They're Coming Home Because They Think I Should House The Cousin I Haven't Heard From In Decades

This was going to be a more expansive blog post because my cousin isn't the only person who has reached out to me and wants to see me.  But things had to take a scary bad turn for me, and that's because of my goddamn parents' meddling, again.

I have learned to check the spam texts the hard way.  I lost out on a gig I applied for because the person hiring for the crew texted me, and since this number was not from a trusted contact, it went into the spam folder.  Curiosity was the only reason I checked that folder, and I saw it months after this person offered the gig to me.  What an embarrassment ... and that company hasn't hired me since.  And yet I still go to their hiring board.  I applied for something a couple weeks ago.  And I am checking the spam folder just in case they give me another chance.

Anyway, it was also in this spam folder where I saw a long text from my long-ago cousin to whom I haven't spoken in decades.  She is in town and wanted to catch up on old times.  I will be honest.  She is one of four sisters and brothers my brother and sister and I remember hanging out with from time to time when we were young.  I like this particular cousin the most even though that's based on guesses on what I remember back when we were kids.  The oldest of the four I have problems with; thing is, I don't remember if I ever got into a fight with her.  My memories of interacting with her enrage me now, but I really don't know if she thinks we don't get along.  I just don't want to see her again.

But I need to give family a chance, so I reached out ... as soon as I spoke to My Father, whom my cousin, or "cousin," said gave her my number.  I hadn't spoken to my parents pretty much for the past week, but I finally had reason to ring them up.  And yes, Father said my cousin is the real deal and so gave her my number.  OK, this is not catfishing.  We spoke -- can't say I was over-enthused on catching up, but I want to see if I could see her over the holiday weekend.  We promised to compare schedules the middle of the week.

With that matter kicked down the street, I went to Art-A-Whirl's last day.  And while I was minding my own business, trying to give myself some grace and be a part of a community that I love, I feel a buzzing on my ass.  Father called again.  I took the call while wandering around an art studio.  I should have known they would have called again demanding that I be more "hospitable."  They asked me to ask my cousin if she needed to borrow my car.  She already told me that she and her son (he'll be studying in town for the next several years) have gotten a rental.  They then fucking asked me to open up the house to them.  I told them my cousin and cousin once removed already got a hotel.  I completely fucking lied; I'm pretty sure they have, but I don't know that.  What I do know is that there is no goddamn way in hell I am going to let them stay here if I can help it.  No offense, but fuck no.

The call ended; I don't think My Fucking Parents heard the combination of rage and fear in my voice at the end of the call.  But I kept thinking about them while I was doing my personal art crawl.  Also, I remember that goddamn time they surprised me by coming home and not telling me.  So goddamn scarring; I'll never forgive them for doing that to me.  I know that they suspect that I don't keep the house clean while they're gone.

So that leads me to one conclusion: They're coming home.  They might not tell me.  They might.  But they're coming home.  They think I am so unable to be a good host for family that they will fucking pay the obscene amount a plane ticket costs these days and come home to see if I have cleaned up the house.  By the way, they insisted that I gave them my cousin's phone number, even though I think they already have it.  I can totally believe that My Fucking Parents insisted, if not demanded, my cousin cancel their hotel and car so we can give them housing and transportation.  Fucking weirdos.

I can imagine them booking plane tickets online right now.  Fuckin' A.  The house is a mess, just like I wanted to.  And I need to clean it up in five fucking days to impress one person I haven't seen in decades and another person I didn't know existed until yesterday?  Fuck that shit.  I'm too tired to clean, and I'm too busy to care.  And that's how My Fucking Parents will screw me again.  All because oh-oh-oh, I need to be good hosts for family!!!  I'll bring shame to them if I don't!!!

Fucking hate my parents.

RIP Car (For Real For Real)

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

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

She Trusts Me

So have I told you that my ATF at My Favorite Stripclub (Cover Edition) and I have exchanged phone numbers and now text each other?  Yeah, I think I talked about this, but I text her when I can visit her at the club.  That's all that is; we haven't really engaged in small talk or anything like that.  I don't think I have much of a personality to talk about other things besides if she's working on a particular day.  But also, I don't want to come off as, well, a weird creep who's only interested in sleeping with her.  I am interested in sleeping with her, but she's a cool woman, and I've known her for upwards of two decades, and I really, really just want to be friends with her more than anything.

I don't think this is a big milestone, but she texted me pictures for the first time yesterday/Friday.  While I was getting dances from her, she talked about how she's been busy renovating her home -- specifically that she's been tiling.  She said she'd send over pics of her work, and she did.  I thought it was her floor, but these are on her walls.  Impressive.  Not that I would know anything about what goes into it.  Really, I don't care about decorating or even making a house look good.  What I need is shelter.  What I need is to make sure there is a roof over my head, and there are no holes or leaks.  I could never do what she has done.  And she might not be done with her projects.

Beyond that, she taking photos of something ... well, not intimate but a bit more personal from her (let alone the fact that she is showing me pictures of her house, even if it is just walls) shows that she trusts me even further.  I appreciate that, and I don't take that for granted.  This is where we are, and I'm very, very grateful for that.

She Finally Got The Hint

So there is a stripper whom I have blog posted about before here on WAF.  I met her once before when she was doing dances at **y's place.  She's quite old and her skin is stretched out and shit.  I got dances from her once where she jacked me over my pants.  That was enough for me to believe she was down to fuck, so when she started inviting me to other parties she was working, she would text me.  But somehow, I would get there and she would never be there.  Instead, the only girls working there were, well, ugly and fat and kind of scary.  This missing her when I got to the parties she was working (and, I think, hosting) that I once texted her in frustration that I thought she was going to be there and why was she not.  She said her kid got hurt and so she needed to run home.  I don't believe that, nor do I believe her when she subsequently said she drove back to the party.

That was at least two years ago.  That may even have been before the pandemic.  Regardless, that was the last straw for me.  Not getting touched by her in years, plus her series of excuses of not being at a party she invited me to, plus getting only fugly women to work these parties, and plus accusations of ripping off other girls who worked house parties she hosted (including **y), and I gave up ever seeing her.  And as time went on, I stopped caring that I would see her.

