head is in every billboard I have seen in the Twin Cities.  Who the fuck is that guy?  Was he created from AI?

Can't wait to see this cult's advertising end.

I'm Ghosting My Uncle

So about a month ago, on a Saturday, I heard the doorbell ring.  I assume it's one of those, like, garbage company or roofing company people trying to sell us something, so like what we and many other people usually do when their privacy is invaded, I ignored the person, assuming he'll eventually go away.

He didn't.  And, he is a she.  And that she is my aunt.  After ringing, she knocked vigorously.  At this point I figure either it's a family member or this guy needed to bug out harshly, so I answered the door.  My aunt thrusted a bag of food in my hand, then barged into the house.  She's kind of a bitch when she wants to be; she invited herself in, then looked around and saw all my crap on the stairs and on the landing, and instead of immediately going into what she wanted to talk to me about, she took a beat and said, "Huh."  Not a fan of how I leave things around the house?  That ain't none of her goddamn business, is it?  Oy, she is very judgemental and sometimes gives no fucks about who knows it.  When my uncle died -- have I blog posted about this before? -- she forced my cousin (my uncle's son) to kneel at the coffin in obedience.  She forcefully grabbed the arm of my other cousin (my uncle's daughter), but she buckled because she said she had surgery on it and wasn't supposed to move.

Anyway, there was a reason she dropped by, and it's something I alluded to in a previous blog post and wanted to circle back to it in a bit more detail: Apparently, my uncle isn't doing so well.  He has been in deteriorating health for some time, and he was in the hospital for a spell around the holidays, and as she tells it, he is up and down health-wise since coming home.  And then she asks me not to talk to him.  Why?  She says that if I ask him the generic, "Hey, how are things going?" he is going to lie to me.  I should say that my aunt dropped by a week before the Lunar New Year.  You are supposed to, on that day, contact everyone you know, especially family, and say "Happy New Year!" to them.  I should have asked her what I should do in the wake of such an occasion, but it didn't occur to me then.

I acceded to her wishes and did not call her husband/my uncle.  In fact, I haven't contacted him at all.  And I don't know why in the fuck I haven't done so.  I did tell her that if my uncle takes a turn for the worse, all bets are off; she needs to tell me, and I have to tell my uncle's brother, my father, and if that prompts them to come home from where they were (Asia a month ago, Las Vegas now), well, so be it.  I want to think that her not dropping by means that my uncle is in a holding pattern.  Still, I haven't spoken to him, and it bothers me.  I mean, what if I "disobey" my aunt and, say, text my uncle?  Sure, he might lie to me, but I think the important thing is that I at least reached out to him, so so what?  I know the truth, and again, if the worst-case scenario happens, we will all know about it.

So why in the hell did my aunt tell me not to speak to my uncle?  I don't know how, but I wonder if this is some secret power move my aunt is pulling on me so that, if my uncle (Buddha forbid) passes away, she can somehow blame me or make me look bad to my folks, like I wasn't there for my uncle in his time of need.  She might be devious enough to tell my parents I made the house dirty while they were gone.  Fuckin' Christ, she fucking barged through the door like she owns the house.

I don't want to run afoul of my aunt because she can really fuck things up in my life, but I am essentially giving my uncle the silent treatment.  If he is in ill health, I think it makes sense for me to talk to him.  The more I think about it, the more I hate myself for following what my aunt says.  I should go to talk to him, and damn the consequences.  And I should do that ... before he dies.

The Last Of The Food I Bought For Work

Partly because of the food Father has forced me to take with me to work, I have now been conditioned to eat at work.  When they initially wintered in Las Vegas, I was OK, and in fact grateful, not to eat food that I didn't want to eat.  But now that I have gotten used to eating during the day, I have to have something -- maybe not the banana and the peanut butter sandwich and the other Chinese stuff he seems to pack for me as if I'm going off to war, but something little.

Last winter, when they were away and once I got through all of the perishable food they left for me, I was craving food again.  But just something small, so I bought a huge variety pack of granola bars.  I think I timed it so that by the time I got finished with them, my parents would be back.  But work has this thing where we get praised for the good things we do at work by getting showered with candy bars, so I interspersed those with the granola bars.  And then a co-worker gave me this huge canister of European candy bars.  They were so filling that I could only eat a few of them every break.

