I don't know if she likes me, but I know that she kind of pissed me off yesterday.  She asked me if she could help with work.  It was relatively easy back where we were, but there was a lot of data entry, so much so that I was going to help key.  I told her that there what was left was one basic thing that could be done but is usually done the next morning.  To which she replied, "That is low priority," as if I didn't know that, even though she knows darn well I do.  I'm just telling her how it was with me because, you know, she asked.

And then she left seemingly in a huff.  I am going to be confident enough to say that she was leaving me without much consideration.  Which usually happens, but I take note after her condescension.  Dammit -- her attitude just bugged the hell out of me yesterday.  What's up with her?

Doesn't Take Much For My Fucking Mother To Push My Buttons

I needed to talk to her last/Monday night about bills that came in.  I thought everything was done.  But she called back.  First of all, she called back during the weather forecast I wanted to watch, so that perturbed me.  Second of all, she worried about some stupid detail that she told me to take care of, namely writing checks instead of going online and paying herself.  And finally, she insulted me by explaining something to me that I already know and was also not what I was talking about.  That is probably due to the language barrier, but also because this happens all the time, I naturally get defensive about her condescension.

And I was being a good boy food-wise up till then.  I didn't drink any coffee at work; instead, I had a hot cocoa (given to me by my former supervisor two or three years ago) in the morning and tea in the afternoon.  After shoveling the driveway, I went out to use a gift card at a really nice brewery for chicken wings and two 5-ounce glass of different beers (plus a half-filled 5-ounce glass for free ... er, double free!!)  I thought I controlled my eating yesterday/Monday.  And then My Fucking Mother talks down to me and I'm wolfing down Dot's BBQ pretzel sticks to fill the hole she punched into my gut, and I feel all fat again.  Goddamn her.

She wants me to write and send out the checks in the morning.  I'll do it later tonight instead.  Because she can fuck all the way off.

Disappointing Son Didn't Do What He Said He Would Do!

So Mother had surgery Tuesday.  Sister went with her.  They had to stay at a hotel overnight and be seen by a nurse who was also at the hotel tending to Mother and another patient.  Never heard that before. Anyway, that meant that Tuesday night offered up a situation I dread: Being alone with Father.

Dinner was fine because it was quiet.  He brought up stocks.  His portfolio is doing blockbuster.  Me ... I work and am tired all the time, so I'm not doing as well.  He asked me what companies I have.  I don't remember.

What I hoped he wouldn't bring up he brought up after dinner.  Of course he said, "Hey, every night you take a shower, right?"  And while trying to hide my frustration that he would belittle me with this same bullshit again, I go, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure."  "You brush your teeth too, right?" he replied, and I can't fucking believe he asked me if I brush my teeth every night.  I don't, but that's none of his goddamn business.

Just there and then, while I was also yeah-yeah-ing as to whether I brush my teeth, I resolved to leave the house.  Since I worked early I came home early, and that gave me the opportunity to exercise.  I then thought I wouldn't because I didn't want to leave My Fucking Father at home.  He's healthy, and as you can see he's as goddamn insufferable as ever.  But My Fucking Parents have pretty much been attached at the hip.  My Fucking Mother has taken girls' trips in the past, but Tuesday was the first time they've been away from each other longer than a trip to the grocery store.  I hate this fucker, but I would be sick to my stomach if I worked out only to come back and see him dead on the floor in front of his computer.  And yet, after he used the opportunity of being alone together to infantilize and lecture me once again about proper fucking hygiene, I decided that fear didn't fucking matter to me.

"I think I'm going to work out later," I said.

"OK," he said.

---

And then I didn't.  The downside to attempting to work out after I started out my day so early is that I might want to catch up on sleep instead.  That was a possibility; I allowed myself a chance to rest once I got done eating at 5.  And I woke up at around 7:30, way too late to go out and work out.

I was curious about whether My Fucking Father could tell.  So I just moseyed out to the top of the stairs and looked at the front door.  It was all locked.  I told My Fucking Father I was going out later.  He may have forgotten.  Or, he could tell I was asleep and knew I wouldn't be going out after all.  And knowing how his negative, derisive mind works, he knew I wasn't going to do what I said I would do.

I have to admit that pisses me off, and I am as angry at myself as I am at him.  He has seen me fail to come through on things I said I would do all my life.  This is a small thing, and again, maybe he just locked the door out of habit and totally forgot about what I said after dinner.  But this one galls me, and I think it's because I lashed out after he insulted me over stupid habits he shouldn't be concerning himself with.  It was I who wanted to, in a really vague sense, "prove him wrong" (even though exercising has nothing to do with getting back at him for asking if I shower and brush my teeth, I know) and then I absolutely did not do it.

I have known for a long, long time that My Fucking Father had dreams for me when I was born.  That's the problem when you ascribe to your progeny your dreams for them; they don't come through for you because they're not their fucking dreams, they're yours.  So yeah, I have a feeling My Fucking Father was disappointed in me just because I didn't exercise like I said I would.  But I am just as disappointed in him as a father, and probably moreso.

I Compromised. I Am Complicit

I have been taking a shower daily nowadays.  This is in reaction to My Fucking Father, and I can't believe he had the nerve to do this to me as I'm approaching 50, ordering me a few weeks ago to shower every day.  I don't want to shower every day.  In fact, they say it's not a good idea to shower daily.  You go every other day.  Hell, you can even get away with showering only twice a week!