With that being said, she still had my number, and she continued to text me whenever she either was doing parties or working at a strip club in the region.  I told her that I was busy or I had no money, but to be honest, I had no interest in seeing her.  Also, some of the parties, and the strip clubs she now works at, are way too far for me to drive to, even if I did have money and was horny.  But she always accepted my excuses and was very cordial to me, saying, "OK."

Till yesterday/Tuesday afternoon.  She texted me that she was working at some club 90 minutes from here tonight/Wednesday night.  I told her that "job issues" came up.  That excuse is vague, and even if me thinking about changing jobs is real, it should have no bearing on whether or not I have the ability to see her.  But that's the reason I told her I wasn't able to see her at the club tonight/Wednesday night.  And she said, basically, "OK, it's been two years of you telling me you can't make it.  You're off the list."  And my first thought was, "Wow, she finally put two and two together."  But then I texted her, "Sorry," and she said, "That's OK," and I suddenly felt all guilty.  Does she think I was stringing her along?  Because, well, I was.

But, will I try to see her again?  No.  I probably won't.  Eh, whatever -- she still has my number.

I Just Went Through Fucking iPhone Update Hell

I spent about the past, oh, 90 minutes to two hours trying to update my iPhone but then needing to restore my iPhone after I got that dreaded goddamn "plug phone into your computer" screen.  I got obsessed with updating to the latest software (it was like a week after another fucking update -- really, Apple, the hackers are forcing you to make weekly updates now?), which led me to deleting a couple more of my apps (I erased a few for the previous update -- you know, I was going to blog post about the bullshit I went through for the previous update, but I never had the time to sit down for it so I just mentally kicked the can down the road) and then, after that didn't work, I thought I could just hook up my phone to iTunes on my laptop to update it.  But then something really, really bad happened and that's when I got that fucking "plug phone into your computer" screen.

I thought my phone was a goner.  I thought I would have to have one of those "Geniuses" at the Apple Store help me.  But I tried to update it again, and then back up my phone, and then finally restore my phone.  I don't know if I needed to just put my laptop level, plug it into an outlet so it was running on the house's power, or be very, very careful with the plug into my iPhone (that goddamn thing is making me crazy -- have I blog posted about that yet?), but on the third or fourth try, I got my phone unstuck.  I had to restore it, then back it up with everything I thankfully uploaded onto my lap before all this bullshit started.  I also had to guess the password to begin the restore, a password which is different from the iTunes password, and I was totally fucking guessing what that password was.  If I didn't guess right -- my God, I would have wiped whole phone clean, and I would have no idea how or even if I could get all the apps and phone numbers back into my iPhone.

But after a long goddamn while and re-doing my Face ID and putting in my credit cards, it looks as if my iPhone is where it was -- and it got updated to the latest software, too.  My long (if you want to say 90-120 minutes of looking at my cellphone praying it didn't die on you) national nightmare over losing my cell is over.  I would've been so lost without the use of my phone.  It's my lifeline to my family, my alarm clock, my security blanket in case I get stuck on the highway.  But I don't have to worry about that -- at least not until the next fucking update.

Time To Port

I thought I talked about this, but I don't see it in my cursory Blogger search.  If I have talked about it before, I apologize for talking about it again.  But it's what I want to blog post about now.

As a sign that either time stretches and contracts in a way it hadn't before COVID or that I am getting very, very old, I am only pretty sure that this happened this year and when my parents were home.  Nor do I remember the circumstances behind how they figured it out.  But one morning, my parents told me that the home phone, the landline, wasn't working -- again.  And, for some reason, they asked me to test out the alarm.  When it's set off, it's supposed to trigger a call to the alarm company.  My folks figured out that didn't happen, presumably because the call is supposed to come from the phone line the alarm company has on file -- the landline.

So, to test it, I was told by the alarm company to put the alarm on test and then to trip it, to see whether or not the landline indeed is not sending that call to the alarm company.  When you trip an alarm, you hear some moderately-timed beeping, and then you hear more frequent beeping, and then finally it goes BEEEEEEP!!!!-BEEEEEEEP!!!!-BEEEEEEP!!!!, and I could barely stomach the bile coming from inside me as my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in in anticipation of the escalating warning from the alarm.  I hate that sound.  I truly do.

Anyway, once the alarm is fully triggered, we had to call the alarm company to see if they got a call.  They didn't.  Tried it again.  They didn't.  So the home phone number doesn't work.

Last time it went dead, my parents asked me to call the phone company and get it fixed.  Not this time.  Nope, those unsentimental motherfuckers (Mother in particular) went gung-ho on this idea they heard of that an alarm could be set up through wi-fi.  It'll be an obviously better connection, plus it'll save money.  All I have to do is say the word ... and abandon the home phone number we have ever had, and I have ever known.

I could see the writing on the wall.  It wasn't working.  It's supposed to work, but once again, after about two years (I think), it was on the fritz again.  And how can I argue against saving money?  But ... this was our phone number.  We have had it for almost a half-century.  It's become a part of us.  Well, they don't give a shit, but it's become a part of me.  I don't care how ridiculous this sounds, but I am defined by that phone number -- a phone number that I haven't used in decades, a phone number that apparently hadn't worked in months, but it's a part of me.  And I sure as fuck won't let a piece of myself die just because it makes sense.  (Yeah, that sentence sounds crazy.  I mean it.)

I couldn't beat back this situation and my parents' mental momentum.  Once they decide something needed to be done, they want it done.  They wanted my permission to do this (and they needed me to call the person who installed the alarm to come over and convert the trip line from phone to wi-fi), and like a complicit motherfucker, I said yes.  They then told me to call the phone company and cancel the line.  I refused to do that.  But I told them I did.

And I still have the landline.  Yes, and I'm still paying for it, even though the line is still dead.  Have to say, the phone company has no damn clue it's not working, and I kind of think it's on them to know that it isn't, and that it isn't incumbent upon us to tell the company.  So I'm not sentimental for the phone company.  I still am sentimental for the phone number.