Add those all up, and by the time my parents came home, I still had a ton of food stashed in my cubby hole (every employee is given either a locker or a filing drawer in which to put our stuff).  Now, my parents came home in March, so I had food to bring with me from then until about Labor Weekend.  So all that food I saved I saved basically for half a year.

Yesterday/Tuesday at work, I got done with the last of them, the final granola bar.  I think those granola bars and those European bars and those candy bars all would have been fresher six months ago, but they were edible.  But now that they're gone, could I just go without?  No.  I went to Target last night and bought more bars.  I think I'll need more reinforcements in a month or so.  Eating something quick at work is now something permanent, for better and/or for worse.

Were They Fighting Over Me?

So I finished my dinner while my parents did their post-dinner walk around the neighborhood.  I put my dishes next to the sink and then went into the bathroom because nature was calling.

I swear I really, really needed to go; either it was the Hooters boneless wings (and by the way, I saw my favorite Hooters waitress back at work for the first time in months!!!) or the Dairy Queen chocolate shake that prompted my bowel movement.  But I will be honest with you: I have seen my folks walk around the block often enough I can time when they're coming home.  I swear that once I was done in the bathroom, however long it would take, if they hadn't come home by then or if they came home and they decided not to do the dishes, I would have done the dishes.  But I figured that they would come home while I was in the bathroom, and that they would do the dishes.

And they did.  And yeah, I was grateful; I think getting up in the morning when I didn't have to go to work (but went to get my blood drawn instead) drained me of any energy I had in the day, and I got "slangry," or "tirangry."  Anyway, as I hear the water running and the silverware and plates clanging in the kitchen, my parents begin to argue.  And I still hate that I refused to learn Chinese when I was young because I couldn't make out much.  But I could pick out some, a little more than I usually can when they argue (and, by the way, they haven't argued a whole lot since they came home).  I think they were arguing over ... me.  I heard, "I gave him some vegetables to eat!" and ... well, if there was other stuff I picked up I forgot.  But that "I gave him some vegetables to eat!" crack came in loud and clear.  I just am not totally certain they were arguing over me not washing my dishes, or if they were arguing over something about me eating or not eating something, or if they were arguing over me about something else, or, really, if they were really arguing over me at all.

If my parents are upset at each other, they're not showing it now as we just had breakfast.  And if they are mad at me, well, they're doing their best to hide it and are waiting to come at me at a future date.

Strange Food

So Mother spent most of yesterday/Tuesday making something.  I got out of work early enough (thank you, Juneteenth!) to justify eating dinner at home, and I was exiled into eating at the kitchen counter.

Turns out she was making ... man, I don't know what you call it, but it's, I think, steamed rice along with a bunch of other Chinese foods I don't understand and probably don't like all wrapped in a, uh, green leaf.  I know this food is quite familiar with a bunch of people I know, but I have no idea what it's called.  And I'm not much of a fan of it, either.

I see one sitting out on the table right now.  Father probably is going to pack it up for me to eat at work.  Probably will ... after I punch out, I'll need to sit down, heat it up, unwrap the sticky, gangly thing, and use a fork to dig out bite after bland bite.  So yeah, I'm not a fan of the taste nor of the work I need to put into eating it, and yes, I'm being a bit of a jerk because Mother has to put a lot of work into making it.  (I saw these leaf wraps in a pool of water in the laundry room Monday night.  "Hmmm, what are those for?" I remember asking myself.  I didn't put two and two together.)

That's all I got.

Is The Key Lactose-Free?

I love ice cream, and will definitely need it in the summer ahead.  But sometimes ... well, to be uncouth, it makes me shit, and sometimes real bad.  Doesn't deter me from eating it, but sometimes (not always) I come to regret it hours later.

Being Chinese, could lactose intolerance be the problem?  I have switched over to lactose-free milk and I haven't had the bloating or diarrhea since, at least as far as I can remember.  So I am trying the same with this lactose-free ice cream I bought, uh, last week?  Had a few scoops out of the box late last night to celebrate Memorial Day and ... well, I'll tell you I popped a little last night, and I feel something in my gut right now, but no bloating ... ?  Is it possible that my intestinal distress is not just the lactose but also the casein and the whey in the milk and ice cream, in which case I need to go dairy-free and not just lactose-free?

