I See Again I Am Not Where I Want To Be

My friend (I called him my frenemy -- I blog posted about how he pissed me off a long time ago by being a passive-aggressive horse's ass [I would find that blog post but, ah, I'd rather not]) texted me out of the blue to call him.  He asked if I could appear on his podcast (he has a podcast??) about George Floyd and how the worldwide wave of protests could affect our alma mater's football team.  Recording of said podcast is tonight.  I said sure.  It has helped me exercise my journalism muscles which have atrophied by making me think about what to say as efficiently as I can.

Also, this episode reunites us with two other guys who we worked with at our college radio station's sports department.  Those were some of the best and, I dare say, most productive times I had at college.  I truly looked forward to reporting, being on the show, being on the radio spouting my opinions for, like, two people to hear, and talking crap with these guys.  We all had dreams of being sportscasters, or at least doing what we were doing in that dirty, decrepit old radio station as a career.  We all knew how difficult it would be, but we had each other, and if we fed off of each other's dreams, well, how could we be unhappy?

Well, one of the four is now doing sports on TV.  Another isn't doing sports, but he has a steady gig doing news on the radio, which is awesome.  And the friend with the podcast may get the odd gig here and there, but he has taken the initiative and asserted he is in sports because he has a podcast, which is totally legitimate these days.  And I ... help out at a lab.

(Aside: The summer after I officially graduated from college, I took this extra journalism class where we went to Europe to see how different media organizations and companies worked.  I was one of four guys, to be sexist.  The other three are currently on TV.  And I ... help out at a lab.)

I am already nervous about trying to perform.  I'm not a great speaker, so I'll feel under the gun not to stumble over my words.  Add to it that the subject matter, race and police brutality, are subjects I do not like to marinate in, and the danger I won't be able to speak my thoughts coherently increases even further.  But what really pains me just happened last night.  In preparing for the podcast, my friend texted me to ask how I want to be introduced, or slated.  And that's where my failure to progress in the sports journalism business wounds me deeply.  I'm not on TV or the radio, and if helping to get water for production trucks is not "being in sports," well, I'm not in that, either.  I'm not even in journalism, which is what I went to school for.  The other three are still pursuing that dream and/or are living it.  They have bona fides they can proud of.  And I ... help out at a lab.

So I told my friend about my fear.  He said he'll finesse it.  He'll introduce me as a friend back from our college days, and he'll say I'm on his show because I live in the Minneapolis area.  Thank God I won't have to lie, and thank Buddha the truth he says instead isn't too embarrassing.  But as much as I love to see the band back together, it also hurts me to realize in reuniting like this how much they were able to progress in what we wanted to do while I haven't ... or, to be more precise, didn't.

Like that old Sesame Street song says, "One of these things is not like the other."  That thing is me, and that makes me both stressed and depressed.

Don't Mind Me, I'm A Hypocrite

These pandemic weekends, when I hear my parents bickering outside my bedroom, all I can think of is either, "Dammit, I wish I had the house all to myself," or, "Dammit, I wish I could just go out!"

This weekend, yesterday afternoon and now, my parents have left the house -- taking care of one of their properties, I think.  I have the house all to myself.  But do you know what I'm now thinking, and doing?  Going out.  I have reasons; I went to the Floyd Memorial on 38th and Chicago yesterday because I was curious, and today because my friend at USC wants to interview me about Floyd tomorrow on his podcast.  (Oh, and there's a stripper girlfriend I want to meet there.  She was there yesterday but I couldn't find her.  I'll try and again this afternoon, but she hasn't told me if she was going to be there.)  But I should be happy that I have peace and quiet in the house all by my lonesome, and the only urge I have in my mind is to get out.

So don't mind me the next time I bitch about this.  I'm a hypocrite.

Hottest Babe In The Hooters Calendar: May

Hmmm ... now that I see this month, I'm going to say that it's above average, and yet I cannot make out a Top 5.  That's because there is, like, one that I think is better than the other 11, and then there are another half-dozen that are inseparable from each other, and then the other five that are just OK.

