My Sister The Proxy

So I told Mother that I got my passport book and card two and three weeks (respectively) after I applied online, and she asked for my help to coach her through the online application process for her and Father at a day I had time to help her with it.  I told her on Sunday that I could help her Monday evening.

Now, I've told all of you how much of a mental and emotional drain being on the phone with My Mother can be.  I think that planning a long phone call ahead of time, like it obviously was going to be when dealing with an online passport renewal application over the phone and not while I'm sitting next to her, helps remind me that I need to be patient.  What I didn't know, however, was that my sister just so happened to be visiting my parents in Las Vegas for a few days.  Awesome!  She basically became my on-site translator and extra set of hands!!  So sis, can you do the application process for the 'Rents ... and ooh, by the way, can you help me install a new modem and router in their condo, too?

This problem of theirs goes back at least a year.  Mother complains of dead spots, namely their dining room table, which is at the opposite end of the part of their condo where their old, slow, obsolete modem resides.  It needed a new one, I suspected, and then it needed something to boost its range and help the signal break through the condo's walls.  But I wasn't planning on going out there anytime soon, not as long as this Republican administration has the gall to snatch up anyone at the airport they decided they don't like, so I figured my folks would have to just suck it up.  My sister being there, however, changes everything.  I could tell her what the problem is and how to fix it.  So once I decided she could do this (and my sis made the online application process for both Mother and Father go so smoothly), I spent the rest of the night looking up the best modem and router to buy at an electronics store and bought them, then I texted her all the information for the three of them to pick up, bring home, and set up so Mother can finally stop bitching about their shitty wi-fi.

That part did not go smoothly.  First of all, the modem I bought for them has to be hooked up with a coaxial cable.  I thought every place had a coax, but apparently this condo only connects to the Internet outside via Ethernet.  My sister tried to see if the modem would work just hooked up through Ethernet, but she told me (on the phone Tuesday night while I was at the Timberwolves Game) that it didn't.  Also, the router I got for them was just one unit of those "meshes" or "pods" or whatever you call it.  I thought one would be enough.  I thought that if I bought them a second (which, presumably, would be placed as far away as the first "mesh" or "pod," which has to be connected to the modem, in order to maximize the range), they would complain that, like, "It looks bad," or something.  My folks can be that shallow.  Well, Mother complained (after my sis attached this new router to the old modem, which she had a bit of trouble reconnecting) that there still wasn't any range.

My sister was leaving Thursday, and there was no way my parents would even dare try hooking up this second router, so my sister got my brother to buy that second router, which could be delivered the next day (which was Wednesday) because he has Amazon Prime.  (This is where I expand the universe of this blog post by reminding you that after I got home from the Game, I saw that my thermostat didn't work and, ironically, decided to accept a free trial of Amazon Prime in order to buy the same brand of thermostat so that I didn't have to do any wire work to put in a different brand of thermostat, and get it delivered as soon as possible ... even though I put in a second different set of batteries which made the old thermostat finally work.)  My sister got this second router, she installed it Wednesday, and it ... well, I haven't asked Mother yet if the range is better.

All through this ordeal, I profusely thanked my sister for doing this favor -- for our Mother, because our Mother wanted it, but frankly, for me, too.  I don't think she had running to Best Buy and spending a good chunk of one afternoon installing new wi-fi as part of her plans while visiting my parents.  I recognize that I ask ... no, use my sister a lot when I want something done.  Most notably, when I feel like I can't talk to my brother about something I need him to know, I tell my sister and she tells him.  We were in Hong Kong for Grandmother's funeral several years ago, and we were not on speaking terms then, so we asked our sis to relay any messages we needed the other to know.  She recognized that; the night after the funeral service, when I took her to this bar I wanted to go to because I needed a drink, she told me she knows what both of us are asking her to do in order to keep the peace between us.  And she almost broke down crying.  The gravity of burying Grandmother had something to do with it, of course, but being the peacemaker brings its own anguish, and that is something we make her do.

She acted as if she didn't mind putting in a new modem and router, even though she had no previous experience.  Still, besides thanking her a lot for being my proxy, I wonder if there's something else I could do for her ... or does she have a favor I'll have to pay her in kind.  Either way, that's an obligation I should do for her.  She did this for me, after all.

At Least We Go Through Less Stuff In The Bathroom Now

It's been a few weeks since my sister left, and even though the house is a little emptier and quieter, there is one thing I am clearly thankful for once she went back home: We go through less stuff in the bathroom now.

It is astounding how much a third person churns through.  While my sister (and Mother, who moved upstairs in preparation for her knee surgery) was using the upstairs bathroom, we seemingly used a roll of toilet paper every week.  I remember Grandmother going through rolls that quickly, but I only think she did that because she was using too much on every visit.  Also, we cracked open a bar of soap at a frightening frequency.  Worst of all was the trash.  Father put in a too-small trash can (with a lid you need to open with a foot pedal, and that should be a blog post in and of itself) in the bathroom, and that damn thing filled up, like, twice a week.  I had to empty that thing so often it got absurd.  And by the way, if I ever get an up-close look at used tampons again, it'll be too soon.