I'll see how I feel at work.  Then I'll need to get back to eating the ice cream -- which is delicious, by the way -- and see if my gut is telling me this ain't workin' either.

Lazy New Year's

So I spent the day going to the shoeshiner.  It was her last day; I'll talk a little more about her during EWR.  I then went to Hooters where, thankfully, my ATF waitress was working.  And then I went home and took a nap.  Woke up at 7 this morning, by the way, then unplugged the heater and peed, then slept again till 8:30.  Is that what they call biphasic sleep?

Dashing out to check out the new Hy-Vee, then buying pads for the dining room chairs, then picking up a free gift at Menards.  I hopefully will call family and wish them a Happy New Year before going out to see Matrix: Resurrections.  Am I being productive?  Probably not.  But hey, it's New Year's.  Plus it's not like you're supposed to any chores like cleaning or even showering today.

My Housecleaner Stripper Girlfriend Needed A Mental Health Day

So I had one of my stripper girlfriends come over Saturday to clean the house.  She's great because she's thorough, but she was late again, as usual.  (She did have mitigating circumstances, though, and I want to keep that private.)  She got here around 9, and she stayed until about 1:30 or so.  She has come and stayed for upwards of eight hours, which seems insane to me.  It's not as if I'm moving.  But I was prepared to have her stay until 5 in the morning as befits her pattern.  Unfortunately (or fortunately), she hit a wall halfway through her cleaning; apparently I was her third client of the day, and she'd been working since early Sunday morning.  That's fine, I said; she could leave her stuff here and come back to finish up the next day.

That "next day" was yesterday/Sunday, but goddammit, no, she did not come back.  She was so exhausted that she needed the day off.  It was going to be kind of awkward since I just wanted to sit and watch football all day; hearing the TV over her vacuuming would be hard, and it's hard to relax when I need to move my butt around so she can clean.  But now that she's coming back today/Monday (or at least she's saying that she is), that brought up a host of other conflicts because I work, obvi.  She wanted to come over in the morning, when I work, and she wanted me to just drop a house key in, like, a potted plant or something so she could work.  I trust ****e*, but I cannot allow just anyone to come into this house without me being present.  I am not worried that she'll steal something; I'm worried that someone will find the key I would leave for her and break in.  And heaven forbid if a member of my family just somehow drops by while she's there; I would be at a total loss of words to explain that.

So I told her no, she can't do it, even though it would be super-convenient for her.  I asked if she could come in the afternoon; no, she said, she needs to pick up her kid.  I asked if she could come later in the evening, like around the time she came Saturday.  Yeah, she said, but she might have to bring her kid with her.  I said OK; I've had a stripper girlfriend clean my house with her son once before, and it wasn't a big deal.  Maybe having a child in tow will compel ****e* her to work a little quicker.  I can't imagine she needs to stay longer than, like, a few hours anyway; it's just blinds and floors and walls at this point.

The big problem is if she can't come tonight, for some reason.  I can't see why -- after all, all her cleaning supplies are here, and she can't work without them.  But beyond the fact that this cleaning job is not done after 24 hours is, well, my Chinese-ness.  You see, Chinese New Year is Tuesday, and one of the big traditions is to clean everything before the New Year.  Moreover, you're not supposed to clean anything for at least New Year's Day, if not the first two days of the New Year, because you'll be "sweeping away your fortune."  (I've seen some websites saying you can't clean for the first five days, and one that forbids you from doing it for the first week.  Oy.)  I can't do anything if for some reason ****e* says she can't come tonight, but as much as I tout that I have a degree, breaking this tradition (which I only heard of recently, so I've been a johnny-come-lately adherent on this) scares the bejesus out of me.  So she has to do this tonight or else.  And dammit, she should know about this because she's half-Asian.  Lordy.

I Flew The Unfriendly Skies

I can finally get around to blog posting about this.