In the past, I have wondered whether I could take the home phone number and use it as a cellphone number.  I don't know when it was possible, but it is now.  It's called "porting."  Now, of course, I have a cellphone number that I've had -- and has also become a part of me -- for a long, long time, and I don't think changing cell numbers will make a lot of sense now.  But I want to keep it, and I think I can use the old home number as something else: My Google Voice number.  I have a phone number to which calls can be forwarded, and I may have had that for about a year or so, but I am not sentimental for that number.  I can give it up.  And I will.

The thing is is that one cannot port a house number into a Google Voice number.  No, you have to convert the landline to a cellphone number, then port that number onto Google Voice.  There will be one-time fees for doing this port twice, but I will do it.  I'm just scared that, for some reason, it doesn't work and I'll lose the landline for good.

And that is what I am going to do today as soon as I am done blog posting this.  I hope to find my carrier's store, find someone who's genuine and competent and not on the make, get him to call the landline company and then give me a SIM card to which the landline can be imprinted.  In the meantime I will need to put this new SIM card in my phone because apparently either the phone company or Google will "call" me on this new SIM and I have to answer.  I cannot do this double port thing without answering this "call."  I then have to ask Google to port the number from the SIM, and maybe in a week or two (?) this will all be done.

I found instructions on doing this double port thing online, and I have no idea if this is going to work.  But for the sake of keeping my home phone number -- and in the name of saving money I am otherwise wasting -- I need to do this, and now's the time to do it.  Wish me luck.

Never Change, Hot, Crazy Stripper

So out of the blue, ******a called me.  She actually called me before, but it was from a phone number different than the one I have for her.  She's using I think her brother's; she says she's getting the malware removed from her phone, whatever the hell that means.

I was surprised she called me; late January was the last time she came over to rub me down, and she was so paranoid and accusatory I said that if I see her again, it'll be in a long while.  Well, three months is a long while.  And when she called me while I was at the MNUFC Match, I immediately got hard.  Weird; she's never touched me, and I'm sure she's going to get all fucking crazy on me again.  (When she came over a few months ago, she complained incessantly about how she got lost.  I might say I should go over to see her at her place, which is her sister's house.)  And yet I am so goddamn ready to get naked in front of her and have her massage me that I can't wait.

That being said, our next session is not set in stone.  I am busy right now because my parents are about to leave, so I asked if I could text her.  No, said ******a; she'll just call again later, and I reckon we schedule something if I pick up.  Never change, hot crazy stripper.

I Could've Escorted This Redheaded Babe, But Nope

So I worked a Twins Game for the network for the first time in years, and maybe even a decade (or more) early in the fall.  This was in the middle of the Twinks' freefall from the top of the Division to out of playoff contention.  Anyway, I was just overjoyed I could work for the network in this capacity again.  The baseball team is perennially skinflint, but watching a Game there, and getting paid to watch, is something I hope never to take for granted.

Anyway, when I get to the compound, I see someone who is running alongside me.  For the first time in a long time, it's a woman.  More than that, she's gorgeous.  Good lord.  And she's a redhead, and if I haven't told you yet, I have a weak spot for redheads.  (I have a weak sport for all beautiful women, but I digress again.)

She wasn't snobbish or standoffish.  Actually, she is kind of an extrovert.  I don't do much chit-chatting, but we got to Target Field really early because we were told to, and so during runs to get groceries and coffee, we had a lot of downtime, so we got to talking.  It's something that helps the day go by, and she was quite engaging, but yes, I was talking to her because she's fucking hot.

As I got to know her, though her, uh, quirks came out.  I kind of noticed this first when she wanted to take pictures of the booth the production had for the Game.  She wanted me to take pictures of her -- partially because she just wanted them, but partially because she has dreams of being a field reporter, and sports is one avenue she wants to work in.  No worries, I snapped a photo.  And then another.  And then a dozen more.  And then dozens more.  She asked if I wanted pictures.  I am in no way going to be a field reporter in this lifetime, but to mark the occasion, yes, I asked her to take photos of me.

After snapping, oh, 60 pictures, we went down to the field to make sure we knew how to get there in case we needed to get down there in-Game.  We were at a place not too many people are, so snap-snap-snap we took of each other on our phones.  It was there that she got really, really picky about how she was posed and how the shot was composed.  She was really apologetic about it -- "You know, you're gonna kill me since we already took a few dozen photos, but ..." -- but we soldiered on until she was satisfied.

Later I learned more of her backstory.  She was raised by her grandparents more than her parents.  No shame in that.  But then she got cagey about her age.  I think I was trying to give her advice about breaking into the business I said I was still trying to break into but, just between you and me, have largely given up on.  She's, and I quote, "In her twenties," and I could tell, but I didn't think she needed to be so vague.

---

I thought that was the end of that, and I probably would only see her again when she's doing some local Game on public access.  But for a Vikings Game during the regular season, I saw that she was running.  I have no idea how she latched onto this network, but I saw her beautiful face and smile again.  She was out on the field and I was working in the truck, though, so no small talk.  No matter.  We both had jobs to do.

After the Game, one of her fellow runners, and someone with whom I have worked with a lot over the years, found me in the break room while I was sitting down with a post-Game meal.  He was looking for me because she wanted someone to escort her to her parking ramp, and he wondered if I could do it.  Now, it makes total sense for a woman in downtown Minneapolis to ask for an escort; men are toxic, and you don't know what could happen to a solitary woman downtown.  But ... I usually stay after because 1) I want to eat free food and 2) to wait so the post-Game crowd can clear out of the area.  I hate waiting in a ramp to get out.  Hell, I did that at the end of the Twins Game.  Sorry, won't do that again.  Well, when she came up to ask me herself if I could escort her, I didn't say that.  Instead, I said that I want to eat and wait, and when I'm ready I'll text her -- we exchanged numbers while working the Twins Game -- and if she still needs an escort, let's do it.