But I haven't done that because, at some fucking point, I have to make my peace with these two jerks who aren't leaving anytime soon.  If My Fucking Father knows that I'm showering, maybe he'll back off from lecturing me about it, and maybe then he'll stop snooping around my room, or throwing my shit away.  At the same time, I have no clue whether he will stop at all.  And beyond that, this is me doing something (namely showering) that I don't want to do.  To me, this isn't just compromising.  I am bending the knee.  And a large part of me is ashamed of myself for knuckling under his stupid damn orders.  But hey, if I do knuckle under, I am part of the problem, goddammit.

You know, after another exhausting, ridiculous phone call with My Fucking Mother about some phone call she needs me to take on behalf of My Father, I know, more than ever, she fucking ruined me from any normal relationship with a woman.  Goddamn, the hectoring and the smothering and all the goddamn stupid questions. ...

Won't Miss/Will Miss/Both

Things I won't miss about my parents:

• Having them tool around the house when I want to tool around the house, usually naked;
• Being asked by them for things, in particular the way Mother asks for me: "Nee hauw, nee hauw!" (that stands for "needs help," if you couldn't decipher that);
• Being force-fed so much food that I have ballooned in weight (even though I probably will balloon in weight if I find food for myself; this is more a complaint that I don't want food forced in me)
• Being force-fed that I have never tried, or even am able to describe;
• The questions about where I'm going, why are you doing this or that, etc.;
• Mother criticizing me -- I haven't really understood how much that has affected my life;

Things I will miss about my parents:

• If something in the house breaks, Father usually can fix it;
• I'll have to do all the chores around the house;
• I now have to worry about the house -- it'll be empty now for a part of the day;
• I now have to worry about my parents' real estate ventures;
• I have to open up all the mail and, if necessary, act on them;
• I need to look at my parents' e-mail in case there's something they will miss now that they're globetrotting again;
• How it'll get too quiet around the house;
• I'll be scared if they get hurt while they're travelling;

Another thing I won't and will miss about my parents that I have to worry about as soon as they leave:

• All the food that they have left me.  I need to quickly triage the foods I need to eat immediately and what can wait.  It looks as though I have to worry about the bananas and the lettuce first, followed by the leftover rice and the egg.  But it'll take weeks to get through everything they have left for me in the fridge that is in danger of spoiling.  And that's not even taking into account all the stuff in the freezer.  Hey, I love them, and I appreciate them leaving all this food for me.  It'll save me money, no doubt.  But I will be spending money today/Monday and tomorrow/Tuesday because the former is Cinco de Mayo and the latter is Game 1 of the Timberwolves in The Western Conference Semifinals vs. The Bastard Philadelphia Warriors.  A-wooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!

Work Sucks Right Now, In So Many Ways

Before I rant and feel sorry for myself, I want to say that I am grateful for the overtime I'm getting.  The money is worth the grief.

Well, at least I say that now.  While I was working yesterday/Friday, it sure as fuck didn't feel that way.  The Third Department is utter fucking chaos now.  It didn't help that all the work that got stuck down South Wednesday finally reached us.  The work that came for me ... I don't know if I have ever left so much work for my co-worker, who is doing The Third Department today/Saturday.  I apologized to her before I left work.  I stayed an extra two hours, like I usually do.  I could've stayed till nine o'clock and not gotten everything done.  Seriously.

There are so many things to keep apprised up in that particular position that I am constantly bombarded with things that crop up which I need to immediately address.  Toward the end of my day (which, because it ran so long, became my night), I saw something that essentially became a "STAT" thing that I had to drop everything to do, and I know I let out a "Fuck!" that I meant as a whisper but was probably loud enough for everybody in the room to hear.  It was that frustrating a day.

It didn't help that I screwed up, which I did right before I saw this "STAT" thing I just had to do.  I basically signed off on, like, a dozen reports that I should not have signed off on.  And so I had to go through each report and fix my mistake.  I had a shit ton to do already, and I didn't need to make it harder on myself by fucking up like I did.  But I realized that I made this mistake because I was not doing these reports every day, and that makes me susceptible to forgetting a process of, say, doing a report.  I see now how hard it is to step into work someone else started.  I can't just apply my training at any point in a particular process.  If I didn't start it, I am likely to screw it up.  And in a job where I hop from position to position, that will mess me up, man.

Aside, and I need to make this vague because, frankly, this may blow up into a shitshow: I may have made a mistake, but I sure as fuck don't like her tone.  There were so many other ways to tell me via e-mail to stop.  And by the way, the mistake started with the person not writing down the date.  What condescending bullshit.  And if she decides to take it up with my supervisor or boss, man, I could be in deep trouble.