Contrast that to when I'm the only one using the bathroom.  I go through toilet rolls maybe once a month.  I throw my toilet paper in the trash, so it does accumulate, but not on a semi-weekly basis.  And if my parents ever leave, I will feel less pressure to actually cleanse myself.  I'm sure I've reached two months before getting a new bar of soap, and I miss that longer frequency.

Mother still sleeps upstairs because she loves it, so right now we're in a liminal state between the chaotic burn rate of three people and the tranquil stasis when I have the bathroom all to myself.  We go through toilet rolls and soap bars at a slower pace, but they're still too fast for my liking.  So yeah, I can't wait for the day I have the run of the house to myself ... if I ever will. ...

RIP Car (For Real For Real)

OK, so on Thursday, apparently the tow truck driver called Father, but he didn't pick up because he doesn't answer calls from phone numbers he is not familiar with, which is completely understandable.  But the driver apparently was outside the house when he called, and since Father didn't answer, he drove off.

I got around to calling to ask what's up, and they rescheduled for today/Monday.  This time I added my phone number as a back-up in case My Father didn't pick up again.  But this failsafe probably means that the car is going to be taken away, from my life, for real now.  And so, because this is the last last last time, yesterday/Sunday afternoon (before I headed off to overtime at work and then to Palmer's and downtown) I did my OCD ritual of sitting in all four seats of my old car, touching everything inside the car, taking five deep breaths, and mediating (or trying to meditate) for 70 seconds before moving on.  I've done this three times now, and I try to give it the reverence it deserves.  They're hauling away my first love and my means of freedom for so long, after all.  But at this point, frankly, this feels similar to all the talk leading up to Grandmother being forced to leave the house for the memory care home.  I hated doing it, but deep down I knew it was the right thing to do, and going through the trauma of anticipating losing someone (in this case something) so near and dear to me has worn me down to the point where I just want it to be fucking over.  In a way that's giving up, and I hate it, but it feels like it's time.  Well, it was supposed to be time on Thursday, but I'm sure that today really is time.  Maybe.

You're Not Helping Your Case, Doc

I think I have blog posted before that sometimes my psychotherapist has texted me weirdly.  Most of the time they're a series of letters that make no sense.  Then, around the holidays he texted me pictures of the moon -- not bad, the pics were pretty, but I didn't ask for them.  He then left me a voicemail asking if he could talk.  He's never done that before and, frankly, I think it's inappropriate for a therapist to ask a patient to talk to him.

But he did earlier this week is yet another layer of what-the-fuckville.  He sent me a link to the Neptune Society, a cremation service company.  The hell???  Of course I didn't ask for this.  I have spoken to him about death a lot, but I don't ever raising the concept of cremation beyond telling him that my grandmother and uncle have both been cremated.  So why in the shit is he sending me a text about this?  Is he telling me something?  Does he want to talk about this?  Because I don't.  I have been thinking it's time to have a session with him again, but now that he sent me this strange link, I don't know if I want to now.  And if this is somehow a cry for help -- and there's a non-zero chance that is -- I am purposely ignoring him.  And, to be honest, if he gets depressed or even harms himself because I'm not speaking with him ... well, damn, I will not take responsibility.  Because this is some weird-ass fucking behavior, man.

An Instance Where I Stayed Calm

I lost my Swiss Army knife a few weeks ago.  I knew I had used it, and I had misplaced it, and after some time trying to look for it, I gave up.  And I didn't panic, because I knew it had to be somewhere in the house, and that it didn't grow legs and walk out of it, so I knew I would come across it at some point.

Well, a couple (or maybe a few) days ago, I was searching through my computer bag and, lo and behold, I found it.  Guess it fell into it from my nightstand, that's all.

I remember when I was a kid I would freak out and yell at Grandmother to help me find it.  I was in a permanent tizzy back then.  I hope I grew up enough for her to see me not overreact like that.

On The Search For Bedsheets That Won't Tear

So a few weeks ago I think I tore through my bedsheet.  I think I have blog posted in the past of how I haven't trimmed the nail on my right pinky toe in years, ever since I started wearing the pair of Doc Martens previous to the one I'm wearing now.  Well, I think I tore through that one as I was moving my foot around while I was in my bed.  Didn't believe it at first, but I finally looked down and saw a tear about a foot long in the sheet.

Thing is, this is the second sheet I have torn through.  First time, maybe two years ago, it was my finger.  I don't think my fingernail was that long, let alone sharp.  But I moved it on top of the sheet and "RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!!!"  For both, I tried sleeping on the bedsheet until the thought of my foot or hand going through the bedsheet and potentially tearing through the mattress made me too scared to not change them.

I had three.  With this one needing replacement, I'm down to one.  So, obviously, I need to buy at least one.  But what kind?  I looked at review sites The Wirecutter and The Strategist.  Do you know how freakin' damn expensive bedsheets are?  Most of the ones recommended are at least $150!!!  Are you kidding me???  Oh, and they always come as a set -- a fitted sheet, a flat sheet, and two pillowcases, all matching.  You should see my bed: The bedsheet I sleep on and the cases I have on my two pillows look totally different from each other.  One of the pillowcases, which I got from Grandmother, has a drawing of a pig.  Why do the pillowcases and sheets have to match?  Who else is going to see this besides me -- and some of the time my eyes are closed because I'm sleeping.  Also, I don't use a flat sheet.  What's that, a second blanket?  I already have one blanket.  I don't need another.