I decided to fly out to Las Vegas to see my parents last month knowing the risks I was taking.  Most pervasive of all of these was contracting the coronavirus, of course, but I was particularly scared of was any bullshit that could have happened from belligerent anti-masker pricks being on the same plane as I.  I have read and heard the horror stories of these assholes arguing, coughing, and hitting flight attendants because they refused to wear their masks like they were told.  I swore that my bad juju was going to attract these motherfuckers on the planes I would be flying on, and since I had to make a stop going to and flying from Vegas, that increased the possibility manifold that I would see or even have at least one run-in like this.

OK, that didn't happen.  But oh, God, there were fucking pricks on my flights, specifically the second segment both going there and coming back.

Knowing the dangers of being a captive citizen needing to breathe the possibly dirty-ass breath of strangers, I double-masked with an N95 over my surgical.  I love eating and drinking while flying, but I refused all offers for complimentary food and drink from the attendants while I was on the planes.  First time ever, but I think I made the right decision.

No, there weren't anti-maskers on the plane.  But there were rude asswipes.  On my Denver-to-Vegas segment, I made the (possible) mistake of taking off my masks because I brought coffee on board with me.  While I was sipping it, some Asian (guessing mainland Chinese) fucker decided to take the seat right behind me and began chowing down on what sounded like a large bag of chips he brought on board with him.  He was crunching loud enough I have to believe he was eating with his mouth open, and not only did that mean bits of chips were flying out of his goddamn mouth, he was spewing his filthy (and possibly COVID-ridden) breath all over me and the entire plane.  On top of all that, who in the hell scarfs down a whole bag of chips before taking off on a flight?

Worse than that, though, was this old biddy on the Austin-to-MSP flight home.  I was really tired and lucked out on having a whole row of seats on which I could lie as flat as I could and sleep.  But I heard this extremely loud movie going on all throughout this 2 1/2 hour trip, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where the hell it was coming from, I just knew it was so goddamn loud I couldn't fucking fall asleep.  I finally figured out that a couple rows behind me, this rude bitch was watching a movie on her laptop without any headphones.  She just fuckin' cranked up the sound so she could hear above the noise of the airplane.  It was so bad that I did something else I don't think I have ever done before: I surreptitiously complained to a flight attendant about her.  She got on the speaker to, in so many words, ask that this fucking woman turn that shit down.  But she didn't.  Goddamn her; couldn't fall asleep because of her bullshit.

I was too anxious to commit violence on her; I had to use public transportation for an hour and a half to get home to a house that I had abandoned under half a foot of snow for three days.  I could have been high-stepping in snow only to find that the basement was flooded, for all I knew.  Having that in my mind kind of distracted me from exacting revenge on this unmannered woman.  But it nonetheless reinforced my fear and disdain for flying.  And I wonder whether dealing with people like those two is a phase and a reaction some insecure people have to our pandemic-stricken world right now, or a sign of the further deterioration of our civilized society.

Did Those Dumb And Lazy Car Repair Motherfuckers Rat Me Out?

So when I called The Mechanic Around The Corner while I was at work (I asked them to call me, which may be relevant; see below), they told me probably the worst-case scenario: The water pump is not sealing anymore, and since they need to get to the timing belt in order to repair the water pump, they might as well change the timing belt, too.  It's over a grand.

I initially said no.  But then I figured that I could use a second car in case my main one is in the shop or, Buddha forbid, it breaks down for no good reason.  Plus, I have the money for it.  Finally, my parents aren't here, so what can they do?  So I immediately called the guy back and told him I changed my mind, and go ahead with the fix.  I'll get it end of day today ... assuming I can trudge down there on my own, braving the blowing snow and cold, all without falling and freezing to death.

But about my parents not being here?  There's a good chance they now know I've brought it in for repairs, goddammit.  Driving home from the gym I get a call from Mother on Father's phone.  She said they heard a voicemail from someone about, and please pay attention to this, a car needing repair on the "passenger side," or something.  Just going by what she said, I don't know what the hell she's talking about -- fucking language barrier erupts from the ground again -- and she specifically mentions the make of my main car and not the minivan.  But I have to go with the logic here: The guys at the shop called Father's phone instead of mine.