With all my venting here, I'm going back to work today/Saturday to help out.  They're still behind, so much so that they might bring in people for Monday.  But goddammit, I'd rather this have happened last weekend, or next weekend.  'Cause this weekend was the only Saturday over at least the next month where I could watch EPL downtown, something I haven't done yet this season.  The combination of Matches kicking off at 9 this/Saturday morning doesn't involve any team that would take over the pub I want to go to, and I can't say that for any day until at least April.  But then this opportunity of working ten hours again has to come up this fucking Saturday.  I could decide to work a full day, but I have decided not to.  One, I really was looking forward to watching soccer, and work like this won't change my mind.  Also, I have pulled ten hours several days over the past few weeks, and I was so stressed after leaving work last/Friday night that I am trying to take time for myself.  I'll watch soccer, then go into work for an abbreviated day.  And if that means passing up some money, so be it.  I'm making plenty this time period.

With all that said, this incident from this e-mail may blow up.  There is a non-zero change that I won't have a job by the time today/Saturday ends.  Just a head's-up.

This Weekend, It'll Just Be Me And Him

Mother's going on a girls-only road trip this weekend.  This, I think, is her third one.  I'm glad that this time, she actually told me beforehand.  And I'm also glad, although I was surprised when Father told me she was spending those two weekends away, that she has girlfriends with whom she can go on road trips.

So that leaves Father and me this weekend.  That will be strange as all get out.  I really think that without Mother as a buffer, he will feel free to lecture me around the dinner table about cleaning my room and going back to school.  It's been a while since he hectored me about that, but anticipating the worst this weekend, I might react to it, uh, not well, let's just say.

I wanted to take the heat off leading into this weekend by doing things that make it look as though I am being a productive member of this household.  Namely, I had intentions this week of cleaning up my room.  But instead, I had a movie I wanted to go to Monday (I told my folks I was going to work out), on Tuesday I had to visit my alumni bar downtown, and Wednesday and last/Thursday night I just fell asleep after dinner.  And I had plans on exercising for real at least one of those days.  So, those best laid plans are ruined, and I have invited My Father to call me on the carpet for doing nothing around the house.

And yet, beyond all that, I am now worried about Father's health.  There is nothing telling me he is sick or going to hurt himself.  But I have never worried about him because he is never alone.  Seriously, I cannot remember my parents being apart for more than a weekend, such as this weekend.  But I go to work today, and tomorrow/Saturday I have that Game-watching event, and then I plan on working on my receipts while hanging out at a coffeeshop after that Game.  Meanwhile, he will be all alone, and while I am worried about his old age, I am also kind of scared he'll get bored out of his mind.  Then again, like I alluded to above, I don't know if I can stand being alone with him, either.

Mother comes back Sunday.  I hope it's closer to the morning than the evening.  But she doesn't even know the city the hotel she's staying in is located.  I will hope Father remains in good spirits while she is gone.  I will also hope I don't kill him.

... And Now They're Gone!!!

The goddamndest thing.  So I was in total "fuck it" mode, and I was going to drive my car, with any and all indicator lights on, to work and back.  I would have to make time to bring it into the shop at some point, and so I was mentally preparing to ask my boss if I can come in late a couple days next week while those guys figure out why in the hell they made an oil change and those fucking lights still came on.

So yesterday/Friday morning I turn the car on and let it warm up while I scrape the snow and ice off the minivan in preparation for using that today/Saturday.  I get in and only three of the four that popped up both the night before and three weeks ago were on.  Specifically, the tire pressure, vehicle stability control and power steering lights came back on, but the check engine light stayed off.  OK.  Still in "fuck it" mode, I went to Caribou for the mocha and oatmeal I needed to get through my day.  Went inside, went back out, turned on the car again ... and all of the remaining lights stayed off once the car started.  And they have all been off since.

Phew ... I think.  I guess there's always a chance they can come back on, and the pessimist I am, I am half-heartedly expecting it as I drive the car through this weekend when the coldest weather of the year (it may not get above 0 Sunday and Monday) settles in.  But this spares a trip to the mechanic, at least for now.  This always brings up a question of whether those lights came on three weeks ago because of bad oil pressure and/or level, or if they came on because of something that has nothing to do with the operation of the car and more to do with the sensors for the warning lights.  I refuse to believe that the oil has gotten so bad over the course of three weeks that the car has to be brought in again.  Then again, unlike Thursday and yesterday, I turned on the car a few times three weeks ago and those four damn lights came up every single time.  Maybe the oil did need to be changed.  Or, maybe, there is some middle ground as to the reason those lights were thrown on -- that while maybe the oil needed closer monitoring, all the lecturing by the mechanic that I was totally riding the car too hard and stuff was a bit overblown when the sensors may act funny upon a downturn in temperature.  (I remember that, while this winter up till now has been very warm, the codes came on three weeks ago on a day the temperature plummeted into the teens.  I think it was in the teens Thursday evening when the codes came back on; it has been around that temp and colder since, and the warning lights are now off.)

I have plans to go out tonight, in the extreme cold, to a coffeeshop to try some Palestinian food, have some coffee and cake, and work on my receipts.  I will do so using my car which may or may not throw up codes again today.  Let's hope not.

I Hate It When My Car Mechanic Talks Down To Me

Well, I am glad I asked and then was given permission to drive my car to the car shop Wednesday night and not last/Thursday night, even though they said they couldn't look at my car till today/Friday.  Turns out they caught up on their work and so was able to look at my car yesterday/Thursday.