I usually stay 90 minutes, two hours after the Vikings Game is over.  It's me time.  But because The Redhead asked, I got done after an hour.  I texted her, "Do you still need someone?"  Never heard back.  After a while, I assumed she found another escort, so I texted her again, "OK, it seems as though you're good.  I'll see you around."  And that was that.

---

But it didn't occur to me that she could work the Vikings again.  And on Sunday she did.  But this time she didn't ask for an escort at the end of the Game.  She didn't even see me until after the Game was over.

When I do have time to myself, I go to a personal bathroom and poop before I leave.  On my way up a couple levels, I saw The Redhead.  I thought she had been released to go home, but apparently she was still working.  I don't think she saw me; she was walking down the corridor but I was at the door leading up to the single bathroom.  When she passed me by, I thought, just for one second, to holler out, "Hey, if you need an escort to your car tonight, I can do it!"  But I thought better of it.  If she needed an escort, she'd ask me.  And quite frankly, I did kind of "reject" her that first time, so maybe she didn't think it'd make sense to ask me again, even though this time I totally would've done it.  So I looked at her fiery red hair and said nothing.

Maybe that was the last time I'd ever see The Redhead.  If so, there is a missed connection I might beat myself up over, from time to time, until I hit the dirt.  Take it, Pharcyde:

When The Measuring Cup Measures Wrong

I noticed the first time I used my latest bottle of mouthwash (it's generic, from Target) a couple months ago.  I am supposed to use ten milliliters of it every time.  You, conveniently, get to use the bottlecap as the cup into which you pour the mouthwash because it has a little line that marks 10 mL.

But not this one.  Oh, no.  I open up the bottle, turn over the cap and pour ... but then I stop because I see that the line/notch doesn't measure 10 mL.  It measures 15.  I checked the instructions to make sure they didn't change because the changed the formula of the mouthwash or something.  Nope; you're still supposed to pour out only ten milliliters.  So I've been eyeballing my pours ever since.  But how can you tell if you're measuring exactly two-thirds of the only sure measurement you see in the cup/cap?

More importantly, how in the hell does this happen?  How does a company/warehouse/manufacturer use a cap that has a measuring notch that does not match the recommended amount of liquid that cap is being used for?  Is it a supply chain issue?  Does it have anything to do with the pandemic?  Or did they just flat-out screw up?  I can't believe it's a case of them saying, "Oh, well, we have these caps that totally fit with this bottle, but it has a measuring line that is five milliliters more than the recommended dose on the instructions ... eh, whatever, use those, we need to get rid of them.  People can deal."

The instructions also have a customer service phone number.  I might call it and ask what's up.

My Neck

Since ... Saturday (I think) the usual knot on the left side of my neck has been excruciating.  I don't know if I tensed that muscle up while sleeping, whether it got aggravated from all the plowing and shoveling of snow I did last week, my body is just breaking down or what have you, this goddamn pain has been acute and never-ending ... like "I want to die" bad.  I've had to cut down on the NyQuil so I could pop some pain pills (don't want to take too much medication -- I believe in better living through chemistry, but always in moderation), and right now, it still doesn't seem to work.

Over the past day or so the air has stagnated, and so the quality of the air has worsened.  Maybe that's the reason why my neck feels all oogy, and why I feel so oogy, too.  If that's the case, the wind that will finally start blowing in around noon today could -- could -- clear up what's wrong with my neck.  And if it doesn't?  Well, that means there's something else, wrong and really bad going on with my neck.

******a was supposed to cum over and massage me, by the way.  But we had been playing phone tag for some fucking reason, and I think that's why she eventually decided not to come over.  It's so weird to just get a straight word from her sometimes.  I think she might be calling me from a phone number different from the one I have from her because yesterday/Monday I had three calls from "No Caller ID," and I think that was her.  She can't call me from her own phone?  I think she's decompensating again.

Stripper Read My Mind!

I am going to My Favorite Stripclub (Cover Version ... but come to think of it, I don't think I need to make that distinction now that My Favorite Stripclub [Non-Cover Edition] has been closed for close to three years) after work tonight because I want to see my All-Time Favorite there.  I was hoping to see her on Halloween because I have nothing to do on Halloween, but I texted her to make sure she was working then, and she told me she wasn't.  Good to have her number.

I still wanted to see her, so I thought that tonight would be a good time.  I figured I be nice to unwind after a long and trying day at The Fourth Department.  My schedule has changed, though, and I think I might save the details on that for my next blog post.  Anyway, I told my ATF I'd drop in tonight, and I'm sticking to it.

Just to make sure she's still going into work -- and to give my penis a little rise -- I thought I would text her tonight to say, "Hey, see you tomorrow!"  I was going to do it late last night.  But, just as I picked up my phone to text her, I saw that she had texted me first -- "See you tomorrow!"  Wow!  Not only is she thinking of me, she thought of me at the same time as I thought of her!  It's like we share the same brain!!  Man, I'm gonna totally tell her that tonight and she's gonna totally be blown away by that!!!

Seriously, though, that was nice, both the coincidence and the text.

I Know They're Pissed Now

I was supposed to have a follow-up call in this research study connected with the U. that I'm currently enrolled in back on Thursday.  I was all ready to receive the call ... but it didn't come.  Well, it did -- it just was sent automatically to voicemail.  I saw the record of it when I checked my phone (er, checked the phone app on my phone).  She called.  Up to five times over the course of the evening and night.  By the third missed call, I opened up my data to e-mail her that I am still around and that I apologize that my goddamn cell isn't letting me answer her call.

Eventually, I think a little after the fifth and final attempt of the night, which was around 9 p.m., I got an e-mail back from who I think was the person who tried to call me.  "We weren't the ones who blocked your call," she started, and in my reply I told her, once again, "No, it was my phone that blocked your call, and I'm sorry."

I may have blog posted about this before, but if I have, I'll repeat myself: I was supposed to have a phone call with these people earlier in the study which was also abandoned/postponed because my fucking phone for some reason blocked her call.  I still don't quite know why in the fuck this is happening, especially since I think I have called the number from which these people are calling me.  Regardless, from the tone of the e-mail I got back, they're getting real pissed at me.  I don't blame them, but I am at a fucking loss as to why this shit keeps happening, and how in the fuck I can stop it.