Might need to back up a bit.  I don't remember bringing the minivan to The Mechanic Around The Corner.  But they have a record of the van there.  So either I brought it in unbeknownst to my parents knowing and I forgot that I had, or they brought it in.  Either way, they have Father's number.  Maybe I'm wrong, but I can see them leaving a message on Father's cell telling them the diagnosis of the pressure test for which I brought in the minivan.  He is the owner, after all, so I can see one of the dudes there lazily just looking up his number and leaving a message for him -- even though I made a point, as I was dropping off the van, that they needed to call me, not Father.

You may have sensed Mother's reaction to what this VM could have been: Do not pay them to fix the car.  They've always been so fucking cheap when it comes to car repairs: Don't agree to the repairs they say the car needs, then go to some brokedown immigrant chop shop where they'll, like, replace the intake manifold gasket for $10, and then probably they won't do all the things the car needs and instead will do only the bare minimum so that the car can get by.  That's why My Fucking Mother freaked out.

Not going to do it.  Not going to back out and take the minivan back without the repair to the supposedly damaged water pump.  The thought of an insurance car in case my main one fails me was too much security to ignore.  (Aside: I remember in a previous blog post saying that I was deathly afraid The Mechanic Around The Corner will rip me off.  If they called Father even though I told them to only call me, I could then see them being dumb enough to think the guts of the minivan have to be completely ripped off when it's something else.  Honestly, I have forgotten that sentiment right now.  I just want the minivan to be fixed.  I was acting a lot more cynical in that previous blog post.  So, does that make me a hypocrite?  Well, that's a fair argument.)  But now I have to check in with those guys tomorrow morning to make goddamn sure that if they need to talk to someone, they talk to me and not Father or Mother.  And then I have to get to the bottom of who called my folks when they weren't supposed to, and I might rip a new asshole to someone and thus napalm the bridge to a car mechanic that is reachable on foot.  I'm praying that this is all a big misunderstanding, but I have to believe that those dumb and lazy car repair motherfuckers inadvertently ratted me out because of their inattention.

I plan on going to the Rolling Stones concert tonight.  Can't say I'm a huge fan, but of course I'm familiar with their songs, and I love most of them.  Also, I had a conversation with my sister some years back where she talked about going to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert even though she and my brother-in-law couldn't afford.  They went because it was a bucket list kind of thing; how would you feel if you had a chance to see one of your favorite bands but didn't because of, well, something?  And that "something" happened with the Stones with the death of drummer Charlie Watts.  That one hurts; I think Mick Jagger and Keith Richards would even say the Rolling Stones aren't really the Stones now that Watts is gone.

Still, are the Rolling Stones as they are now good enough?  Yes.  Obviously they're getting up there; should I lift my nose up and not go because they're not "the real Stones?"  No.  So I plan on going.  I just hope me 1) wearing a mask and 2) being Chinese isn't going to mean other concertgoers are going to accost me.  Crossing my fingers.

Team USA Is Underachieving

Those are the facts.  Quite simply, they are not winning the medals they were projected to win.  As of press time, they lead all countries with 52 medals total.  However, in the all-important gold medal count, they are behind China -- oh, those overachieving Chinese! -- 22-19.  America leads in silvers with 20 ... which I believe is a symptom of the problem.

I believe I am correct in saying that Team USA has been the victim of many, many upsets so far these Olympics.  As I write this, according to FiveThirtyEight, our country has won 15 medals fewer than expected.  And while the website has not provided their prognostications, I can think anecdotally of the many times America was projected to win gold but had to settle for silver, or worse.

Unfortunately, I must point out, most of the upsets I can think of off the top of my head have come from women.  Female swimmers won only three gold: Katie Ledecky in her two longest races but was beaten by an Australian nipper named Ariarne Titmus in her two shortest, and Lydia Jacoby out of Seward, Alaska (and high school) with one of the very few surprise wins for Team USA.  Hannah Roberts was slated to win in BMX Freestyle but lost.  I think a beach volleyball that was expected to at least contend for bronze got bounced in the eighthfinals half a day ago.  And, most notably, because Simone Biles withdrew from competition, the women's gymnastics team settled for silver even though they were a lock for gold.  I am not happy about these results, at all.  But these are the, well, facts.

