She's Back (Finally)!!!

Well, not only did the minivan get me to the movie theater and back just fine (Ballerina was ... OK -- it's as messy and interminably violent as any Len Wiseman movie), I got fantastic news when I turned on my phone after the film: ****e's finally back!  I was so lonely that I did my monthly text to her yesterday/Sunday afternoon.  Well, after many months, she texted back!  She was overseas staying with her family, and she just got back Saturday.  What timing!

I (re-)broke the ice by asking how is her family, but we both know that eventually I want to see and fuck her again, so hopefully that hasn't changed.  Damn, it's been some time since I sunk my junk in someone!

Mother Comes Home Just In Time For A Goddamn Snowstorm

I was white-knuckling it on my way down to the airport and back.  It may have been the weather conditions, but being on tires on their last legs (so to speak) did not help my confidence.  I made it, even though it felt a few times like I was going to slip off the highway.  Still pissed that this guy my parents know fucking cancelled on me when I made an appointment with him to change my tires.  Then again, maybe I don't want my new tires to go through a snowstorm just as it starts its run ferrying my vehicle.  Maybe this can wait until after the winter.

Oh, and winter is back.  Maybe several inches by morning.  Then a whopper, probably the worst (and actually first) big blizzard of the winter -- which, ironically enough, is falling after The First Day Of Spring.  At least half a foot.  I'm glad I don't have to be anywhere on Sunday, when it's supposed to be falling and falling fast.

Mother got home just in time for this.  My parents are avoiding Minnesota now because they hate the cold and because they can.  And, ironically enough, after going through The Winter That Wasn't, both of them have come back just as we finally have winter.

I want to say that it's bugging me that I'm not alone anymore, but frankly, it's not bad right now.  I felt sad that Father may have been lonely, but now that he has someone, namely Mother, they're not lonely anymore.  And while I may regret saying this, seeing some life and noise inside this house is a welcome change.

Mother screamed at me through my bedroom door.  I thought she wanted me to do something for her.  Instead, she gave me a few Hard Rock shirts they bought during their trips to Asia.  Aw.  Mother will ask me for something annoying tonight/Friday night.

Is Father Lonely?

Compounding the death of my uncle, I was told by Mother on Sunday, when Father was desperately coming home to see his younger brother before he passed, that Father fell in the middle of one night and got a gash on his head so bad that blood was gushing.  He had to go to the emergency room to stop the bleeding.  So she told me to watch him, just in case.

I am frickin' working like a dog, at my normal job the past workweek and then at Target Center for the basketball tournament this weekend, so me watching him consists of genuinely asking if he's OK and texting him in the middle of the day.  He seems fine.  I actually am more worried about his mind than his body, but both appear to be OK ... although he left the kitchen light on a couple hours ago.  I hope to Buddha he didn't slip and fall somewhere and I didn't hear it.  I'll go downstairs to make sure he's just in bed.

Mother is still in Las Vegas, so unless he has a more active lifestyle than I remember him having, Father is stuck in the house all day alone.  Realizing this, I have been thinking about him -- not just whether he's safe alone at home, but whether he's, you know, alone.  I am now wishing Mother was here with him.  I still remember them fighting like cats and dogs because they've been tied to the hip for nearly all their lives.  But right now, that feels like a better alternative than what Father probably is doing right now, which is being bored to death.  Hey, when you're married to each other for so long, each other's all you've got.

Thankfully (I think), Mother's coming home soon.  They can be with each other, keeping each other company, annoying the hell out of each other.  That will lessen my anxiety, for sure, and hopefully they will be safer once they'll be stuck at home together.

Apparently, The Check Engine Light Being On Is Not A Problem To Some People

I've started to talk to people about the plight with my car.  It's partly to vent, but deep down inside, I think I am reaching out so that other people can relate, and so I won't feel so alone, which I feel right now.

My co-worker told me that she has driven with both her check engine and low tire pressure light for a couple years now.  A couple years??  She says she knows the problem is with the sensors and that the warning lights aren't indicative of anything worse.  But really, two years??  I was driving with all four of those damn indicators on yesterday and I still had a heart attack whenever I saw them!

I guess some people get used to it.  Which brings up a story I may or may not have shared here on Wailing And Failing already.  I was dropping off my car for some damn thing at The Mechanic Around The Corner.  They had loaners, but since this was an independent shop the loaner car was a beat-up sedan.  But hey, it gets me around, so who cares.  I'm driving and looking at the dashboard.  Everything looked normal ... until, I think, I saw a yellow dot.  That's weird.  I moved my head around while driving for some reason and I saw an extension of that yellow dot.  And that's when I put the car in park and craned my head off to the side, right around where I would be able to lean over and look at the dash if I were in the passenger seat.  And there I saw the check engine light on on this loaner.  It was on the whole time.  However, the mechanics put black tape over the dashboard so that anyone who was driving it would most likely not see it and freak out.