The person who e-mailed me Thursday night asked if we could try a call again tomorrow/Tuesday.  I told her that can't happen because I'm working The Fourth Department, and I might be tied up with work.  I asked if we could do a Zoom the following Tuesday (the day after Labor Day, and also after my parents leave so I can do a Zoom without them knowing), and I haven't heard back yet.  It feels as though they're frustrated.  Again, I can't blame them, but I don't know how defensive I'll be if they start giving me attitude as a result.

In the meantime, I may -- may -- have found a solution.  After looking in the Internet, I might have needed to turn off the Silence Unknown Callers feature on my phone.  That doesn't give me confidence I can field a call from them, however; I mean, if that feature is shut off, wouldn't I be getting dozens of spam calls from people I don't know?  I haven't, and I'm glad for that, but there is no proof that the feature is working.  If I knew it would, I would try to reschedule for tomorrow.  But now ... well, I've kind of put these people in a shitty situation, which means I am sort of fucked, too.

Technology goddamn sucks.

She Contacted Me! My ATF Contacted Me!

OK, so about my ATF, ******a, whom I had missed the past couple times I wanted to see her at My Favorite Stripclub (Cover Version).  The last time I had spoken to her I had broached the subject, we I had from time to time in visits prior, about letting her know when I could see her work again.  She responded by ... inviting me to give her my contact information.  Yes!  My big break!

I wrote down my name, number, e-mail address and Facebook on a Post-It note.  I folded it up then, worried that a bouncer might see digits on that piece of paper, I folded it around so that all the information was on the inside.  Midway through our series of table dances, I took out the piece of paper and whispered in her ear about what we talked about last time.  She remembered, thank God, and she was open to taking the slip of paper.  The one slip-up I had involved me freaking out that she would either forget or misplace the piece of paper, which I surreptitiously put to the side next to her purse.  I was just moving my hands around the seat while ******a was dancing in front of me, and I pulled it out from under her purse.  Later, she told me she slid it under her purse because she didn't want anyone to see that there was a crumpled-up piece of paper that just so happens to be next to her purse.  Well, duh, that makes total sense.  Stupid me.

Now, I was hoping that my dumb decision didn't rat her out.  I was hoping that a bouncer did not go up to ******a and say, "I saw that piece of paper that customer gave you.  Throw it out or I'll have you fired."

Guess what?

She texted me last night!  Woo-hoo!  It worked!!  And she wants to keep in touch with me!!!  All these years of earning a hot stripper's trust, and it finally worked!!!!  This is the culmination of a dream, one I achieved with hard work and a lot of persistence.  This ... man, yesterday was a great day, man!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendem To: My Paranoid Masseuse

Yeah, so things aren't going so well with my stripper masseuse.  I called ******a's number(s plural; for some reason she has two cellphones) that Saturday afternoon ... and I couldn't leave a voicemail because the mailboxes on both of her phones were full.  I can't see how she would have so many messages waiting for her that she either did not read or delete.  I can see, however, her manipulating her box so that it's just stuffed with messages to the point where no one else can leave a VM.

And yet, the next day, she called me.  I have no idea if she traced my Caller ID or remembered me from a text earlier on Saturday or the week, but she asked if I could make time for her.  To which I said ... uh, maybe?  When I couldn't reach her that Saturday, I began to solidify plans for my Sunday, most of which revolved around doing my taxes.  I told her as much, but I left open the possibility that I would be free in the afternoon.  ******a said she was going to do some chores, and after she's done she'll call to see if I am free at that point.  That seemed like a plan.

And plans are made only to be ruined.  I left a little later than I usually have on Sundays; my parents still think I'm working at my day job, and I just wanted to keep up the ruse a little while longer, but I didn't want to wake up at 9 if I didn't have to, so I think I woke around ... 9:15?  9:30?  Anyway, I went to grab a couple donuts at first Glam Doll and then at Bogart's, and then I visited Grandmother and my uncle at Lakewood.  I brought matches with me, from a matchbox I got from Pizzeria Lola several years ago, and they may have been told old, but I had to go through ten matches to get three to light up for only the slight breeze extinguish them as soon as I lit up the unburned portion of the incense sticks on Grandmother's headstone.  Should buy a Bic lighter.

The big time slog happened after Lakewood, when I went to the Hennepin County Library closest to Lakewood (Hosmer, housed in a beautiful building).  I really buckled down to try and finish my taxes, and I came to realize that I had to revamp most if not all the forms I worked on.  It had to do with the American Rescue Plan's, uh, plan to forgive the first $10,200 of unemployment insurance getting taxed at the federal level.  (I don't think the state is doing the same, but I don't know why they wouldn't similarly forgive, and I'm not sure that there won't be an adjustment later this year.)  There is a new worksheet on which you need to do some new math, and that adjusted amounts on Schedule 1, and that changes what I had to put down on my 1040 ... and I think it got to the point where I needed to print a couple new tax forms (was it the one on capital gains?) so I could start over again.  Thank God printing apparently is free at all HCL branches.

So I stayed longer than I thought I would, and I didn't make much headway.  I decided to spend the next chunk of my afternoon at the Wedge, specifically trying out the burger at Bebe Zito, the new ice cream shop right next to ol' Caffetto.  They serve burgers on weekends, and many people (including the ones on this Facebook group concentrating on burgers in the Twin Cities) rave about them.

It was a 20-minute wait for the burger, so I decided to buy a couple Cokes, walk down two blocks where I parked, threw one of the Cokes in the car, and walk back.  All that, I figured, would be enough time so that my burger would be ready once I got back to Bebe Zito.  But halfway on my way back, I got the call from ******a.  She said she could be ready around 2, which was 30-45 minutes from when she called me.  Since it was Mother's Day, I don't think it would have been great for me to get back at 4, which has become the time around which I get back during the week.  In other words, I thought about coming back just to placate Mother.  So I told her I was in a bit of a time crunch, and sorry, and I want to try again next week.  She understood.  God bless her.  I love her.