Anyway, there is a budget option both sites recommend, and luckily (this isn't always the case), it's the same sheet: The 400 Thread Count from Threshold, the generic brand for household items from Target.  Thing is, the two bedsheets I tore were from Threshold/Target.  Now, could it be that Target sells different number-threaded sheets of their generic brand?  If so, I'll check closer; maybe the ones I tore didn't have enough threads in them.  But if they are the same, I'm just buying the same damn rippable bedsheets I bought before, plus I'll have a flat sheet I'll never use and two pillowcases to add to the 15-20 I already have.

But, I need a backup bedsheet.  Maybe I can find just a bedsheet.  I thought I bought the two I tore without any flat sheet or pillowcases.  But maybe I was wrong.  Maybe I'm wrong about deciding to buy this at all.

The Clothes I Am Giving To Goodwill

• The green Joe Boxer thermal underwear top.  I bought this from the K-Mart that used to be close by before it closed.  God, the memories there when I was young.  Anyway, there are big holes in both armpits, the left elbow is pretty shredded, and the right elbow is starting to be.
• A patterned pillowcase, one with a series of concentric diamonds, each side of which is a different color from the other sides of its diamond but the same color as the side that is radiating out, if that makes any sense.  This is so old I remember Grandmother using it.  (Miss her.)  It has a hole at the closed end, so of course that end isn't closed anymore.
• Khaki-colored GAP khakis, loose boot fit, 29x30.  It fit me once, but no more.
• A brand of jeans from Outdoor Life, a brand I've never heard of, so my parents got me this when they went to, like K-Mart or Kohl's.  Regular fit, 32x30.  Also fit me once, but no more.
• My green thermal underwear pants from Duluth Trading Co.  The elastic is no longer elastic.
• Lee khakis, 32x30, the ones you don't iron.  Don't fit me anymore.  By the condition of the khakis, I wonder how many times I worn these.
• Blue and beige square-patterned shorts from Canyon River Blues.  The pockets in the back had Velcro to shut it.  I remember Mother and I going to the Sears in Brookdale right from work at The Store because she wanted to buy something, and she encouraged me to buy something, and I needed shorts, so I got these that came with its own belt.  I do not know where the belt is.  They were good, roomy, and in my opinion stylish shorts.  Unfortunately I got fat enough to where the button popped out.  Also, these shorts were so thin that there is a huge horizontal rip on the back right side, right around where the bottom of my ass would be.
• Black or dark navy Gap khaki shorts, relaxed fit.  Only says 31; guess there is no need for an inseam measurement when it comes to shorts.  No longer fit in it.  The button has popped loose and is literally hanging by a thread.
• Brown Dockers, D3 (?), classic fit, 30x30.  These are some professional-looking khakis.  Unfortunately, my belly outgrew it.
• Mustard yellow khakis from Hunt Club, another label I've never heard, which is more evidence that my parents bought it for me, even though the purple label on the inside of the waist gives the pants some panache.  Measures 32x30, but as I can see from the lack of a button, I have gotten too damn fat for this one as well.

Ten pieces of clothing, all of which I will be donating after work today, January 23, 2024.

Thoughts On 2023

Things weren't bad, if I am being honest with myself.  Lost Grandmother's best friend back in May or June -- I should look for an obit again -- and that represents the final closing of any connection with Grandmother on Earth ... well, there is her family, so I am being melodramatic.  But everyone else I know and love are still alive.  I risk that streak in 2024, but I don't want to think about that right now.

Work is good.  I think my boss's discouragement of me having overtime may grow to be a problem, but it hasn't been more than an occasional pain-in-the-ass.  As another person gets trained in, I will be working in The Fourth Department fewer and fewer days.  I will see how I feel when that finally happens.

Family is good.  Parents and I didn't fight as much while they were here.  I still get annoyed and sometimes get into arguments with Mother, like last/Saturday night, over being diligent over bills and stuff.  But hey, as long as they're on the other side of the world, they can't touch me.  And really, as long as they're over there, I like them more.  Because they can't hurt me while they're in the house.

I continue to try and maintain relationships with my stripper girlfriends.  I don't go out to strip clubs anymore, and I realize now that the ones I have made friendships, and friend-with-benefits-ships, with, are basically the ones I've got.  Going out to new strip clubs is an expensive venture, and maybe I'm happy with who I have.  Or, maybe I will get restless and see if I want to see other women.

I love the stability 2023 gave me.  But I wonder if I am, or am going to get, restless, and not just with seeing other women.  Eating and getting fat remain an issue with me, for example.  I feel very obligated to eat everything my parents made for me in the freezer -- I still have, I think, more than half of it left -- and to drink all the alcohol I have bought.  That's a lot of pounds I'm packing.  And after tomorrow/Monday/New Year's Eve, I don't have the excuse anymore of indulging for the holidays.  I should be watching my weight regardless, but I really, really should start taking care of my body starting in 2024, specifically slimming my waistline and lowering my cholesterol and high blood pressure.  (I honestly think that I now weigh more than most of the people I know.  I was a rail all through college.  Swear I was 125 pounds when I graduated with my bachelor's.  Humbling and sad.)  You know, I should work on my temper, too.  I fall into a violent dream and my heart starts racing to the point my chest hurts.  Maybe I should do things to stop that.