That, I reckon, is the good news.  The bad news ... well, turns out the cost to fix what was ailing my car isn't that bad.  But the reason, according to the mechanic, as to why my dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree on Monday is, of all things, it needed an oil change.  Now I am not sure if even they know if what they did was the right fix.  But they said that the engine light code that was spat out had something to do with the camshaft or the crankshaft, and there was a timing issue that made the actuator go out of phase ... honestly, when he tried to explain it to me, nearly the whole damn thing flew over my head.  The thing I think I got is that the oil pressure got so low that the timing of ... uh, something got out of whack.

And then he started in on the oil.  He said it was running a quarter low, which doesn't sound bad to me, and it was quite dirty.  Hell, the dashboard indicator didn't say it was time to change it.  But this is where the car mechanic (who owns the place, by the way) started to admonish me about lazily depending on the car to tell me when to get its oil change and not the sticker he routinely puts on the top of my windshield.

Unfortunately for me, this is not the first time I ran into trouble with him regarding checking my oil.  Two visits ago he informed me that the reason I heard shaking noises from my car was because it had no oil left in the engine.  So he made me paranoid to check it.  I did, religiously.  I even threw in a quart once when it looked like it had only 25% left, and subsequent dipstick checks made me think that I in fact overfilled it.  And now he tells me losing a quarter of the oil that could be in my engine is enough to signal all these indicator lights?  Get out of here with that.

He was not done lecturing me.  He says the tires are worn out, too.  Now, ****e*, the stripper who cleaned my house a couple weeks ago, said the same thing.  I checked the tread and thought I could last another year, or before next winter.  But he made the executive decision to rotate the tires because what once were the front tires are at the bare minimum of usefulness (even in perfect weather).  "I drive my car hard," he says.  I don't think I drive it farther or harder than anyone else.  Besides, I use my car to, you know, live my life.  What's the saying?  "A ship in harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for."  (John A. Shedd, in 1928.)

So my car maintenance, according to him, isn't enough.  I need to bring my car in for oil changes more frequently, I guess.  And shoot, maybe the tires need to be changed sooner rather than later.  Oh, and when I come in pick up my car this morning, he is going to give me some reading material to take with.  I think he said it was a Technical Service Bulletin, or TSB.  There's more stuff that needs to be fixed?  Or is it another thing my mechanic thinks I should do even though there's a chance I won't do it?

Either I'm going to give in to whatever he thinks should be done to the car and bring it in before my parents come home, or I won't see him again until the indicator lights come back on, whether it be next week or six months from now.  When I come back might depend on how badly he talks down to me.  Man, if this guy were a dentist, he'd condescend to me about not brushing my teeth twice a day.

Some Narcissism Is Healthy

So I got into work yesterday/Monday and got hit with a triple punch of stuff that cheezed me off.  First, I got in (technically) a minute late, a factor mainly because of some rare-for-post-pandemic Monday morning traffic, although I didn't have a good night's rest and was late getting out the door.  I burned my hand getting coffee; that damn vending machine nozzle is still so gunked up the coffee sprays out all askew.

But what really grinded my gears was yet another "this is how you fucked up" e-mail from my boss.  Now, I don't want to say that he's mean.  He wasn't, and I understand he was doing his job.  I guess this is my fault and thus my responsibility to do better.  Still, I don't take criticism well.  There were two things I did wrong.  Without getting into specifics, one was a case where I was too cautious when it turns out I didn't have to.  This particular situation should have raised a red flag under a condition I flat-out don't understand, and I think I need to take this up with my supervisor.  The other one was some out-of-nowhere situation that came to me via e-mail, and it might as well have been in Tagalog.  I know that when I have asked my supe about e-mails that come out of the blue, she has often told me to not worry about.  Well, my boss told me I should have done something about it.  That is new as hell to me, so new that I am liable to do it again.  So he then brought up the catch-all solution, which is basically, "If you see something you don't understand, tell one of us."  OK.  Like I said, I have had success just ignoring something because it didn't feel as though it concerned me, but fine.

My ire was raised because I have been told to worry about something I had no idea I needed to worry.  That unfairness really got to me yesterday morning.  I realized I was spiraling into some bad thoughts that I had to snap myself out of.  Then I remembered that I had a job to do (even though, for the record, I had very little work for a Monday.  I got out of there about a half-hour over shift.  I have never done that before on a Monday).  And then I looked over at my supervisor, who was filling in herself.  She was CC'd on this e-mail, and I thought that if these two matters were important enough, she would reinforce what my boss said.  But no, she was just minding her own business.  And that's when I realized that, well, I didn't have to give a fuck about this e-mail if I didn't want to.  Shit, I could just ignore it if I wanted.  And that's when I calmed down.

I think back at all the times I received e-mails from my boss or, well, lectures from my supervisor about what I did wrong in The Fourth Department.  And it would always get my dander up and bring me down.  Sometimes it would affect me all day.  But going on five years total in this job (and maybe three doing work back there), I haven't been fired yet.  I get into this dark place after receiving criticism where I have the mindset of, "Well, if they think I do a shitty job, then I might as well save me any stress and continue to be shitty at it, and if they fire me, fuck it!"  I continue to think that someone -- maybe my boss, maybe someone above him -- is keeping score of my mistakes, and then one day the accumulation of those fuck-ups will reach a point where my boss will just have to shitcan me.  But that hasn't happened yet.  So why am I sweating this?