---

During the call on my way back to Bebe Zito (by the way, we spoke for a few minutes; I got back approximately 30 minutes after I ordered; and I had to wait another 5-10 minutes for my burger -- which is all that it's cracked up to be ... and so is their ice cream, which I had once before), I told ******a I couldn't leave a message because her mailboxes were full.  She said she would look into that.  I crossed my fingers that there would be no problem when I called her the following weekend, which was this past weekend.  No dice; both mailboxes were full.

I swore I would not text her, but I wanted to see her and I have no other way to communicate with her, so I texted the phone number she got most recently.  And I got a text back saying my message was blocked.  Weird!  I was able to text her other, older number, but I never heard back from her.

I then decided that I would drop by her place after work (this Sunday, I actually worked).  I didn't know what to expect, but I was hoping that she would be, like, tanning herself outside because it was a sunny day.  But when I rolled past her apartment, there was no sign of her, and her curtains were drawn shut.  I was not going to go up and knock on her patio door.  So I just rolled by.

I hope ******a is OK.  But frankly, she's been going on and on for the past year about how people in the building she lives in can listen to her in her apartment and shit.  She's been talking crazy for a long, long time; that's why she goes on and on about Hillary Clinton.  For all I know, she's having a psychotic break, in which case I can no longer help her.  I regret not biting the bullet and getting felt up by her on Mother's Day.  And unless something dramatic happens or if she bends her rules to text me once again ... well, I'll need to find another stripper masseuse.

We Care About The Landline. Aw!

At least to me, one of the starkest ways technology has changed over my lifetime -- beyond the Internet, which has changed everything -- is the concept of the telephone.  I am old but I am not too old, and I remember wondering who was calling when the phone rang, and picking up the receiver and hearing the dial tone (quick aside: A school aide had to tell me what a dial tone was, and I think I was between the fourth and sixth grade), and being frustrated when you wanted to call someone but hearing a family member already on the line.  You had to remember a list of phone numbers -- and back then they usually were only seven digits -- and I made a point of writing them down.  I even remember using a rotary phone.  Man, those were the days.

And these days ... well, everything's different.  You are more likely to text than call.  Because of the advent of spam calling, you are more likely not to pick up the phone than to answer.  Everybody has a mobile phone, and it's not really a phone and more like a computer.  And if people lose their phones, and the phone numbers on it, they are screwed because no one remembers a phone number anymore.  That reminds me that I should update my day planner.  Anyway, there really isn't calling anymore so much as communicating.  The idea of calling has gone the way of the telephone switchboard operator.

Along with those changes, people are no longer tethered to their home phones, aka their landlines.  Some people have ditched them altogether.  We have not; I for one fear that modern technology will be felled by some act of God that makes us wish we had the primitive skills necessary to survive without our creature comforts.  (See: Pandemic.  Also see: Ice storms in the South.)  But we had been so inundated by spam callers that somehow have gotten our home phone that we have ignored all the times the phone rang.  What got me excited when I was young has in fact turned into an annoyance whenever I hear it now.  Soon, Father got fed up and automatically rerouted all calls to an answering machine.  Later, after he got fed up with that, he found a way to just silence the calls.  Really, Grandmother was the last person to use it with any regularity.

In the past, my parents have intimated that we could go without a landline.  I have resisted.  Not only do I think it would be smart to have it, just in case, but it's also something very personal with me.  I have lived in this house my entire life, so I have known this number my entire life.  I don't want to give it up just for sentimental reasons, even though that's a big part of it.  But it's also a part of my identity, and so if I ever did close out the account and give up the number, I would be giving up a part of myself.  So, as I grew up and my folks' thoughts about not having home phone service any more got more insistent, I decided I would pay the phone bill from now on.  At first we also had the phone company's DSL/Internet service, but once it got to be so slow as to be unusable, I switched to having Internet through someone else and thus have had only the phone service -- when I pared down my service just to landline I think the customer service representative on the other end of the line called it an "ankle bracelet" -- through this utility ever since.  I don't remember the last time I have used it.  Shoot, I remember more than a few times picking up the receiver and hearing this noise that I think comes from the coaxial.  But I don't have to use it to keep it around because it's me and I'm OK with that.

I've been waxing poetic and philosophical to get around to the news my parents told me when I got home from work yesterday.  The home phone isn't working.  I don't know how they found out, but when you call the landline, all you get is a busy signal.  Father went outside to check the wires, and he told me I need to call a utility technician to figure out what's going on.

I must admit that I have thought that this is a very, very crafty (and roundabout) tactic by my parents to finally convince me to disconnect the landline forever.  Yeah, there is a non-zero percent chance that Father found a way to mess up the phone line, have me call in a tech, have that tech determine that the problem is on our end of the line, and either Father would be unable to figure out what the problem is or refuse to spend any money to fix it, and thus it would make sense to just close down the account and surrender the phone number we have had since I was born.  But if I were less conspiratorial, I would be surprised and actually even a bit heartened to see that my parents want the home phone fixed because they want to have it around.  They can see the benefits of having the only landline number we have ever had as a backup way of communicating.  They may even be ... sentimental.

Am I Finally Wearing Her Down?

******a swore she would never touch my pee-pee.  I showed it to her for the first time ... I wanna say about a decade ago, at a stripper party at her sister's house.  I came out of the bathroom with my cock out, I was the only customer there, they were the only strippers there, and I shocked the shit out of them.  ******a immediately got dressed; I got a lap dance from her sister and tucked my dick back in when I was about to cum.  Should have kept it out.  I mean, I would've helped out wiping up the splooge from her coffee table.

The second time I whipped it out in front of her was under similar conditions.  It was a house party ... well, it wasn't a house but an apartment -- ******a's, actually.  And I was again the only customer.  There were two other strippers there, but instead of ******a's sister, it was the sort-of-forgotten ***e*, who alerted me to the party.  Once again, ******a refused to even let me walk around with it hard and out.  ***e* wanted me to hang out with my wang out, but I decided not to in order to comply with ******a's rules.