That requires change, and I hate change.  But there are some things that I can do and be better at, and I wonder when, or if, I will get sick of the same old same old.  Should I go back to school and upgrade my skills so I can get a better-paying job?  Should I make a more concerted effort to find someone to spend the rest of my life with?  The more things stay the same, the more I fear things get staid.  And the world won't stay the same for me.  If things change around me, what will happen, and how will I fare?

You know, maybe this time next year I will be doing the same damn thing I've always done.  And maybe I will be fine with it knowing that, deep down in my heart, I am who I am.  But there might always be a chance that I will do something different.  Will I reject that?  Or will I embrace that?

Happy New Year, everyone.

Hmmm ... These USWNT Jerseys Really Bring Out My Fat Belly

My USWNT jersey came yesterday/Thursday.  Hope to wear it once before Sunday, when they take on, and probably get steamrolled by, Sweden.  More on this later (I think), but I also hope to be able to wear it with some pride after bitter recriminations of falling short of their third World Cup title drop away and their 2019 WWC triumph (as memorialized by the fourth star atop the badge on the jersey) stand in our memory untarnished instead.

Kind of waited before getting the jersey ... just because.  But as I waited, the selection of sizes dwindled.  When I finally decided to buy it, I had two choices: Extra Small and Small.  Before that, when I checked the Nike website, they had Medium, but no Large.  When I saw that S was all that was left, I was at first scared I couldn't buy it.  But then I checked the two USWNT jerseys I do have, which I bought during the 2019 WWC (which had three stars) and, I think, shortly after the 2015 WWC (which had two).  The '19 shirt was a Medium, but the '15 was a Small.  And I fit in both, and with little trouble.  By the way, I can tell the S is smaller than the M, but the difference is slight.  Nike makes a good product, IMHO.

I put both of these on and strode up to my bedroom mirror.  Neither jersey suffocated me, but they are both tight around my stomach -- my fat stomach.  Yeah, whenever I walk around in these shirts, I'm reminded again about how everyone can see the bulge in my gut.  And this is where I lament again about how skinny I was in my childhood and into my twenties.  Seriously, when I got to college, I was between 115 and 125 pounds.  And I was there for a long time despite the different diets I decided to fall back on once I was out on my own, in both Los Angeles and later in El Paso.  And yet, at some point 20 years or so ago, the metabolism that kept my body rockin' like a furnace broke.  One day not too long ago I was rifling through old photos of myself (I don't remember if I was on my phone, I was online on Facebook, or I was looking through literal pictures I had in my hand).  I can date back to about a decade ago photos where the big belly I have now was quite visible then, so I've been fat and out-of-shape for at least a decade.

I wonder when it all went wrong.  I sometimes wonder how it all went wrong.  Was it because of the depression I went through in my twenties, when the lack of a full-time job and direction finally compelled me to eat so much my metabolism quit?  (I think my depression was a main reason I started Wailing And Failing.)  Did it coincide with Grandmother's mental deterioration?  Or is this all natural, and that I have eaten and drank as much as I wanted when I was a kid but my body no longer can just use it at a rate where my body doesn't look like I eat and drink a whole lot?

At any rate, I am fat and I look fat, and these now three USWNT jerseys really emphasize my fat belly.  But hey, I wanted to commemorate the team winning its fourth title, so I stuck to my principle of buying the USWNT shirt on the Year of a Women's World Cup if they won the previous Women's World Cup.  In other words, if what I think will happen happens, I won't be buying no jersey in 2027.  At any rate, since both the Medium and Small bring out my gut, I saw no reason why I shouldn't buy the Small.  It fits me, plus the only real reason I would buy a Medium is if it would hide my stomach, and if the M I do have is any indication, I don't think it will.  So I bought the Small, and I will wear it at least to the 4 a.m. Women's World Cup Final, featuring or not featuring the United States, and I will stick out my fat belly for all to see!

Yes, Death Puts Things In Perspective

I was kind of annoyed at my folks yesterday/Friday.  When I went to work I told them I would call them as to when I'll be home.  I thought it would be closer to eight hours because Fridays are usually OK at The Fourth Department, where I had been all week (and will be next week until next Friday).  I was wrong; I never have had as many forms to deal with on a Friday as I did yesterday.  Combine that with a couple mistakes for which I needed to retrace my steps and do over, and I got out around 6:15, which is totally not what I expected.

Around 4 I called them.  I was going to tell them not to wait up; eat dinner, and leave something for me.  But Father said, "Call me when you're done with work."  "But I don't know when that will be," I said.  "Just call me when you're done with work," Father replied, and that was annoying because I hate for them to just stick around and wait for me to come home to eat even though they eat dinner around, like, 4:30, like a bunch of seniors.  But I called when I was done with work and, as I was trundling up the stairs, Father was laying on the couch, waiting for me.  Scared the hell out of me; he's like a lazy ninja.  But he cooked me up fish and spaghetti with modified seafood pasta sauce at a bit past 7, a time where I think he would be slumped in his bed, watching TV.