In a way, that's absolute genius.  It speaks to how they most likely think the car would operate just fine with the Check Engine light on (and it did, by the way) while also understanding that other people wouldn't see it quite that way.  And it's apparent that my co-worker is totally at peace with hers being on in her car.  Still astounds me, but maybe other people just drive with that on.  Could there be tens of thousands of drivers just driving with that amber light on in their cars?  Hundreds of thousands?  Millions?  If so, are they neglecting their cars, or do they know better not to overreact?

It Pays To Have An Ally

It's hard to describe yesterday.  In most tangible ways, it fucking sucked, and just as bad as Wednesday.  It's mostly from nagging by co-workers for shit I didn't do again, mistakes I have made before.  I'm sorry I fucked up again, OK?  Jesus goddamn Christ, I'm getting buried with fucking bullshit over here, so get off my ass!!!

But it's in those hours of stress and suffering in which I notice moments of grace.  And I gotta say that my co-worker, one who works right next to me, saved my ass when I felt so lonely yesterday.  Now, I have to point out that there was not a whole lot of new stuff that came in yesterday; it was as few as it was on Monday, so that was a big weight off my shoulders.  All the unique problems I had to deal with pushed all the new stuff I needed to tackle later in the workday than I would have liked, so having so few things to do then was very alleviating.  But my co-worker, probably sensing my stress, took half of those new forms off my plate, which made the end of my day much easier.  Furthermore, she noticed that a lot of those forms that were sent to me could have, if not should have, gone to her and my other co-worker in My Favorite Department instead.  That raises the possibility, if not probability, that I have been doing too much on my end back in The Fourth Department for far too long, and that somebody is giving me more work than I should be doing.

I have come across several articles about the workplace environment changing since the pandemic began -- The Great Resignation, "quiet quitting," steadfastly not making friends at work, etc.  That last concept is an idea I have largely believed ... when I do believe it.  What I think I mean by that is that I vacillate on the idea.  Work, especially this week, is so fucking overwhelming that I usually do not want to associate with anyone even tangentially connected to work, and specifically a space that causes me distress and anxiety.  If I'm getting yelled at by you at work, why in the hell would I want to know you outside of it?  But that sets up an antagonistic mindset, one where it's you against other people when the "enemy" might not be those other people, but the work itself.  Just writing that gives me pause; if the other people I work with recognize it's the work that's the "bad guy," they wouldn't be yelling at me, for fuck's sake.

But it's times when work is at its worst where you could use a co-worker who empathizes with you, and even shares your burden.  And hey, not only did she take some of what I thought were my responsibilities -- which, by the way, allowed me to get out of work only an hour earlier than I should have instead of two, and that's a big goddamn deal -- but she seemed to care about what I was going through.  And for yesterday and today, there is no authority figure hanging around where we are working; our supervisor is taking the rest of the week off.  Oh, I should circle back and say this: These unique problems I had to deal with yesterday morning?  I relied on her to help, massively.  And she did.  And so I ... well, looked, and look, to her as a supervisor.  She has saved my ass time and again ever since I started work back there.

It pays to have an ally.  It pays to have a co-worker whom you can ask for help, and with whom you can feel as though she's on your side against the work, if not other co-workers who appear to be bitching at you for no good reason.  That may not be socializing at work.  But the idea that you should completely separate your work life from your personal life seems absurd when you need somebody to help you at work.  I personally like her.  I really do!  And she's going to help talk to my supervisor next week about this looming problem of me getting work that should be going to her and her co-worker.  That's ... being a good person.  An ally.  So ... yeah, maybe yesterday wasn't a bad day after all.

Nightmare

Late breaking news reports that up to ten golfers -- really big ones, including Cameron Smith, who just won the (British) Open (and, when asked about the rumor he's jumping ship, got offended at The Media in a way that all golfers in that sportswashing league has perfected to a tee -- are headed to the LIV golf tour (as soon as tomorrow/Tuesday but possible by Labor Day), and it was news I read just before heading to bed.  Well, I have said that many of my nightmares are fueled by things that happened to me the day before that nightmare, and I have to include that here.