And beyond that, just ignoring these communiques as if they never existed may be a form of survival.  I think there is some credence that if you think you won't do a good job, you won't do a good job.  Could the converse be true?  Thinking you will do a good job is a positive mindset, and I think (or at least I believe) that thinking positively will lead to better work, not to mention a better day for you at work.  It is thus tempting, then, to not even think about the negativity brought on by corrective e-mails such as the one I got -- "Nope, my boss didn't send it!  Didn't happen!  It's out of my mind ... what do I do next?"  There is an obliviousness, maybe even an arrogance, to thinking you haven't done anything wrong.  But maybe that's how I should think in order to be both productive and happy.

(By the way, later that morning I realized that my boss is off for most of the week.  Don't have to see him until Friday, and by then, assuming I keep my positive mindset, I would've forgotten about all this.)

That frame of mind might only last until the next e-mail I get from him on how I screwed up, and it might be a mistake he said I've done before.  But I don't think it's productive getting all upset and seething about those criticisms, especially if it doesn't look like I'll lose my job over it.  So why in the hell am I beating myself up?  I think it's healthier for me to act as if I'm doing nothing wrong, like a narcissist!

My Father, The Cuck

As much of a domineering bitch My Fucking Mother has been, I haven't said much about My Fucking Father.  That's because My Fucking Father hasn't done much of anything on this trip.  In fact, he has been well nigh invisible all trip.  Only yesterday/Sunday did he contribute anything of value: We used his card to get into Volcanoes National Park for free, and then he helped My Fucking Mother cook.

Every other time he has been a passenger, if not a cuckold.  The only other time I remember him of any note was back in Honolulu while My Fucking Mother was preparing dinner at my sister and brother-in-law's place.  She was riding him for some bullshit, and he had a hissy fit, left through the front door and, I guess, stood out on the balcony and stewed while she finished cooking and setting up the dining room table.  Besides those three instances, it's as if he wasn't even here.

It is infuriating, if not illuminating, to see how My Fucking Mother treats My Fucking Father.  It's a combustible and at times contemptable relationship.  There are many roles I've seen them play throughout my life, but one where she runs roughshod over him feels like a dominant one, and thus a true one.  She has called the shots too many times on this vacation, and has been wrong too many times.  For example (besides ordering me not to drive), she bought so much food that about half of the food we bought will have to be thrown away.  And she has insulted and belittled pretty much everyone on this trip if she doesn't get her way.

So, what does My Fucking Father do about that?  Psychological displacement, I guess.  It was in full effect just now.  After I finished taking a shower and went downstairs, he walked down the stairs too.  He was rummaging around the kitchen and eating a bunch of things -- chips, cake, etc.  This was about four hours after a big dinner in which I noticed that he didn't eat much.  But eating now?  Well, it seems as if he is trying to tell everyone (including himself) that he eats when he wants to eat.

My Fucking Father then runs up to me and lectures me on things I can do to "improve my lifestyle" -- bullshit issues he has raised with me from time to time like "Don't eat so much" and "Use the scale more often."  I don't know why he raises these issues with me, but I might have a theory as to why he raises these issues with me when he raises them: My Fucking Father wants to reassert some control over me because he thinks My Fucking Mother spells out everything I do in my life.  She doesn't -- neither does he -- but I think he sees himself pushed off to the side, and so, in the dead of night, when My Fucking Mother is asleep, My Fucking Father skulks around and tries to plant ideas in my head in an effort to see them bloom into something that he can call his.

Anyway, I hand-wave his entreaties.  After all, I'm eating so much because My Fucking Mother bought too much goddamn food.  So My Fucking Father goes back into the kitchen and searches for more food to eat.  And then he offers me cake!  I say no because, like he said, I shouldn't eat so much.  So he cuts himself a slice of cake, proceeds to sit down on the stairs leading to the living room where I'm sleeping ... and then offers me a slice again!  And this time, because I don't quite believe him when says I shouldn't eat so much (BTW, is he lecturing anybody else here on eating too much?) and because I want him to shut the fuck up, I fuckin' say yes.  It's guava cake, and actually, it takes good, although it feels fattening as hell.  Whatever ... the point is his hypocrisy.

Why is that?  Why did My Fucking Father do exactly what he told me not to do not even five minutes before?  The only thing I can think of is that he doesn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.  That's all I've got.  You know, maybe I shouldn't care about anything he says from now on.

Stop Bothering Me, Mother

I think she's done this since I became an adult, because I sure as hell don't remember her ever caring a shit about me when I was a kid.  But My Mother has this knack where, if I'm just doing anything within her line of vision, she'll just pipe up and ask, "What are you doing?" or a variation of that.  Some of you may think she's being maternal, and thus think it's heartwarming.  I may believe that, uh, 5-10% of the time.  I just find it annoying as hell, and yesterday she did it twice.

First time was in the morning as I was bolting out the door to work.  Father packed in a bun for Monday's lunch that I didn't get around to eating.  I thought about eating it just before going to bed, but I wasn't hungry, so even though it wasn't my plan, I put that bun in the fridge with the intention of taking with me for the next day, which was yesterday.