Times like this make me wish I didn't burden them with waiting around for me to come home from work.  I had said that if work is pushing me past their dinner time, I'll just go out to eat.  They seem to insist they don't mind waiting around.  And ... well, I think I will go out to eat next Friday and lie by telling them I'm seeing a friend (yeah, in my last blog post I came down hard on myself for eating out so much, but I really want to eat something I want to eat), but I think it's a nice gesture.  And upon the death of Grandmother's best friend, I don't mind it.

I understand that death is inevitable.  But hearing of her passing just reminds me of it, and it's been hard not to think of it this week.  I am going to lose my loved ones, and since they're getting old, it may be soon.  When thinking about that, all the arguments I've had with my parents, all the differences I still have with them, all the weird food they make me eat, they really do all seem to fall away because the only thing that matters is that we love each other, and we help each other whenever and however we can.  Because one day ... they'll be gone.  And I still don't know what the hell I will do when that time comes.

So yeah, I might skip out on dinner on Friday.  (Actually, come to think of it, I have Games to go to Tuesday and Wednesday, and I don't know if I'll have time to come back home before going out again.  Maybe I shouldn't.)  But I finally am starting to accept the idea (now that I'm in my forties) that they do things I find annoying not out of obligation, but out of true and genuine love.  Maybe I should be more open to that.

So what I was afraid would happen did happen: Grandmother's friend died.  The receptionist said it was about a month ago, so assuming she was right, I saw her shortly before she passed, thank Buddha.

And I'm glad I did my usual stop for a drink of water and a shot of hand sanitizer before I went up.  That's when the receptionist, who dutifully jotted down my information, took a look at her roster of residents and didn't see Grandmother's friend.  She stopped me and called someone who confirmed she had died.  If I had just bolted up to the third floor and her room, I would have either been stopped by one of the orderlies who would break the news to me or stepped into her room and not see her.  None of these options are good; I knew that the only way I would know she passed is by a stranger telling me she died when I drove down to her nursing home and thought/hoped I could see her.  But it's probably better not to go up there when there was no reason to.

I'm still numb, and I don't know how to process this.  But looking back on the last time I saw her last month (with help from the blog post I wrote about her), I think I now know why she held onto my hand for so long.  And knowing she died about a month later, I hope she didn't feel as though I was abandoning her.

RIP.

Grandmother's Friend ... I Don't Know

Saw Grandmother's best friend at the home on Saturday.  Glad I did because ...

Like I'm sure I've said here on WAF before, as she has aged, communicating has gotten a lot more difficult.  Before she would speak English to me, and we could talk about things.  Then she would begin to repeat herself over the course of the hour I usually spend with her.  Then she wouldn't speak English, just her native Vietnamese.  Still, she would talk incessantly to me as if I was able to speak Vietnamese, which I cannot.

That slow (and I hate to use this word) deterioration was hard to take, but it was, you know, OK.  That was in March.  In April I popped in only to see her asleep, and since I don't want to be waken when I'm asleep, I left the home early without talking to her.  This time around she was napping, but she did wake up, or at least open her eyes.  I said hi, and she just looked at me.  When I asked her if I could sit and talk (well, more like look at her), she nodded, but she didn't speak.

Things are different with her, if things I saw in her room are any indication.  She had the TV on (well, an orderly turned it on for her, I'm sure), but for the first time I can remember, the TV was muted and instead someone popped in an old iPod Mini and blared old time music from the 40's and 50's in the room.  (It was tuned to A&E, and there was this footage of a car crash on the road.  But since big band music was playing, and I didn't know the TV was on mute, I thought that big band music was the music bed for this found footage of the car crash.)  She has been given packages of Lay's potato chips to eat, but there were about a half-dozen unopened ones on her tray and dresser.  And on the drawer upon which sits the television set, there sat unconnected parts of what appears to be a breathing apparatus.  I don't recall her ever having any issues with breathing.

As soon as I saw her, with the skin around her mouth drooping to the point where it creased an inevitable frown, I knew things may have taken a turn for the worse.  For some time she no longer was the vivacious, even plucky, woman with the well-coiffed hair (she was a hairdresser) who gossiped about all the men who wanted to talk to her all day.  Her hair, straggly for a long time, settled stiffly on her head.  And while this was the first time in a long time I spent some time looking at her, intently looking at her, she nodded off a few times.  She was still responsive; whenever she heard a noise in the hallway, she would open her eyes (if they were closed) and look up.  But there was no talking while I was with her.  Her energy has flagged significantly, and now it looks as though she needs help breathing, and that scares me for her future.

I had to go.  I told her, and she surprised me when she asked, in English, "Where are you gonna go?"  I said home.  I took a couple photos of the both of us in case it was the last time.  I kissed her forehead and cheek, and I whispered in her ear, "Thank you for everything.  I love you."  And then I grasped her hand for a long time, if indeed this truly was the last time.  And then Grandmother's friend kept gripping my hand, and started touching and pinching parts of it.  That actually lasted another 40 minutes; the 1:40 is the longest I ever stayed with her.  Finally, she stopped holding my hand, and I took that as an opportunity to truly say goodbye.

Except that I didn't.  I turned her wheelchair toward the window so I could get good pictures of the two of us, but as I left her room it looked as though she wanted to watch TV, but she had to look up and to her left to do so.  So I went back into her room and reoriented her and her tray so that she could look straight at her set.  And I just had to kiss her and tell her I love her again, but thankfully, she didn't hold onto me for dear life.  However, I did say something I hesitated to say the first time: I told her I will see her again next month.