I don't remember the specifics, but eventually a couple of women came around to the place I was at (I can't remember if it was a residence, but it was a place I felt was home and "mine," and it was outdoors, so ... maybe it was a houseboat?) and declared that everyone who was at this place left and joined the LIV tour.  I was alone.  And then I felt that familiar feeling in my nightmares about needing to run away but not being able to.

I was headed toward a door.  I don't think I was walking normally; I might have had my feet tied or something.  I opened that door but couldn't go through it.  I think it was higher, and so I had to jump to get through it, and I couldn't.  But there was a little space right next to it that was open; I just had to crouch, then extend myself through this hole, then shimmy to get the rest of my body in there.  And I started doing that ... and then I woke up and realized I had my head off my pillow, about to hit the wall with my noggin.

I don't ever remember waking up to a motion because of what I was dreaming.  Weird.

Maybe I should stop drinking so hardcore.  Maybe that's it.

She Spoke In English (For Once)

Visited Grandmother's best friend this afternoon.  Before she was incommunicative and, sometime, irascible.  She wasn't today, although I still couldn't understand her.

Except ... when I wheeled her chair back inside (she spends most of her days now with her wheelchair at the edge of her door, table of Lays and generic lemon-lime pop, watching everybody go up and down the hallway -- it's like people-watching from your front porch, except, you know, she's in a nursing home) today and she began to talk, she spoke in English.  First she said, "When you come up here, you have to think about what you're going to say."  Huh.  And then she said, "No matter what you say or what you do outside, tell people I am happy to be here."

And then she reverted back to Vietnamese and, like several times before, her voice started to crack and her eyes began to moisten.  She was sad about ... something, but again, because I can't understand her, I don't know what.  Maybe she isn't happy to be there as she said.

I wonder sometimes how lonely she is.  Also, are they drugging her up in an effort to make her docile?  Because that might make her even more confused and lonely.

I don't know if growing old is worth it.

The Lonely Exercise Machine

As with many things, my parents exposed me to a lot of things and encouraged me to try them, but I was too lazy/stubborn/fearful to do them, and so I ignored all the things they gave me, both educational and entertaining.  And so they would just take up space and collect dust in various corners of the house.  Some things still do, such as the pool table.  Some have been hauled away to the dump, like the foosball table.  (It was a beautiful foosball table.)

And then there are the exercise machines.  It started, I think, with an exercise bike.  I can see it now in, of all places, the dining room, where Mother hangs her wet clothes on the handlebars to dry.  There was also this somewhat rickety cross-country skiing simulation; you get on the sliding footpads, grab the retractable handlebars that stretch all the way to the floor, and just act like you're skiing on this small, flat thing.  Your movement generates power so you can see your progress on the screen.  Yeah, I think all three of us played on those machines for a little bit, then abandoned them.  Father threw away the CC sim, by the way.  The treadmill, too ... oh yeah, we had a treadmill; now I remember.  I may have gone on it once.  It may have been broken, but it too has been thrown away.

Then there is this huge machine that, many years ago, Mother wanted and/or Father bought and brought down to the basement.  I think it's what they call a stepladder machine, or a step machine -- it has two separated footpads, you step on each, you alternate moving them, like you're climbing stairs, and that's how you exercise.

Unlike the other machines, I may have tried it, oh, twice or thrice, and all those times probably for about a minute.  It is a humongous contraption, and I don't think I ever understood it.  I don't think I've ever seen Mother on it, either, but I think that the only exercise machine she has ever used was the treadmill.  (Father doesn't exercise.  He buys things for other people to use.)

And yet an epiphany hit me about last weekend.  I have been mentally inveighing about needing to schlep out to the community room to exercise.  Maybe it's the winter or my guilt over not getting through My Stuff as much as I would have liked by now, but while I sometimes have to rouse myself into changing and getting into my car to go exercise before, now it feels even more like a herculean challenge.

I was thinking about the next time I would have the time to work out, and I was dreading needing to dress up and go out in the cold to drive in the cold to the gym.  And then I remembered the stepping machine.  Why don't I just work out on that?  It's here, and I don't have to brave the frigid weather.  I just have to change, go into the basement corner, figure out how it works, and, well, work out.  Besides, I'd be working out by myself and removing a layer of risk by exercising by myself.  The past several times at the community center another person was working out too, and I wasn't that comfortable sharing that space with that person and his/her possible COVID breath.  Still.

Well, Monday was that time.  I thought I just immediately go home, take a nap, then go downstairs and work out.  Instead a bunch of other crap happened to which I might blog post about some other time, and then I needed to work out even more because 1) I had so much stress to let loose and 2) by the time I was done with said crap, it would have been too late for me to get to the gym.  So even though it was later than I wanted to, it was high time for me to get on this lonely, old machine and give it some purpose.