There are those of you who say I should not be caught up in this "USA!  USA!" jingoistic bandwagoning, the type of if-you're-not-first-you're-last mentality that was an enormous weight on Biles and caused swimmer Lily King to regard thinking that she had to settle for silver and bronze medals "bullshit."  First of all, I think there are people on the United States Olympic Committee whose job it is to count gold -- and if things don't turn around, they'll be out of those jobs.  Second, this "obsession" with being first is rooted in the notion of American excellence, which, while it has caused many problems for ourselves and the world, has also resulted in this country still being, at its best, better than any other on Earth.  Don't blame The Media for this, in other words; they track medals because the fans at home track medals, and you can bet there are a lot of Olympics fans who are dismayed by the underachievement so far by Team USA.

Finally, and this is a tit-for-tat argument that will lead me and other people down a bad rabbit hole if we continue to nitpick over this, these athletes gain fame and, frankly, fortune from viewers like us.  And many of us want to see Team USA win -- not finish second or just podium, but win.  We are conditioned to root for and expect winners, and I will also bet that those athletes are conditioned to look out for #1, as well.  If you expect us to cheer you on feverishly for grabbing silver or bronze -- and we're not related to you -- then I think it's fair to say that we'll downplay any gold medals you win.  If you insist the color of the medal doesn't count, then we will just be happy that you competed.  Enthusiasm for grabbing any medal will then appropriately be meh.  And we won't throw money at you once you come home from Tokyo either, OK?

Team USA can solve schism this very easily: Just fucking win.

Wait -- I Want To Pray To Grandmother, Too!

Friday night, before their walk, Mother told me that Father and she were going the next morning to see Grandmother's (Father's mother) grave.  When I and my brother and sister were younger and were still living in the Twin Cities, we would go out a couple times per year (I want to say around Mother's Day and her birthday, but I'm not sure of that at all) to see her grave as part of an evening that would wind up at a Chinese restaurant.  It wasn't a particularly ritualized thing: We would get there, burn incense, talk to her for a bit, then pray and pile back into the car.

When I was young I had no patience for even that ten-minute gathering.  With age, of course, I understand the passage of death and the meaning of life.  So it saddens me that we as a family have not gone out to see Grandmother in ages.  Moreover, I don't remember if the three of us (Father, Mother and me) have gone out to see her.  I kind of think they remember me being bored with sitting around her headstone and have concluded I just don't want to do that.  I didn't in the past, but I'd love to go with them now.  That saddens me further.  And I did not pipe up and ask if I could go with them, although they had to, um, get Father's teeth after dropping by the cemetery, so maybe tagging along would not have been a good idea.

Oh, and this is the same cemetery that I've visited a lot over the past year, because of the pandemic and my thoughts of death that came with it.  Went there Friday, in fact, the afternoon before Mother told me they were going to see her.  I park very close to where she rests.  I usually go up to her grave, say hi, walk across the cemetery to the mausoleum where my uncle's ashes rest and say hi to him, then walk back, bid Grandmother goodbye and drive off.  I get a good walk in with paying my respects.  But seeing the burnt and sometimes unburnt sticks of incense, sometimes I think that I should just that, by myself, when we used to do that as a family.  But then I forget that I need both incense and a lighter, and so I forget about doing that entirely.

Maybe not this time around.  I may not have a lighter, but I pick up matchbooks from restaurants and bars that still offer them.  Just realized that I have them.  And I may not be able to steal incense from my folks, but if there is a stick on her headstone that isn't fully burned down, maybe I could light a match and re-light it and that would, you know, count ... maybe?  Yeah, I'll do that.  And I'll do that today, when I'm acting as if I'm going to work.

Christ, Father, I Used Them For One Fucking Day

So Father continues on his cleaning jags.  And maybe it's a case where I've gotten used to them, but it feels as though he has lightened up.  I do see that all my stuff on the floor is stacked up, some of them sometimes on my bed, and he is moving everything in the bathroom and not putting it back, which is a pain in the ass.  But there is one thing I am, I guess I should say today, thankful for is that he has not either touched or talked about the piles of papers on the dresser next to the television.  I don't even know what's in there -- guess it's a mix of mail and copies of City Pages -- but I know I should get around to it.  And I will.  Soon.  Maybe.