Well, I opened up the refrigerator and didn't see any bun.  And I was just casting my eyes back and forth in the vain hopes of spotting the Speedway bag in which I put the bun.  Mother, who woke up early and was eating breakfast and watching TV at the dinner table, suddenly pipes up: "What are you looking for?"

That's usually my cue to end my search.  I closed the fridge door and lunged for the lunch bag that had that day's banana and bun -- "I was looking for something."

"What?"

"Uh ... something.  A bun.  The bun that Father gave me.  I didn't eat it yesterday."

"The what??"

"THE BUN!  FATHER GAVE ME A BUN TO EAT AT WORK AND I DIDN'T EAT IT!"

"Oh."

No, I'm not going to regret being annoyed at her.  It was a useless conversation, and ultimately, the question of where this bun was would not have affected her life either way.  But she thought it was her business.  Jfc.

She did it again last night.  I bought a liquid soap dispenser, but I couldn't twist the pump up so it would dispense; it would just spin and spin and spin.  (Aside: I have had trouble with bad pumps this year, both with liquid soap and with hand sanitizer.  Don't know why.)  I finally remembered my plan to go down to the basement where Father usually keeps his tools, even though he doesn't organize them (they're usually strewn about the pool table), grab a couple pliers, and wrench the damn thing open.

So I do that.  And it's not going well, because the only pliers I can find either aren't big enough or they're to rusty top open the jaw all the way.  In the meantime, Mother was in her office, finishing up on her computer; I was in there helping just before then (and after I got done with my shift with the test scoring place) with filing an online complaint over yet another thing she ordered that didn't get delivered.  She steps out while I'm in the laundry room looking for other pliers (don't ask) when she goes, "What's going on?"

I think my subconscious remembered what we talked about in the morning: "Nothing, Mom."

"What?  Are you looking for something?"

"Don't worry about it, please!"

"What is it?  I can help you."

"Fine.  I'm looking for pliers, OK?  I need pliers."

This time, there was a twist.  Mother says, "Oh!  They're upstairs!"  And we go upstairs to the big chest of drawers, one of which she opens and has this pile of tools, some of which were pliers.  And one of them was the perfect one for me to use to twist and pop open the pump dispenser.

This chest of drawers is right next to the dining room.  Why in the hell would you store pliers next to the dining room?  But, to her credit, Mother knew.  And so she reminded me, in a certain way, she's there to help: "That's why I ask what's going on.  I knew where the thing you wanted was."

I, however, cannot help but anticipate and gird for the payback.  She's a notorious tattletale.  Mother already scurried downstairs to tell My Father how I treated her and what she helped me with, and today for dinner Father will give me a fucking shitty lecture about how I should treat Mother better and how can you find a wife with that attitude.  And then I'll snap back and My Father and yell at My Mother for ratting me out, and for bothering me with shitty fucking questions that have nothing to do with her.

Lied to my folks (actually just Father) last/Thursday night; said I had to work late when all I really did was go to the Minnesota State High School Girls' Basketball Tournament.  To be specific, I went to the night session, two Games, one of which featured Paige Bueckers, considered to be this year's best high school basketball-playing girl in the country.  She's going to UConn.  This may be the only time I ever see a high schooler be the best at her sport, so I went and focused on looking at her the entire Game.  I did that one other time: Many years ago when the Clippers were in town, and Blake Griffin was the sensation.  He had only one thunderous dunk.  (Verdict on this Game: Bueckers is a slick passer and a savvy shooter, but young players these days are always pushing the tempo, and more than once she just threw a Hail Mary that was broken up, if not intercepted, by the opponent.  And still she and her team, Hopkins, beat said opponent, Stillwater, by 20+.)

I got home (after taking a pit stop at work to eat eggs which, stupid me, I left at the bottom step at the house as I was leaving) and Father was doing his ol' goddamn speaking-calmly-as-a-form-of-condescension.  He ordered me not to go to a restaurant (wanking motion).  And he wondered if I had to go to work.  (I remember him telling me I needed to find a job.)  Told him that although the worldwide economic recession crashing into us the past couple weeks might cut off work, my company is trying to develop a coronavirus test, so maybe there will be work.

This is all so that I can sneak out and see a concert Saturday night.  Fuck it, I'll just say that Overtime's available.  Just hope I don't get caught, uh, catching the coronavirus.  Afraid I caught that at the Game, too.

Oh, this turned into a blog post about trashing My Fucking Father.

Yeah, So What I Was Afraid Would Eventually Happen Did Happen

Got home late because I wanted to eat at the Pizza Luce in Roseville.  (They close at 2:30.  A hip, alcohol-serving, suburban sit-down place closes at 2:30.  There needs to be more places like this.)  Wanted a ticket to the MNRG bout Saturday (a friends' final game announcing) and then I wanted to eat at Pizza Luce.  Got home at around 1:30; went to bed soon after.

Woke up at 8:30.  Turned on Stephanie Miller.  Faded back to sleep, off-an-on.  Finally, just before 11, Father yells through my bedroom door, "Are you awake?"  To which I say yes and -- this might be where I erred -- I opened the door, which gives him the opportunity to say, of course, "Yeah, maybe you should find something to do in the morning!"