Like some machines such as the ellipticals and treadmills at the community center, this step machine has programs.  I think I put myself on the first and easiest one.  It was only 20 minutes in length, and even though the screen (which is self-powered, like the late and lamented cross-country ski machine) said there would be resistance in changes, it was a relative breeze to get through.  (It helps to have a spot next to the machine on which you could rest your laptop so you can stream a college basketball Game.)  Not to say I didn't get a workout; if you are "walking up stairs" for 20 minutes straight, you'll get a bit bow-legged.  But feel the burn and all.  Oh, and the machine has a fan that you can turn on and power while you exercise.

And now that I've taken it out for a spin, so to speak ... you know, it's not a bad machine at all.  I don't know why I can't work out on it a little more.  Sure, I love my elliptical, it's good to jog and run on a treadmill, and we don't have kettlebells at home.  But if I want to exercise but don't want to drive in order to do it, I should blow the dust off this stepladder machine and use that.  It's been waiting to be used for years now.  And it deserves to be used.  Shoot, I'm going to use it!

Expenses Without Receipts

Starting from Wednesday, August 11:

• I'll have to go back to Friday, August 6, when I finally made it to my first stripper party since the pandemic (and actually before it).  I was texted an invitation by *****y, and I was told that she and three others would be there.  But when I got there, I eventually saw those other three, but *****y was nowhere to be found.  However, ******e, a blast from the past who is living in Las Vegas now, was there!  I have a rule whereby I try my best to take the stripper who invited me to the house party to a room.  With that an impossibility, I went with the, uh, interloper who was from out of town and (at least according to her) had not made any money during the evening.  She did with me; unfortunately, I was not able to "perform" and had to jerk myself off onto her bikini area.  I hope getting doubled-teamed by her and ***e* later tonight will get my dick to respond better.  Anyway, she cost me: $140.
• Let's take this back to Sunday the 1st, where I finally was able to make plans with *****a for a handjob.  I'm ... starting to really like her, on a genuine, non-sexual level.  And unlike with ******e above five days later, she was able to get me off, thank goodness.  Cost: $150.
• That evening, after work, I went out to find a pub that was showing the U. S. against Mexico in the final of the Gold Cup.  Part Wolf (used to be the Nomad, RIP) is my go-to spot for championship Games of international soccer competitions.  But although they showed the Match and turned up the sound, I was only three people who were there to watch it.  By contrast, for the EURO Final, the place was mostly packed with dozens of people in there.  Shoot, there were, like, nine other people at Part Wolf who hung out after playing a gig at Palmer's across the street.  I had a really sweet and thus good Hard Cider from Blake's, out of Armada, Mich.  I also had a Heggies supreme pizza I decided to order after I saw that the Game was going to kick off a half-hour later than advertised (big mistake), and I got a Coke because the Match (eventually won by the U-S-A!  U-S-A!) went into Extra Time.  With tips and it all added up to: $29.
• Oh, and I parked, too: $3.
• Finally, I go back to Tuesday, July 27, where I finally was able to get my shoes shined at Lisa's.  Had to skip June because she was out due to surgery.  Wonder how much lasting damage has been done to my shoes because I hadn't had them shined and polished for two months?  With tip: $20.

I can see these EWR lists getting longer now that I have decided to go back to whoring at parties.  That'll damage my wallet, too.  Anyhoo, I'm good through August 11.

Do They Know I'm Wearing No Underwear?

I went to get a HJ from *****a this afternoon.  Wanted to pack in a visit to the cemetery to see my date to the junior prom.  Promised her that I would visit her gravesite twice a year; my second visit usually is just before Labor Day, but I got busy, so I have been welling up with guilt not spending the 15 Minutes I usually spend with her all this fall.

One other thing kind of fell in my lap last night.  Father, out of the blue, asked me to call my uncle, who lives in Philadelphia and is, according to him, "lonely."  My uncle is Father's older brother.  He has a drinking problem.  He also doesn't know much English, and my Chinese sucks, so if I do call, it won't be much of a call.  But I haven't spoken to him in years, and he's getting up there, so I wanted to give it a shot.