It was a bit later than this that My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition) closed, so strippers and customers were figuring out new ways to maintain contact, by which I mean both the usual sense and the physical sense.  Instead of dancing, ******a offered to give me massages -- with no happy endings, of course.  Again, I wanted to respect her rules because I like her.  Plus, she gives very good massages.  Actually, not too long ago she worked on my left hip so well that I didn't feel pain for a good week or so.  That is darn close to a miracle.

Now, about my hip ... the first massage I got from ******a was fully clothed.  I then asked if I could take my shirt off.  She said that was OK.  A session or so later I asked if I could be fully naked.  She said no.  I respected her wishes.  Then, and I said this sincerely and without any ulterior motive, I told her about my hip.  She asked how far down the knot went.  And -- OK, this is where I stretched the truth in order to get naked -- I told her it went down as far as the bottom of my ass.  So she started massaging my left butt cheek, albeit hesitantly.  That's when I asked again if I could take off my underwear.  Finally, ******a relented.  I think she said in a later session that she understood that I didn't want the grease from the lotion she uses to massage me from staining my undies.  I don't know what I did or said to lead her to that conclusion, but so long as I get to be naked in front of her, OK.

And even then she wasn't completely comfortable seeing my twig 'n' berries.  The first time *****a permitted me to kick off my knickers, she put a blanket right on top of me as I laid on the floor.  She has stopped insisting on a blanket now, however.  She still does put on booties, and most of the time she uses her feet, and sometimes her knees and elbows, to get at that knot on my hip and ass.  But sometimes, ever so slightly, she uses her hands, and sometimes, ever so slightly, those hands drift down to other parts of my ass, even the ones I had not told her where knotty.  But she, I think, is being naughty.

In our last session she was in a bit of a state.  I got to her apartment in time, but she was late.  She came back (almost a half-hour after our scheduled appointment time, I think) and said she had to dash out to her phone company because, according to her, she keeps getting these bizarre messages from a phone number that is not hers and is constantly coming up on her devices.  ******a has gotten paranoid enough that she told me to shut off my phone, and then she hid it in her couch when I was scared that I had lost it.  It's a long story.

Anyway, she has been in a terrible state over something that may or may not be happening, but after coming home on this day, she was very happy and light on her feet.  Apparently her problem was solved when she went to the store.  And that may be what led ******a to act even more permissible, and maybe even flirty, with me.  I took off my underwear, she massaged my ass ... and then I felt as if she was pushing me up sideways.  So I obliged, and as we were lying on our sides, facing each other, she continued to talk to me about ... uh, massaging me or something, and ******a did all this while rubbing the side of my hip with her hand.  My penis wasn't too far away.

Later, ******a pushed the envelope even more.  With a few minutes left in our session, she, I think, grabbed me by my left hip in such a way that I turned over.  Because I think she wanted me to turn over so she could start massaging my front, even though I didn't ask!  She didn't touch my pee-pee; my left side was on her knees while she was kneeling on her carpet.  But she moved her hands up and down my left side, from my nipple down to the front of my hip.  She was smiling at me the whole way.

So I'm convinced that the next time I see her, she will either flip me over or I will flip myself over.  And she'll look at me, smile, and maybe even lick her lips.  Then I'll tell her as she massages my front, "I like how you massage my front.  Feels good.  Don't be shy.  You can put my hands wherever you want."  And then I'll get hard.  And that's when she'll finally give me that handjob I've wanted from her for years!!!

That next time, by the way, is scheduled for today.  I set something up with her earlier in the week, but then she said something might come up, but then she asked me to call her in the morning.  So either I'll be finding something to do for the last day of 2020 ... or I'll get to be naked, once again, in front of ******a, where maybe, just maybe, I've finally worn her down and will get that HJ from her!!!

How Did That Red Sticker Get There?

As part of our new screening policy, a nurse gives us a circular sticker which must stick to our badge (which, I believe, we must wear around work at all times now).  As a guy who doesn't peel off that activation sticker on his credit cards after he calls the number (I'm serious, you should take a look at it), I've let each day's sticker pile up on the previous day's.  Thus there is a series of circles, mostly but not entirely overlapping, taking over my badge like Eurasian water milfoil takes over a lake.

I made the mistake of thinking I could swipe my badge to sign in with that growing mass of stickers.  When I did, I peeled off the leading edge of those circles.  Since then, I've used that day's sticker to try and push down the edge that is now bent and free from my badge.  It hasn't worked.

I got home just now.  I went to the bathroom.  I took off my shirt to take a poop because I have this obsessive fear that my feces is going to touch the inside back of my shirt.  After that I looked down ... and I see a red dot stuck to my stomach.  Red was yesterday's (Wednesday's) color.  Tonight it did come off and stick to my shirt, but I stuck it back on my badge.  Still, how in the hell did it get stuck to my stomach?  I did not take off my shirt at any point while at work.  'Tis a mystery.

Oh, well.  I'm going to leave it on my stomach.  Hey, I leave my stickers on my credit card 'cause it ain't hurtin' no one.  Same thing with the dot!

Another Goddamn Flat Tire ...

... and it's the tire I replaced the first tire with.

Coming home from work.  Getting onto the highway where I heard, "BAM!!!" and the car lurched to the side.  I knew a tire had to have blown, and sure enough, the driver's-side front -- the one I had to replace exactly a month ago -- had a hole on the side.  A fucking blowout.

They'll say underinflation was the problem.  I checked the pressure on it a week ago, and I was going to again today.  Good thing I went on the Internet because seeing someone else go through something like this, I remembered that tire has a warranty on it.  I don't know if the car shop is going to fight me on this.  And I don't even know how to invoke the warranty.  But I have a phone number for the warranty place, and I have to try getting a new tire for free, or at least cheap.

One problem in all of this.  If the replacement tire got blown out, and for the same reason (a side blowout) as my original tire, could it be the rim?  I noticed that the rim right where the blowout is is all scratchy.  I didn't think that was an issue, but if a similar situation happened with two tires, maybe the goddamn thing is bent or something.  Shit, that hit on the train track could have made a fucking number on my rim.