Sister and I went to our Grandmother's gravesite; it's something she should do before she leaves, and it's something I haven't done in a long while even though I live here.

She asked me if I had my Swiss Army knife with me.  She later told me, once we got home after our evening going to the cemetery, the Megamall, and this emporium I often go to, that she wanted my knife to cut the stems of the flowers so it'd suck in the water better.

I told her, back when she asked me at our Grandmother's plot, that I didn't have it with me.  But once I was home and just chit-chatting with my sis, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Swiss Army knife.  I had absolutely no idea that I put it in my pocket.  But I remember how: Wednesday night, after we visited our cousin, we had to take the trash and the recycling out.  She wanted me to recycle this big box, since broken and smelly (the latter according to her), but I had to break it down first.  She didn't want any bugs that might be living in there to stay in-house, so I took out the box to break it down, and so I had to go back inside to grab my knife.  Once I broke down the box, I shoved it into my pants pocket.

Totally forgot, which is not the end of the world.  But she had a slightly out-of-this-world favor to ask, and it just so happened I had exactly what she wanted, and I couldn't help her.  Now the flowers are going to be suffocating for water just because I forgot.

Fuckin' Tire. Fuckin' Wheel. Fuckin' Car.

So I was coming home from a night out last/Friday night.  Hey, I was in The Fourth Department, I earned it.  As I got home the low tire air light came on.  It had a propensity to come in for an extended period but years ago, so I thought that the bad sensor reared its ugly head again.  So I stopped by a gas station that had free air, stuck it in the driver's-side front tire because that's the one that always needs it, guessed how much air it needed, then drove home.

Used the minivan to see Grandmother's friend (whom I did not see; she was asleep, and I have a rule that I don't want to wake people up because I don't want to be woken up while I'm asleep).  Came home, then decided to check out the tire -- you know, just in case.  And I'll be goddamned, but it was just about flat again.  I don't know what the fuck is up with it, but that tire has consistently been giving me trouble ever since that fateful goddamn day I ran over those train tracks right next to Centro.  I swear it's the wheel/rim, but I've been told once already it's not.  And when I finally was able to change it out for my spare (they're right; change tires on level ground), I couldn't find a puncture.

On top of all that, I freaked out because my spare looked like it was out of air.  I think I stroked out as I sloooooooooowly drove off and tried to find a place I could put air in this spare.  I went to three places; two of them, both at gas stations, were out of order.  I also tried a DIY place, but I didn't see an air hose anywhere.  Finally, I remembered, and got to, a gas station that did have an air hose, and by God, I jacked up that spare with as much air as I could have given it.  (Should've gauged the spare before I put in the hose, however; that way I would know exactly how much air to put in it.  This is where I get all panicked again.  Need to think under pressure!)  But my anxiety that ignites in me whenever my car breaks down, well, I felt it as soon as I saw the deflated tire on my car.  And my heart's still beating a mile a minute.  I hate this feeling.  I feel minutes coming off of my life because of the fear I feel right now.

With that being said, I am finding ways to alleviate my anxiety.  Masturbation helped for, like, a minute.  Now, I will probably use the minivan to drive and get me some fast food.  I'll be using the minivan for a while; no shop is open tomorrow (and it wouldn't even matter if there was one because I work), and then I'm back in The Fourth Department Monday and Tuesday.  Plus I finally was able to get the oil down to 15%, which seems like a good time to get the oil changed (and, according to the car, to also rotate the tires [he-heh] and exchange the coolant.  Oh yeah -- the rattling and squealing underneath the car, too.  It'd make sense to get all those things done at once, and I might as well take a day off and do it this week.  But this is all the more reason I like having a spare car.  I don't have to miss a beat when it comes to important things like work.  If I only had one car, I would be stuck at home and have to reorder every part of my schedule for days on end.

Now, I just have to hope that the minivan holds up.  I'll be honest, though; after getting the water pump, mount and brake pads replaced just over a year ago, I think it's a very reliable vehicle.  In fact, I kind of feel safer there than in my car ever since my car started rattling and squealing.

My Cleaning Parents Just Fucked With My Stuff Again

Need to see Grandmother's friend today, which means I usually do a COVID-19 rapid test before I go to make sure I haven't gotten pinched with the virus.  I typically had gone to a center to get it done, but since they closed, I had to finally open up the free tests we were sent.

I put them on the pool table in the basement, which now serves as a pseudo-shelf.  Maybe I should have thought about putting them somewhere else, but since Father puts everything on, in, or under that, I kind of thought they would be there the next time I see Grandmother's friend.  I did not take into account my parents' propensity to clean, especially since they came home to a leaky water heater and there was a lot of stuff to move around and put back.

Just went down to the pool table.  The tests, which I kept in their gray packaging, aren't there.  Seemingly every other piece of shit is there, but I didn't know where to start.  So I called Father just now.  At first he said, "I don't know."  And then he said, "Oh, I probably threw them away."  And then he asked me if I checked the new water heater.  I don't know what I'm so goddamn angry with My Fucking Father about more: His seeming biddiness about not remembering where he put those tests (and I'm not saying he's got dementia, thank Buddha, but he may be lying about not remembering and he just doesn't want to tell me the truth); him actually throwing away things that do not look like trash and did not belong to him and thus was not his to throw away; or him deflecting to something that matters to him and away from something that matters to me (which I actively called him on the phone for).  It's probably all three.