Now, the question was, when?  I wouldn't know when I would be done at *****a's place, and I wanted to get home some time in the afternoon.  But the more important consideration I had as to whether or not I could call uncle and see my prom date is, well ... see, I wear my porno pants -- and no underwear -- when I visit my stripper girlfriends, because I'm perverted like that.  However, do I want to visit my prom date and call my uncle while not wearing underwear?  Isn't that, you know, weird?  No, neither my uncle nor my dead prom date knows that I'm not wearing underwear, and I sure won't tell my uncle, of course.  But I would know.  It seems so ... impolite to talk to them sans underwear, you know?

Well, I decided to to call my uncle and to visit my prom date at the cemetery after spending almost three hours at *****a's place (and eating ice cream).  I got home an hour later than I initially told Father I'd be home by when I left in the morning, and a half-hour later than the new time I texted Father I'd be home by.  Ultimately, I had plans not to go anywhere tomorrow, and if that's the case, it's best to just do both things today so I can ... do nothing (even though I should clean my bedroom) tomorrow.  Just don't tell my uncle and my prom date that when I spoke to them, I was going commando.

Next Internet Wormhole: Minibars And Wine Fridges And Minifridges

Why?  I don't know.  I just started thinking about what if I had to live alone?  I think it was prompted by the coronavirus and my fear that it would take my parents.  The other day I was looking up floorplans for studio and one-bedroom apartments and thinking how much room would I really need.  And then I remembered that I was a grown man and I could have alcohol in my place.  So, what would I need -- specifically, what types of alcohol, and what glasses, and what tools, and what of the, uh, other stuff would I need?  And where would I put all of those things?

So I went on the Wirecutter and Amazon and started looking up minibars and cocktail bars.  To indulge my fantasy, I'll tell you that I didn't find one thing I really liked.  They were all huge -- too huge for the studio or one-bedroom in my mind -- and they were all ornate and they were all expensive.  I think the cheapest one I saw was $200.  Shoot, at that point, couldn't I just throw everything I need in my kitchen cabinet?

(In the middle of all this I was looking specifically at what kinds of alcohol I needed to buy.  The recommendations on the Internet are not in consensus, so if in my hypothetical minibar, I would pare it down to what one website called the "six base spirits" -- vodka, gin, tequila, rum ... uh ... whiskey and ... bourbon?  Scotch?  Brandy?  Maybe there's only five.  Or four.  This is getting so complicated, it's not fun to dream about anymore.)

Oh, and all these minibars all have racks for wine.  I have it in my head already that wines should be in the fridge.  I dreamed about owning a wine refrigerator, a small one, since, oh, last night, when I thought about getting a wet bar.  So I went on the Wirecutter to find out what the best mini-wine fridge is.  And that took up a lot of time, too.

And then I thought that, since I'll be a swinging bachelor and I doubt I'll ever buy food that I need to store since I love fast food and I can't cook, why would I need a full refrigerator?  I just need a mini-fridge -- probably the biggest one possible, because I'll have to throw at least my pop in there.  And with the recommendations from the Wirecutter and Amazon, I thought about putting the wine fridge on top of the mini-, to save space.  And then I thought about how low the mini-fridge will be if I don't have a big one, and my back is killing me, so do I really want to just put what will the refrigerator I use on the floor where I would have to stoop to get my food?  And then I went on some industrial warehouse website to find a platform which is supposed to be used as risers or stairs for workers to work in high places and to use that instead to life up both fridges closer to eye level.

And then it was four o'clock in the morning and Father was up and in the kitchen and I went to bed after wasting two or three hours fantasizing about this.

The Loneliest Place In The World Is Your Bed When You Can't Sleep

I think I've been up since 3:45 -- and if not, I think I've been up since some time in the Second Quarter of the Thursday night football game.  I've been trying to sleep, dying to sleep, but goddammit, today ... it just wasn't happening.  The coughing, the aches (especially in my head now). ...

I don't remember thrashing about like this as much as I did overnight.  And it got so bad that I've had these weird dreams where ... you know, maybe I was asleep and I didn't know it?  I had this dream where I was back at work and doing files and. ...  Maybe it's just my imagination, which is something that gets away from you when you're desperate to fall asleep but can't.

Goddammit, I don't know how I'm going to make it through today.  I just need some sleep -- some glorious, peaceful sleep.  Please.

I Just Need To Make It To The 4th

Our alumni club event is this Sunday, and even though everything seems to be all set (thank God for the hosts; they seem to think everything is in order, phew!), I am still nervous af.  I just don't think enough people are going to show up.  It doesn't help that our registration page appeared to close down orders on, I believe, Sunday.  I hate that shit.