So here are the six that are all tied for second place, and the main knock on them:

• Houston's Candace, Kaylee out of Flint, Mich., and Aysia from Tulsa -- great bodies all, and they are all babes of color, which Hooters needs (and, to its credit if the growing number of black and brown bodies in this year's calendar is any indication, which the company is very aware of), but their faces are, uh, somewhat wack.  Kaylee's face may be the best, but her arms crossed in front of her body is a demerit against her photo.
• Michaela out of Sanford, Fla. -- hey, I remember her from last year!  She's a hottie then, and she's a hottie now, and her photo is the bomb.  But ... she was the main girl in a month last year, and I think I picked her as Hottest Babe for that month.  I'm going to try not to give seconds.
• Alexis, of Ft. Myers, Fla. -- great face, beautiful smile.  But while her black swimsuit has a plunging neckline that goes down close to her navel and reveals fantastic cleavage (and huge boobs that probably are fake), it is still a one-piece, and the girl in first is not in a one-piece.
• Jessica, out of Mishawaka, Ind. -- great smile, luscious long, brown hair.  But she's posed in side profile and her left arm is blocking her tight stomach.  And she is seen in front of a clothesline of Hooters waitress uniforms, which is, uh, hokey.

The woman in first place has no conspicuous drawbacks.  She is the main girl, Angela, hailing from Naples, Fla.  Long, straight, black hair, Mona Lisa smile, a floral print two-piece bikini, and breasts (probably fake) that spread out to show massive, massive cleavage.  The more I stare at her, the more she becomes a runaway winner for May 2020.

And the more I will masturbate to her.

New Haircut, Bad Day

Look, I like ****e*, I really do.  But not only was she late in getting to the park by an hour, it took her 90 Minutes to give me a haircut.  And then she insisted on giving me a haircut that she likes, one that is far from the buzz cut I told her I wanted.  It's way longer up top, way longer than I am comfortable with.  She keeps saying it makes me look younger, and that I should try it.  If you're Generation X, did you ever receive a gift from a "friend" that was a mix tape of songs your friend liked and said, "You'll totally love these songs!  You should try it!"  This is that in haircut form.

But she gave me water and I was just happy that 15 weeks' worth of hair came off my head, so whatever.  (We did this at a park so hopefully the ventilation, the not-so-stale outside air and the not-weak wind pulled our air droplets to the ground.  That's how it works, right?)  Unfortunately I got to ****e's at 2:2* when I should have been there at least two Hours earlier, so I had no time to sleep, and really I just stopped in, showered, ate an early dinner, fucked her, then left.  So I was in a rush to go to Target to get juice and to get my free donut (with purchase of a drink, in my case a vanilla bean Coolatta because they ran out of iced tea [!!!] for National Donut Day (which turned into donuts plural -- Dunkin' Donuts was literally getting rid of them), so I was late getting home by half-an-hour, which I had already pushed back by half an hour when I knew I was going to be late.  And then I had no appetite because of the Coolatta and the beef I ate at ****e's place and the Breakfast Baconator and the sausage, egg and cheese croissant I got for a buck at Wendy's as part of its new promotion, and in fact all that food together forced me to go the bathroom in the middle of dinner, so all I had was rice and tuna.

And I'm still not happy because fucking Christ, ****e* was late and she gave me a hair cut that I didn't want!  Seriously, why can't she give me what I told her I wanted?  And why did she take 2:45 to give me this haircut I don't want?!  And I couldn't sleep at ****e's place and I was rushed in fucking her (although the sex was great) and now I have diarrhea and two stale donuts I won't finish until Sunday!  And my stomach still feels oogy!  And I just slept for 4 1/2 Hours and I'm not tired now!  And I told My Father I would mow the lawn today!  And my parents asked me when I got up from the dinner table if I had diarrhea!  AND ALL THIS BECAUSE OF A FUCKING HAIRCUT!!!