Another Deceptively Bad Day At Work, Part 3 (AKA I Get To Watch Home Vikings Games This Season ... From Home!)

Unless I recollect something else that happened to work, I'll close with the worst thing that happened at work on Friday, which has nothing to do with work, just that it happened while I was at work.

So I blog posted before about not working as many Vikings Games this season as before because of the coronavirus, even though there was an outside chance I could have worked them all but I didn't because I was too late in replying to the crewer's e-mail.  I was upset that I would not be able to work all of them, but I got over it by forgetting that I felt that way.

In the afternoon (and this was after my boss' boss surprised me by coming into our department while I was not working) work actually did taper off, and so I took the time to go through my personal e-mail -- you know, just in case something cropped up.  I am still getting inundated with political fundraising appeals which I had time at work to clean out.  And there was another e-mail that had to do with this ongoing issue I and others have with the college and the alumni association that I replied to.  But there was an important e-mail dropped into my inbox -- someone from the network e-mailed me about Vikings Games ... specifically this Sunday's Game against Green Bay.  "Something came up in the last minute and I need someone to run for the Game.  Can you do it?  Reply to me ASAP!!!"  It was dated 12:54.

I had to have seen it at 1 o'clock because I replied, "Yes, I can!" and sent it with a timestamp of 1:01.  Serendipity brought me face-to-face with that e-mail so soon after she sent it.  And I learned my lesson back in the summer (even though there was no lesson to learn), so I pounced on that chance.

And she replied that same minute, 1:01, with, "Oops, just filled it!  I'll keep you in the loop for Games later in the season if I need you!"  To which I replied back with, "OK."  Like a cuck.

By the way, I instinctively checked my phone to see if she also texted her request for someone to work the Game, like she did before.  She did text -- at 12:53, a minute before she e-mailed me.  So I guess it took me eight minutes to reply to her.  And apparently when she reached out to me, she reached out to everybody because she was desperate.  And although I tried replying to her ASAP (after I e-mailed her back I texted her back, and in turn she got back to me via both e-mail and text), the wide net she cast reeled in someone damn quick, quicker than yours truly.  And I was stewing in my own fucking juices the rest of the damn day.

Please, don't give me the "early bird gets the worm" bullshit.  First of all, it took me only seven or eight minutes this time around to reply to a last-minute request to fill a job.  More importantly, I don't see this rejection as a failure (or worse, a, ick, "life lesson") to jump on an opportunity to work.  Her spewing this cry for help to everyone, then making a game of it by only rewarding the quickest to reply to her, is instead something more like tossing a piece of cheese onto the floor and getting off on seeing all the rats chase that piece and push each other around just so they can get a nibble of it.

Or, try on this analogy from my life.  Back when I returned from college, when I was just starting to realize I now needed to work to make a living, I decided I didn't know what I wanted to do but I wanted to keep my options open, so I began working as a temp.  Well, I didn't have a cellphone when I started to strike out in The Real World, so I would call in from time to time to ask if they have a lead on a job.  And then I would go out, leaving Grandmother to take any messages any temp agencies might leave for me.  When she told me that someone from this number called, I would call back -- sometimes at home but sometimes I would, get this, find a payphone when I would be out and about.

Around this time I spent a lot of time at the University of Minnesota.  Around the turn of the century there was a computer lab open to students in one of the halls, and I figured out that my student ID from when I took classes at the U. over the summers I was at college still got me in.  That lab was in the basement, and there was a payphone on that same ground floor.  So whenever I didn't feel the urgent need to call back the agency to jump at a job, I would go on Netscape, be on the Internet for a couple hours, and once I was done I would go up to the payphone, put in 50 cents and talk to the temp agency.  And more often than not, when I ask about the job for which they left a massage, they would say, "Whoops, sorry -- already filled it."  And I would be like, "Shoot!" and then I'd be like, "Whatever."  Because I was young and didn't have a care in the world.

That was me in my early twenties.  I am in my mid-forties now.  Although age should not be the sole factor when it comes to deserving things, I am too old to dance like a monkey whenever someone has a need and doesn't offer it to me exclusively.  I no longer want to participate in any type of Death Race where I have to worry whether I'm first to reply to a job.  What I would prefer is if she would know about my seniority with the network and say to me, via e-mail or text or both, "Hey, someone dropped out of Sunday's Game.  We need someone to fill in.  I know you've worked with us for a long time.  Can you do it?  Please let me know as soon as you can; otherwise, I'll have to start asking other people from your area."  That, honestly, would make me feel good.  And it would make me feel appreciated that my tenure spent with this network is understood and not devalued.  She may not know this, and she may not need to know it.  But I have to be selfish here: I felt a bit disrespected by the way all this went down, which happened almost a month after I got burned over the same game of telephone tag.  And, of course, I got bitter that I missed my chance, again, to work Vikings Games like I usually do.  That's what made my bad day bad.

It has been a long time since I haven't been hired on to do all available Vikes homes Games for the two networks that do the bulk of their telecasts.  I grew quickly to resent any date that I for some reason did not work.  I haven't had to feel that way for at least half a decade.  But the pandemic, shifting position needs and the ability or inability to respond to requests instantly has me sidelined for the opening Game of the season -- a season which, I still insist, won't go on as planned, which I think would save me a lot of agita that I'm feeling right now.

But today's Game will be played.  And I will not be at the stadium.  I actually don't think I'll be seeing much of the Game.  I promised my parents I would mow the lawn at one of their properties.  After that, I plan on eating some State Fair food on the far side of town that I've been meaning to eat all summer.  Then, I think I'll try a Target or two to find some disinfecting wipes.  Then I'll come home and probably catch the tail end of what I predict will be a Vikes loss.  Probably for the best.  'Cause I still have my feelings of resentment and bitterness.  So the less time I watch the Game on TV, the less time I'll be reminded that I should be there, and not on the other side of the television.