I'm just afraid that it'll be a dud, that there will be, like, two families and me there.  That ain't no goddamn party.  And why?  Did I not do a good job advertising?  Do people not want to go?  Do people just not like me?  Man, it's so hard to be in charge of something you're afraid will go wrong.  These are the times I would love to pawn this off to someone else, but I can't.  It really is just me now.  And these are the times it sucks to be alone on this.

Coupled that with this dead-end gig (to which I called in sick, don't tell them) and this interview that may or may not lead to a job that I may or may not like and that may or may not be good for me, and I'm completely overwhelmed now.  I really am.  I'm looking forward to Independence Day not only because it's a holiday but also because that means this event is behind, for better and for worse.  This gig may also end, and that may not be good for my income, but at least I'll have a chance to nap in the afternoon.  At that point, I can exhale and then find more work later.

Right now, I'm holding on for dear life.  Just one week, and things may -- may -- get better.

From Uninvited To Unwanted

I can't quite forget the sight of my relative, sitting alone at the dining room table last night, looking through her phone.  She's done that the past couple nights.  There are three other people in this house, yet none of them have engaged with her after dinner.  She's just ... there.  I don't know if she's lonely.  But I know that other, and better, people would at least find something to talk to her about, or at least just hang out with her.

I should expound on this a lot more than I am, but I want to wake up really early to watch the first World Cup match downtown before I head into work.  Anyway, for the month before she arrived, my parents and I were complaining about why in the hell this person whom we've never seen before would want to crash with us for two weeks.  Honestly, I'm still wondering that.  But instead of blaming her, I'm starting to think the problem's us.

See, when my relative was out hanging with some of our other relatives -- you know, people who are hospitable and know how to show people around a hometown -- we were at home having dinner.  There, both of my parents bad-mouthed her to me.  They warned me not to give her my phone number.  (I confess: I did last night!)  My Father, the one who is related by blood to my relative, then said never to visit her in Hong Kong.  "She believes she owns Hong Kong," My Fucking Father said, and I still have no goddamn idea what he meant.  (I confess: I took her address last night too!)

It astonishes me that my parents tell me all the time to be nice to people.  And yet, with them retreating downstairs to their bedroom after dinner, leaving their houseguest alone to just tool around by herself, they are being the exact opposite of nice.  I understand it is a handful to show someone around, and it is quite difficult to think of places in the Twin Cities to take a tourist.  (And I'll be honest: This woman goes through toilet paper rolls like nobody's business.  She asked Father to put a new one in on Monday and it's now already more than half gone.  I don't remember toilet paper vanishing this fast since Grandmother still lived here.)  But to just ignore her, like she's an obstacle to your day?  Yeah, she kind of is.  That doesn't mean you don't speak to her and don't make her feel welcome.

I get my introversion from them.  Introversion oftentimes is rudeness, and my parents are nothing if not rude.  Then again, while they retreated to their bedroom, last night I retreated to mine.  I left her alone, too.  I'm guilty of not being nice to my relative, too.  Hey, I learn from the best.

About Work

Hmmm ...

First of all, I was largely left to my own devices today.  Unbeknownst to me, my supervisor, the person I'm most closely working with right now, took the day off.  That meant that nearly every question I would have asked her I have now instead e-mailed to her.  I have assailed her with so many of my dumb queries that I think she just needed to take a break from me.  I really do feel bad that I'm now drowning her with questions that await her Monday morning.

I guess I should be glad I was just doing my own thing today.  But I don't think I made a whole lot of progress.  Having questions meant that I couldn't move forward.  I spent the last hour typing up the e-mail to my supe.  That's not productive to me.  And while I like the independence, many times today it felt like I was just cut off, if not neglected.  The other people were doing their own things, of course.  But especially with two weeks before I'm fired, I feel sort of cut off now.  Maybe there are worse ways to make a paycheck.  I just don't know if the radio silence around me is about me.

Oh, one other thing.  Someone mentioned in our daily meeting that there is a job on the floor I worked at last year available, but she was surprised that no one applied for it.  That's funny, because I know that I applied for that very job.  Is she wrong?  Did my application somehow not go through?  Or has my worst fears been realized ... and that the people running this search thought that, even though I've worked there the past three seasons, my resume is so awful they won't even consider me for an interview?  I really need to know the status of my app, but if they've already rejected me, maybe I don't want to even ask.  Christ, what a bind I am in.

Because Of My Folks, I Literally Am Not In A Good Place Right Now

I'm going to kill my parents if they keep this shit up, I swear to God.