Shit.  I believe I have just ordered new tests (I didn't think you can do that anymore, but if I can, thank God I live in a blue state).  But honestly, when faced with this bad choice because my safety net was unfairly taken from me, I am deciding to see Grandmother's friend anyway.  My visit is way overdue.  And there isn't a total guarantee I can see her next month.  I just hope and pray I'm not sick now.

Goddammit, why did they fuck with my stuff?

Goddamn Motherfucking Snowstorm Of The Fucking Century

Well, what the meteorologists hinted at last week appears to be coming true this week: We will have an epic, and possibly historic, blizzard.  All the models agree that, all told (from Tuesday through Thursday, although all the weather people insist there will be a sizable lull Wednesday), a foot of snow is certain, 15 inches is all but certain, and the consensus is that there will be -- my fucking God -- 20 inches of snow once all this shit is over.  There's a plausible chance -- not good, but apparently plausible -- that the Twin Cities could see two feet.  The record snowfall from a storm is the infamous Halloween Blizzard at just more than 28 inches.  Everybody says this storm will fall short, but the final total will be in the ballpark.

Goddamn.  Motherfucker.  I am emotionally upset right now because I fear this storm -- all of its aspects, whether it be driving through it or plowing it, and plowing it, and plowing it.  I was in high school for the Halloween Blizzard, so I remember it, but I don't remember it being all that bad because, frankly, I was a kid and I didn't have to deal with driving or shoveling all the snow.  My parents did that, or Grandmother did.  But I was a child studying to go to college, and I didn't need to be distracted by that shit.  This time around, though, it's just me here, and I have responsibilities.  So it falls on me to deal with all this snow -- on the roads, on my driveway, and, fuck, on the roof.

I'm actually scared that this fucking blizzard will kill me.  Can't be 100% sure it won't.

Nightmare: Circumnavigating The Globe ... By Car

So right after work I stopped by a pub for a co-worker's retirement party, and then I went to a monthly dinner of my social club (for the first time ever for this particular club), which I was able to attend because it was very close to the retirement party, and that party's pub is not too far away from work.

It has been at least 15 years, at least, since I've had Mongolian barbecue.  Does traditional Mongolian cuisine consist of heaping bowlfuls of frozen meat and banging a gong once you're done?  Anyway, I thought I could go through three servings, but I only got to two, neither of which were that big (or tall; I saw these expert customers pile their modest bowls taller than the bowls were wide.  Oh, and I didn't wear gloves for my first serving, whoops).  My stomach got rumbly, left the social dinner early, went to Target, got home and quickly did my business, then decided I was tired, changed into my sleepwear, and turned off the lights.

I think I went to sleep around 9:30.  I think I woke up around 6:30.  Probably slept for less than nine hours, but it feels great.  Energizing, too, even though I didn't plan on waking up this early to finally see Grandmother's friend.  But at least I have time to blog post for the day, and I have one hell of a nightmare to blog post about ...

... as far as I remember, I was running hurriedly from place to place, even though I don't recall whether I was running around different places or different areas of this huge space.  I knew I had to leave, or "leave," because, I think, I needed to watch the Super Bowl.  At home, at a party, or somewhere else, don't remember.  So I'm looking at my watch and seeing on Google Maps how long it will take to get to my destination, and all this running around is eating into my drive time in order to get to where I want to go in time to watch kickoff of the Super Bowl.

Here is the thing: I think my drive, and I'm pretty sure in my nightmare that it was a drive, was taking me from Japan to Hawai'i to ... well, I don't remember.  I remember looking at Google Maps mapping out my "drive" from Japan to Hawai'i to my final destination, with direct lines charting my path on a picture of the world.  I remember that there was a Japanese pagoda in one of the places I was running around in.  And I also remember that I thought I had 4 1/2 hours before the Super Bowl started, and then all this running around meant I had only 3 1/2 hours before the Super Bowl started.  How am I going to drive from Japan to Hawai'i to wherever in only 3 1/2 hours and get to see kickoff in time?

And then I woke up.  This nightmare stands out in that even though I was running around, I know that I was not running away from anything or anyone.  My heart was beating, but not as hard as in other nightmares because in this nightmare I know that I wasn't being chased.  I was just ... annoyed, I guess.

(shrug)  What does this mean?

RIP, COVID-19 Testing Place

So I went to the community COVID-19 testing place on Saturday.  Nowadays I drop by there just before visiting Grandmother's best friend in the nursing home.  What I do is swab my nose there, drive all the way down to either a Burger King or Dairy Queen (oh, wow -- king or queen ... I just got that), eat while getting the results of the test and, assuming it's negative (it was never positive), I could then proceed to see her at the nursing home.  Did that monthly for the past ... oh, many, many months.  It became a ritual, and this site became a place I didn't mind visiting to get a test because it was the state government's way of providing me with a means to see that I'm healthy enough to visit someone very old without fear I could give her something that could kill her.