I slam the door shut so I could gin up the courage to say what I wanted to say to him under my breath: "I got home at 1:30, asshole, I WAS SLEEPING!!!"  But whatever, man.  I think I'll find "something to do" in the morning, like have coffee and talk to my therapist about you and the damage you continue to do to me.  And by the way, I should look up that test scoring job that might start during the evenings next week.  That'll give me another "something to do," huh, old man?

Winter Lawn Food Adventure

With college football season winding down and my parents away (well, until this week), I turned to an annual "tradition" I wanted to do but thought passed me by: Spreading winter lawn food on the yards before the snow comes in.  I am a big believer (or I have fallen hook, line and sinker) that putting down this "fertilizer" will be a massive help for our lawns in the long run because it gives the grass food over our long winter.  That's why I've made a point the past several years to do it.

Now, my parents are against the idea because they think it's a waste of money.  And since they left too early in the fall, came back at a time where it would have been ideal to buy and spread the food, and then left again just before Thanksgiving, I thought it was too late.  Nevertheless, we have had a very good run of mild weather, and thank Buddha that there hasn't been any snow yet.  And even though I had the thought of trying to look for grass food before I knew my folks were coming back home, the news brought more urgency to do it this weekend.  I was determined the past couple days to find it and buy it.

But my fear that it's too late to find food in December seemed to be fully realized Wednesday and then Saturday, when I went to a couple hardware stores and they seemed to have shipped them all back.  And since the forecast called for rain on Sunday (at least the last time I saw the news, which was more than a couple nights before the weekend), I thought it was too late.  My parents would be home before next weekend, and I don't need them lecturing me on what I wanted to do.

However, yesterday/Sunday, it did not rain.  That, coupled with the impetus provided by my parents invading my privacy by coming back home way too early, spurred me to try again.  So after coming back from dim sum with my uncle, aunt, cousin and his ... girlfriend/wife?, I looked on the Internet to see that Home Depot said online that they had some bags of winter lawn food in the other HD that is close to home.

I kind of didn't feel like it, but since I took a bit of a nap near the end of the Vikings' win over Atlanta, I caught a second wind.  I felt that if I hurried, I could go there, buy a bag if it was there, and spread the whole thing before night fell.  I had to hurry, but seriously, how big of a chore is spreading food?

And it wasn't a big chore.  I actually waited until the New Orleans-Carolina game kicked off before I headed out the door, and I bought the bag, came home, and spread it around my back and my front lawns before halftime of the earlier late game, Chargers-Cleveland.  An hour to do all that tops, lickety-split, just like that, and I was done and accomplished something that I wanted to do -- and just in time, since there's supposed to be rain as early as overnight.

That's it.

I Admit That I Don't Care About My Teeth

Got my teeth cleaned for the first time in 11 months this morning.  I know you're supposed to go every six, but as an hourly you have to get your work in when you can, and so if it comes to missing time on a project or going without a check-up, I went without a check-up.  Only the combination of being away from the chair for so long and a flexible schedule where I can make up hours later in the week convinced me to finally stick to this time after two or three postponements.

Nevertheless, as much as I bitch about hygiene, my actions speak to my indifference about brushing and flossing and taking care of my teeth.  As much as I brushed and flossed last night -- and I know for a fact that the percentage of people who do both the night before a dental appointment is at least 100% -- me going days without doing either show up, in all the plaque that's spackled to my teeth, in all the "pockets" that dot my gumline, and these white "deposits" that are early signs of cavities.  I knew I was going to get caught on my lack of routine; I'm just glad that the student cleaning my teeth this morning didn't go on and on about it, like this one other student I had a few years ago.  Man, what a passive-aggressive bitch she was.

I understand that all these students are doing their job.  Some might even care about their patients' health.  I'm not saying that I'm right, nor am I being a curmudgeon.  I'm just saying that, as much advice as all these students have and will give, I'm too fucking lazy to change.  This time around a supervisor mentioned this super-powerful prescription mouthwash, an ultra-Listerine.  The student recommend I brush twice and alternate regular Listerine with my ACT in order not to have this chore become such a, well, chore.  And I got the old "make sure you brush against the gumline" advice.  Eventually it's going to fall on deaf ears, and I'll have to go through this song and dance the next time.

To help me when I won't help myself, the student pasted some flouride "vitamin" on my teeth.  I'm such an asshole that, even though I agreed to it, I was looking at my watch to see how soon I could get out of there.  (It was 2 1/2 hours -- too long for me to use my light-rail ticket as a round-trip, and I didn't have any time to take a nap before work like I wanted to.)  If I had my way, I would have left the dental clinic instead of get something that would fortify my teeth.  But the upside to this varnish is that, because it's injecting its flouride into my teeth, I'm not supposed to brush my teeth until the morning.  I'll call that ... and raise you a week!

And Travelling Back To The Past

After My Fucking Father went on his bizarre lectures about his pottery and setting up a schedule as soon as my parents leave, I now feel it's imperative for me to leave and watch my co-worker/friend's performance in his musical tonight.  I'll be in Hong Kong when the show ends, shows begin during the week on Wednesdays, and I'm sure I'll be busy in the middle of the week.  I could have gone Sunday, but after what he did today ... eh, it's Saturday, I should be doing shit Saturday, I'll see the show Saturday.