Yesterday (Saturday) morning, after I gave My Mother a draft of an e-mail she was going to type verbatim because she was freaking out that the fax she made me send to the recipient was never received, I was going upstairs to help My Fucking Father outside with the snow.  I had heard that overnight we might get some snow, but we got blindsided with a couple, maybe a few, inches, and My Fucking Father probably was freaking out about clearing the driveway because my brother, sister-in-law and niece were dropping by in the afternoon.

I was walking up the stairs past the front door, which was open, when My Fucking Father threw the screen door open and, without missing a beat, screeched, "Is the snowblower broken?!"  To which I said -- said -- "It worked just fine."  To which he said, and I still cannot fucking believe this shit that he pulled, he said, "Why are you yelling at me?!"

YELLING AT YOU!!!  YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER, YOU JUST YELLED AT ME AND THEN ACCUSED ME OF DOING TO YOU WHAT YOU JUST DID TO ME!!!  AND HAVE DONE TO ME FOR THE PAST 42 GODDAMN YEARS?!?!?!  FUCK OFF!!!

(Man, I really don't feel like talking about this after I just wrote that.  But I have to, because if I don't I think I'm shying away from my real feelings, and this blog is about trying to address them in order to process my feelings and, hopefully, finally getting through them.)

So, to his question about why he made up thinking I was yelling at him, I told him that I was yelling at My Fucking Mother -- which is a total lie, because I wasn't yelling at her because she was actually being calm, but I couldn't think on my feet because My Fucking Father blindsided me again.

I finally get dressed and head out to the snowblower, where I find that the dumbass bitch didn't turn on the gas knob.  Once I did that, it worked fine and, because I'm the dutiful son, I plowed so that old, crazy dingbat didn't have to ... until I had to kill it so I could move the cars and plow the rest of the snow.  I moved the cars and tried to restart it, but it didn't work.  I'm going to assume the engine is flooded and it needs time to settle down, but I might be saying that just because I got it to work.

He may -- may -- have calmed down as soon as I turned that knob.  But as I was done and going back into the house, both of my parents were on their way out.  I overheard My Fucking Mother call me a son-of-a-bitch, probably because My Fucking Father ratted on me to her about what I said, which, again, was a lie because I couldn't pull a better excuse out of my ass.

She replied to my text about getting that e-mail sent during last night's United FC match, but I am writing this at Glam Doll because I'm scared as hell I'm going to drive home and get to the front door, only to see that I can't get in.  Both of My Fucking Parents are pissed at me, and this may be the final straw in their paranoid minds to finally throw me out of the house.  I hope not -- I've got nowhere else to go, and I still haven't finished punishing them for ruining my life.  But even if I can get in, it doesn't feel ... safe in the house anymore.  I remember having the house all to myself just a week ago, and even though it's more shelter than I need, I felt secure in there.  Not anymore, thanks to these two assholes I'm made from and their yelling and false accusations and shit.  So even though I live there, I literally am not in a good place right now.

I was almost thrown out of the house several years ago, but as of right now, that seems like a not-unreasonable possibility.  And I am not completely unwelcome of the idea.  Right now.

The Coldest Winter Chill

Late last (Monday) night I turned off the heat -- partially because it was really hot, partially because I had turned it on during the late afternoon, partially because I was afraid what would happen to the heater if I kept it running without access to the water, whose valve I continued to keep off for the time being.

I woke up around the 4 o'clock hour; shortly thereafter I burped up enough that I almost vomited.  GERD from the Cheesecake Factory, I'm guessing.  But then I noticed how cold I was.  The last time I felt such cold inside while I was alone was the early days of my internship in El Paso, when it was early March and the heat hadn't taken hold of west Texas.  The winds were wild a couple nights, pushing the cold air around the edges of my front door.  It was so cold that I actually though putting couch cushions around the edge would stop the winds.  I put on two pairs of pants and shirts to keep myself warm, and it still didn't work.  I fell asleep only because my body was too tired to stay awake.  It was that cold overnight.

Oh yeah; there was a heater in my apartment in El Paso, but I was making so little money that I didn't turn it on.  By the way, I checked recently at the apartment complex on Google Maps.  It looks as though the entire place was demolished.  In its place, I don't know.

I'm scared and I'm lonely.  I'll admit that.