Anyway, one of the things before I go to work in the morning is throw my pajamas on my bed.  I usually see them on the bed when I come back home.  But on Monday (I think) was one of those, uh, uncommon times where Father takes my pj's and throws them in with the rest of my dirty clothes to clean them.  So I came home to a hamper full of new, clean clothes, but my pajamas were missing.

I didn't like it this time because I had just worn my pj's once.  I usually keep wearing the same pajama shirt and pants for weeks at a time.  I had just changed out of these warm and comfy pj's that I think I had worn for more than a month.  Why do I need them cleaned so often?  I only wear them around the house.

And that was my plan for these pajama bottoms, although I don't have pajama tops I'm wearing this time around because I don't have too many and my thermalwear top is bulky enough.  Father took that plan away from me.  So I went to the next one.  I have this, uh, "cycle" where I roll up (not fold) my clothes and line them up in order, so I just go into my pajama drawer and pull out the next pajama up.

But the next pajama up is a off-yellow, sheer, summer, Chinese one that, turns out, has lost its elastic.  I have had to continue to hike up my pants whenever I get up.  That's annoying.  I tried giving it a chance, but I couldn't take it anymore, and this morning, I threw that in the hamper and took the next pair of pj bottoms, which is not as fitting nor as thick as the one that Father cleaned after just one wearing.  Pssh.

And you know what?  He did the same thing when he took my bath towel, too.  I know, right?  I had changed towels Sunday night, cycling to this new, big, deep one.  That replaced a green one that I have had since college -- smaller, whose fibers are now shortened and deadened after years of washing.  And it smells kind of funky, too.  And since My Father took the new one away from me for a cleaning it didn't need, I took the next towel out of the closet ... which was a yellow towel that I have had since college, and was just as small and had fibers that are just as shortened and deadened as the green towel, because I remember buying both at the same time.  And that towel smells funky, too.

I didn't realize how annoyed I am with those green and yellow towels.  They were literally made a generation ago, and I guess I didn't realize the trend and technology of bath towels have changed significantly since then.  Those towels are old, but they still do their jobs, and I have a sentimental attachment to them.  But if they don't cover my body as I walk from the bathroom to the bedroom, and they don't dry me as well as my newer towels, and if they continue to stink up ... yeah, I have thought about donating those towels.  I am going to donate those Chinese thin pajama bottoms.

But hey, I don't think I would even be thinking in such an existential way if Father and his cleaning OCD didn't take pajamas and bath towels that didn't need to be cleaned because I used them just one.  Fucking.  Time.

Oh -- Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

She's Back To Whoring, I Guess

So the last time I saw ****e before yesterday/Friday, she told me she was in the "massage" business.  I put "massage" in quotes so you know what I mean.  I had no idea she did that, but then it dawned on me that I should have known.  For one thing, I'm not really certain how she makes money.  I cannot be her only source of income.  And second, I did meet her for the first time at a stripper party.  Sure, it was years ago, but there were a lot of babes at My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Version, RIP) that were, uh, "veterans," so if you know how to do something, chances are you're going to continue to do it.

That being said, I was still kind of shocked.  She told me that she stopped "masseusing" because the, uh, clients had become, well, violent, let's leave it at that.  But beyond that, I suddenly felt, well, unsafe being with and inside her.  Again, maybe I should have known, but all this time plunging into her I felt like I was the only one to plunge inside her.  Beyond that, she told me that these clients came to her house.  And she reminded me of the time before this (so two times ago) where I hustled out of her house because some dude was about to come in for, well, whatever she was willing to do and whatever he was willing to pay.  Come to think of it, when I left ****e's house that time, a guy was driving in.  I thought he was the guy who lives in the same house as her, just in the basement.  But maybe not.

Oh, well, I thought.  It's not as if I'm going to stop fucking ****e.  And besides, she said she stopped, so I have her all to myself -- or at least I can pretend with some evidence that I do.  But I don't, if everything I heard and saw yesterday is any indication.