That place is closed now.  Didn't know it when I went there Saturday, but I saw a sign saying that it closed ... well, I think it said January 30, which is a Monday, which is kind of a weird day to close up shop.  That place wasn't going to stay open forever, and with this impending end to the emergency declaration for the pandemic on May 11, its days really were numbered.  But I thought it would be open until then.  Moreover, this is Minnesota, a blue state completely run by Democrats.  I think they'd be smart enough to keep this community testing site open as a service to the public.  But it's closed, and I miss it because schlepping out there became a part of my life that used to be a pain the behind but became a familiar beat to my routine.  But it's gone now, gone forever.

Fun Times, And No Fun Times

I came home from the basement bar last/Friday night sated, drink- and especially food-wise.  But I was so happy, and buzzy, that I was on one, and so I went to Taco Bell to eat 1,000 more calories.  I could have stayed home and make a sandwich from the fridge and both saved money and probably ate less.  My problem in a nutshell, huh?

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I had plans on watching the EPL this/Saturday morning.  But the place in downtown Minneapolis I wanted to go to is also showing Six Nations Rugby, and I can't get into that, at least not right now.  There's another bar just down Nicollet that has recently re-opened (more like resurrected itself over the past year after the pandemic) to regular hours, but it's an Arsenal bar and Arsenal is playing at 9 a.m., and I kind of want to be alone.  I could have gone to the bar in St. Paul, which was the one I went to last Saturday, but I don't want to go back there two Saturdays in a row, plus I went there last Saturday because I was going to go in to work after EPL and it was relatively close by.  We apparently got caught up from work delayed by last week's storm in the South around Wednesday, I think, so there's no overtime offered nor needed today, and so I'll just avoid the whole area today.

And yet, because of my inebriation, I went to bed relatively early and woke up a bit past 8:30.  If I really, really wanted to go watch EPL, I think I could have gotten dressed quickly and drove like a bat out of hell to a bar in time.  Maybe.  (Actually, I woke up a bit before 8:30 because I laid in bed for a good bit.)  See, if I decide not to go out to watch soccer, I want my body not to wake up until it's way too late to have the opportunity to go out to watch soccer.  By waking up around 8:30, I'm torn between bolting out of bed and peeling away to a bar or agonizing about letting a fun time pass me by.

Oh, well.  I have chores and errands -- this blog, watering Father's plants, getting the car washed, getting a shave, getting tested, visiting Grandmother's friend, paying for my storage unit, buying baking soda and mini-Pepsis, maybe shoveling and salting the driveway and back deck, and ... well, other stuff.  I don't know if I'll have time to do it all.  I guess I should figure that if I went to watch soccer, I wouldn't have been able to do some or even all of the things I just listed, and should do.

And come to think of it, it's about time I do those things.

Laugh It Up, Garbagemen

OK, so ****e* got done cleaning my house last night, and after I felt up her new titties and sucked on her nipples, I had a choice of whether I would go out and have a beer or stay home and ... do something.  I decided on the latter because I went out for a beer the previous night and I would have, at best, 45 minutes to quaff a beer or a cider, and that wasn't worth going out.  But I kind of just ... well, doomscrolled and did a whole lot of nuttin' until I got tired.

What I forgot to do was put out the trash and recycling.  When I slowly lolled around when I got up at around 7:30 yesterday/Thursday morning, I realized as much, and then decided not to dart out there and roll both bins down the driveway.  I am kind of paralyzed right now; I know I have to start packing, but I don't know where to start, plus I wanted to see Grandmother's friend (more on that in an upcoming blog post -- hopefully), plus I wanted to shave.  All the stuff made me think about whether I could do it all, and if so, in what order.  So I just laid in bed until I absolutely had to get up and go.

Once I finally decided I was going to get a shave first, I grabbed the remaining recyclables in the paper bag I store underneath the kitchen counter and went out to dump those in that bin, then bring both that bin and the trash bin down to the end of my driveway.  But just as I stepped out, I saw the garbage truck roll right across the house.  Oh, shit!  The two garbagemen saw me, and that was my signal to drop the bag, run on the ice and snow of my driveway to the garbage bin, and roll it down so they can pick it up and take my trash away.  But when I grabbed the bin and started hauling ass, the truck sped away.  You fuckers!

But then I paid attention to the side of the truck.  Whoops -- wrong garbage company.  I think we had them before, but we use a different one now.  I'm guessing they saw from their perch high on the garbage truck that my garbage bin is a different color from theirs.  Now, did they have to be so rude about skedaddling?  Probably not, but maybe they were in a rush and it didn't behoove to slow down and tell me they're not the guys picking up my trash.

I looked back at where I dropped my bag of recyclables and gloves.  And then I imagined how I looked from their point-of-view.  And they had to have laughed their asses off once they got back to the garbage dump: "So there was this guy who saw me roll right past his house, and he panics because he thought that we were going to pick up his trash.  So he drops his bag and gloves on the ground and slips over to the bin and starts bringing it down on the driveway.  But then we see it's green and not black, and so we just blew past him!  And he was just standing there with his dick in his hands, that dumbfuck!   Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!  We're so superior to him!!

Ok, that last sentence might have been my self-hate coming out.  But I'm sure they thought I looked funny when I freaked out at seeing them, not realizing they're not my garbage company.  Laugh it up, garbagemen.  You might be a necessity, but you're still fucking garbage.