Oh Yeah, It's Over -- My Parents Are Coming Home

Yeah, they decided this about two weeks ago.  I knew this because ... well, first thing is is that they had to come home because of this trip they thought they were taking to Mexico when it was in fact Biloxi/Gulfport, Mississippi, which is next to the Gulf of Mexico.  But I really knew this when they called me and asked me for their help in booking their tickets through Spirit Airlines.  Well, they booked the tickets through Spirit, but they wanted me to help them sign up as part of the airline's $9 Fare Club.  They thought that with an annual fee (which was discounted ten bucks for the first year), they can fly anywhere for just nine bucks.  Turns out the phrase "$9 Fare Club" is just a name that used to have meaning; Spirit doesn't offer $9 fares anymore, members are just offered "club prizes" that are scarcely better than the regular price.  Then why don't they rename the "$9 Fare Club?"  Because they're Spirit Airlines and they traffic in misleading bullshit, that's why.

Anyway, I was on the phone when they told me they were about to book their tickets.  And book them they did, for next week.  They will be here for about eight days before their vacation down south (assuming there are no hurricanes flooding the casinos), but they will be back a mere four days later.  And then ... well, they are planning a cruise in January, but for all I know, they'll fucking be back for good.

Look, I may have talked about how lonely I would get as I adjust to them not being here.  And I have to admit that as I'm falling asleep I wonder, if I die, how long will it take for someone to realize that I might not be alive and barge down this door.  But beyond that, I am fucking so goddamn happy that I have/had this house all to myself.  I can go get a coffee at 10 on a school night if I want to.  I can strew my clothes and shit around my bedroom -- around the house -- without getting any static.  I can even fucking walk around naked if I want to without a parental unit yelling at me.  But goddammit, I'll have to share this house with them again, and that means getting fat because they want me to, not because I want myself to.  Oh, and the lack of privacy.  And the intrusive questions.  And the yelling and judgement, all the goddamn yelling and judgement.

And in the meantime I have to clean up the room.  God, I wonder, if my parents didn't get confused about this trip, and they decided that, because it's not Mexico, they weren't going to take this trip down to the Gulf of Mexico, would they be coming back?

Back Into The Void

I still can't believe that I'm 41 years old and I have to go back to doing this shit.  After we finish up field testing today, I am back out on the street.  I guess this is what happens when you decide there's nothing you want to do as a career when you get out of college.  Or when you're 30.

I'm not sure this is the right time for me to not have anything to do.  With Grandmother's death, I'm afraid I'll be spending my days alone with my thoughts of her.  They say that time heals all wounds.  That adage may or may not have anything to do with death.  But frankly, the more I think about her, the more I realize that she's not here anymore.  I think it's getting harder for me to deal with, and not being occupied with work during the day may might make dealing with it worse.

I haven't even thought about the disruption being unemployed again will bring.  I have to get up for no good reason, I have to lie to my parents about where I'm going, I need to find a place and a time to eat all the food they're giving me, I need to figure out how to fucking occupy my day.  And that doesn't even include stuff like finding a job, or even getting unemployment.  Further complicating matters is that I have chores that I need to do, such as going to the dentist, and fulfilling this study I started back in the winter.  And I'm still holding out the possibility that I will fly to Hong Kong for any remembrance arrangements.

So I don't know.  In one sense I'm grateful for the free time.  But on the other hand, I'm being thrown (or am I throwing myself?) back into instability, something that I never thought an adult should do.  I hope I find something that keeps the money rolling in.  But in the meantime I'll just ... be.  Because there's nothing else I can do, I guess.

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You know, I wish I had the chance to, once it's over of course, live this life over again armed with the experience of what not to do.  But that is impossible, of course.

Most Boring Birthday Ever?

Hey, I just realized that technically, it's my birthday.  I will turn 41 ... and I will turn 41 alone.

Right now, my plans are for me to go to work, get done with work, drive home from work, eat a salad, maybe watch (or more likely listen to) the men's basketball tournament games, maybe have some cereal, maybe do some laundry, stack my papers to go to storage, and sleep early.  I'm not saying I'm embarrassed that it's my birthday ... although I have no plans on telling anyone at work that it is, and in fact just thinking about being called out for my birthday is giving me anxiety right now.  I just ... well, since there's no way for me to really celebrate the right way, I guess I am a little embarrassed that it's my birthday.

Maybe it shouldn't be this way.  It's been great not having my parents around, but they would be the first ones to wish me a Happy Birthday (well, after all my friends on Facebook), and it would be nice to have that acknowledged by the ones who birthed me.  Maybe the fact that they're not here to do so makes me want to hide the secret of my birthday.

Oh, well.  I am going to go to Facebook now and reply to everyone who has sent me wishes.

P.S. I do this thing where I write down all the songs playing on radio stations at the time of my birth.  Since I will be busy scoring papers right then, that will be an impossibility this year.  Just a head's-up.