So I just railed ****e and was going to stay in her bed in her bedroom for my post-coitus nap.  She has two (used to be three, but she told me on my visit before she had to say goodbye to that third) who always yap whenever someone's at the door.  Well, I heard them yapping, and then I heard the door open, and then I heard a man's voice -- something about a "massage."  I didn't plan on going anywhere, but having a client over definitely meant I had to stay in her bedroom ... and be as quiet as possible, for her massage table is in the room next door, and I did not want to make a sound to let him suspect another guy was there.  But I was more afraid of hearing sounds from that room -- moaning sounds, slurping sounds, satisfied sounds and, if she said it happened to her sometimes during her work, screaming and slapping sounds.  I didn't hear any of that.  Thankfully (I think), I passed out.

Around 2 I thought it best to leave; I did have some things I wanted to do.  I heard no sounds, so it sounded as if the coast was clear.  I put on my clothes, gave ****e her money, and kissed her goodbye as she shut the bathroom door behind me.  I gathered my coat, heat, gloves and mask that I left in the living room when the dogs started to yelp again.  I looked down to the front door; I saw some darkness through the window, and it shifted side to side because its feet were tired from standing in place.

"Someone's at the door!" I shouted to ****e through the bathroom door.  I put on my shoes and stiffened my upper lip.  There was no way I could avoid this guy, dammit.  I opened the doors, pointed my thumb behind me and shuffled to the side of him.  The guy may have said hello, but if I grunted anything back in acknowledgement, it was so quiet he didn't hear me.  And that's because I didn't want to give him any information to identify me.  Didn't want to be rude, but shit, let's be real here -- we both knew why we're there.  And it's not so we could find new friends with shared hobbies.  All that dude saw was a guy wearing a winter hat, gloves, glasses, a green mask, and a dark overcoat.  I was so covered I hope he doesn't even know I'm Chinese!

But back to her revolving door ... why didn't ****e tell me she was back in the whoring business?  She said she was out, but she got pulled back in, I guess?  I will make my peace with the fact that it's likely my penis isn't the only one in her vagina.  But on the same day?!  And I'm not cool with dodging her clients on my way in or out of her place.  With the traffic that was going in and out yesterday, it's obvious she's running a whorehouse.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just that I want to be the only one going in and out of that whorehouse that day.  Seeing dudes, looking each other in the eyes and knowing implicitly what we're there for is awkward as fuck.

I have Friday off.  I thought about dropping by her place and giving ****e a two-fer, if you know what I mean.  But maybe it's better to space visits out.  Her vagina seems to have no vacancy nowadays.

Mothered Triggered Me, Maybe

Yeah, so for dinner today we were eating steak.  Mother brought out some avocados she cut.  I was going to eat some of them, I swear.  But when she set that cup of avocados in front of me and said, "You not gonna eat the avocados?" I banged the fork and knife on the table and shot back at her, "You want me to eat the avocados?"  And I was silent for the rest of dinner -- although, in her quiet conversation with Father, she might have been bitching about me in front of her.

All my life she has been putting food in front of me and asking me, "You not gonna eat the (food she put in front of me)?"  Shit, she did that this morning, when we were eating banh mi and she asked me, "You not gonna drink tea?"  I just said, "Nope."  And that was it ... except that it wasn't, when she asked the same obnoxious goddamn thing again.

Did she say what she said tonight because of what I said this morning?  Maybe.  But it may be more a case of how I perceive what she said.  I couldn't tell if she was talking shit about me in front of me because she was speaking Chinese.  I suspect that she's been talking about me in front of me all my fucking life because I have never understood Chinese.  But maybe that language barrier ... well, makes me think she said, and says, something she didn't/doesn't say.  By that I mean I wonder if she's really saying, "You not gonna eat/drink (item to be consumed)?"  I am annoyed that she has told me to eat and drink everything put in front of me all my life.  But I am also triggered when she says, or at least I perceive her saying, "You gonna eat/drink that?"  Those words sound like taunting to me, and I'm sick of it, but maybe, just maybe, she doesn't mean it that way.  Maybe she's asking me, "We have (food/drink) available.  Would you like some?"  Or, at the very least, she isn't taunting me.

(sigh)

I think I've made her mad, and I feel bad about that.  And yet, I feel that now she's going to hold that against me, and that one day soon she's just going to blow up on me for something that is no big deal.  And I can probably trace that meltdown back to what I said today.

I'm going to find something in the fridge she made and eat it in a vain, circuitous attempt to make peace with her.