And it just hit me.  This musical is at a theater that my parents owned three decades ago.  I don't remember when they bought it, but they showed Chinese movies.  It was a very odd place for a foreign theater house to show since the neighborhood, at least at that time, was very working class with a Polish bent.  They had it mainly for several years.  Don't exactly know what happened, but apparently there was a bomb scare or an actual bomb that went off at the theater, and after that business was so bad that my folks sold the theater back to the city or the state.  (Don't quote me on this; I may have that story totally wrong.)

It languished in disarray until about a decade and a half ago, where, along with the gentrifying neighborhood, it was refurbished into a performance theater.  I don't remember the last day I stepped foot in that theater, but I haven't stepped foot in that theater after we sold it.  Till tonight though.

I remember just playing around as a kid, riding around in a chair with rollers on around the lobby and the concessions stand.  I'm pretty sure I did that when the theater opened up for movies in the evening.  But a lot of the time me, my brother and my cousins would walk up the spiral staircase to the offices upstairs and just play.  I remember that the spiral staircase went further up past the office, but since there were no lights we were too scared to go up and see what was up there.

I also remember that my brother and I had these Matchbox cars and we would race them in the office.  One of them fell through a hole that surrounded an old pipe, and try as we might, we couldn't retrieve it.  I actually think of that poor car once in a while, even now.  In the renovation they probably busted down the walls and the pipes and find it -- "What the hell is this?"  But I also imagine it stuck inbetween two pipes or wedged in there somewhere, trapped forever.

I didn't realize until this morning that this should be more of an epiphany than I have treated it.  As soon as I step through that door I am going to compare what I see to what I remember.  Is the lobby floor slanted?  Is the concession stand still there?  Are there still curtained arches on both sides of the house?  Most importantly, I wonder if I'm going to be physically floored by all the memories that might hit me if I see even the slightest similarity to my faint memories of the theater.

I might tell my friend.  Heck, I might not see my friend after the show.  (That reminds me; I'm going to Messenger him and tell him I'm coming to see his show tonight.)  I don't think I will tell him about my history with the production's house tonight.  Too ... painful and raw.

Leave Me Alone!

Alright, so even though I was sure I told Mother that I was not coming home to eat last (Tuesday) night (I decided to bring my car in for service), the text I got around 7 o'clock from Father asking me when I was coming home and whether I was eating tells me that either she didn't hear or she forgot.  This means that there was a big mix-up about me being expected to come home for dinner and not.

After I got home I apologized and tried to smooth things over.  They took it well, although they reminded me that if I am going to not come home to eat, I should cross off that date on the calendar.  OK.  They told me before, but now that this happened, I really should do that now.

And then this morning, both my parents were up and toodling around the living room.  As I was putting on my shoes, it appeared as though My Mother was asking My Father what time I would be home.  She didn't ask me; she asked him.  So My Father did ask me, to which I replied, "Tell her I'll be home at 6:30."

And it got even more annoying.  When I went down to the master bedroom to apologize to them, I also told My Father that I was running out of the alcohol/water spray bottle he gave me to deice, he told me that there was one bottle he leaves at the foot of the door; use that if I run out, he said, but then return it back inside.  Well, as I was about to leave, he came out with that spray bottle, spritzed some acetone on the windshield a few times (even though it wasn't necessary because there wasn't a whole lot of ice, compared to, say, yesterday [Tuesday] morning), and lectured me on how I needed to ration the bottle I have in my car.

Seriously, what's their deal?  I thought they were OK with me missing dinner.  I thought they accepted my apology.  Really, I thought I had told Mother.  No, I did tell Mother.  And because of this one ... oversight, Mother's being an ass and Father's getting all overbearing again.

Maybe I need to cross off more dates from the calendar after all.

And Now The Trip Is Over

Besides a fucking lecture from My Fucking Father about picking up a piece of dim sum by using my chopstick as a fork -- I'm 40, you idiot, and living at home with you does not make me an exception -- this day actually turned out alright.  Got home later than I thought, past sundown, and when My Fucking Father suggested my brother-in-law drive all the way home I thought that he was subtly saying that he now prefers him over me.  But I am typing this now from my bed in my room in the only home I have ever known and ever want to know, and I am fine.

Saying that, it was nice to go out and see some new sights (Buffalo, Niagara Falls), go in-depth into a couple places I have been to (Toronto, Chicago), and stop in a city just for lunch (in Cleveland, a place I've been to once before and might want to go back to again).  Heck, even staying the first night of our road trip in Mishawaka, Ind., right next to South Bend, was nice because I got to drive past Notre Dame, our hated rival.

The company?  Eh.  My sister and brother-in-law, we got along, but it was getting hairy there near the end.  Sister-in-law was her cheery self.  Niece still looks at me like I'm dead to her, but that's fine.  Brother?  Yeah, I'm glad we won't be seeing each other for a while.  Parents?  We needed to be separated, and them being in the basement right now is perfect.

But I'll say this: We constructed this roadtrip because Mother wanted to cross Niagara Falls off of her bucket list.  The stops in Toronto and Chicago were, I think, the ideas of my sister and brother, respectively, and that's why we made this a weeklong roadtrip.  But it was predicated on Mother, and when we finally got to the driveway, I patted her on the shoulder.  She accomplished something she wanted to do, and I at least respect that.