But hey, hair's gone now.

OK, so today, on my day off, I'm going to (hopefully) get my hair cut and then I'm going to (presumably) crush ****e for the third time in four Weeks, and for the final time in, well, some time.  Wish me luck!

Expenses Without Receipt

Starting from Thursday, June 4:

• Well, even though I am starting to you use cash more, I still haven't used it much.  I go back to Thursday, May 28, where I fucked ****e.  She didn't suck my dick, and she didn't let me fuck her twice.  She said she was tired.  I want to think I was the one who tired her out, but probably not.  Paid her: $120.
• This was the time to put away one shiny new penny, one bicentennial quarter, and two new quarters in storage.  Total: 76 cents.
• And now we go back to Wednesday the 20th, where I had to get my rocks off with ****a.  She wouldn't let me undress her because of the virus.  But she gave me a handjob anyway, so I was still physically close to her, so wouldn't I be able to give her the virus anyway?  Whatever: $150.
• I then went downtown to get my Doc's shined from Lisa.  Forgot my wallet in the car, so I had to leave my polish with Lisa as collateral.  I went to my car, got my wallet, and paid her, with tip: $20.
• On my way home it appeared as though gas prices were spiking up.  The quash in oil prices after the nation shut itself down appears to have eased now that states have decided -- wrongly -- that it's safe to resume normal operations.  So I scrambled around and finally decided to fill up at The Other Speedway, which I thought was going to be converted to a Holiday last year.  And absentmindedly, I decided to use cash.  What's worse was that I even paid cash even though it was pay inside-or-credit card, and I decided I was going to use cash, which meant going inside and maybe getting the virus that was trapped indoors.  Furthermore, the $20 I paid was way too much, and so I had to march in and get $5.65, the amount I didn't use, back.  Subtraction showss that I spent: $14.35.

And now I'm good through June 4.

OK, OK, I Take Back Everything I Said About Her, And About My Rate

She re-trained me on something and not only was she communicative, she was friendly and helpful.  So I take back calling her a bitch and a cunt.  I said that as a defense mechanism in case she wanted to escalate our argument a week ago.  But she did not.  Instead, she acted like a professional, something I was afraid she would not do.  But she did.  So I apologize.  I will also unilaterally disarm, and I am glad, because I can now relax just a little bit at work.

Oh, in another addendum: That thing about my keying rate being so slow?  I took it to my boss, who re-ran the numbers and ... it was missing a "1" in the hundreds place.  That tripled my rate, and turned it from a slothful, execrable one to a sterling, impressive one.  So that went from bad to good.  And it didn't matter that my sheet was laid down face-up.  My now-great score would make others jealous!

Yeah, it was a good day yesterday.

The Most Fucking Passive-Aggressive Thing I've Dealt With In A Long, Long Time

I came out from the lab to start sanitizing my desk before leaving for the day.  On my keyboard there was a sheet, one made out of heavy stock.  I recognized it immediately.  Every Month we get our keying rate.  It shows how many forms we have keyed through, and how many errors we have committed.  I made zero errors, which is good.  But somehow, my hourly rate was about 35% of what it usually is, and about 35% of what we are supposed to maintain each Month.  If I keep ducking below our quote for enough Months, I'll be fired.

Bullshit that it was that low.  Somebody must have fucked up the formula that determined this.  Sure, the month was so slow that the entire department got done keying most Days after, like, 2 1/2 Hours, so hey, maybe that was the reason for my number to be that low.  But it can't be that low.  I would have to literally be on my phone for hours at a time to be that low.

But that wasn't what irked me.  I looked at all the other heavy-stocked sheets that were laid at the desks of all my co-workers.  They have always been laid face-down.  This time around, mine was the only one laid face-up.

Goddamn her.  Did That Bitch hand out these forms?  If so, her turning it up, invading my privacy and showing this shitty number (bullshit as it is) for all the world to see is some petty, underhanded, passive-aggressive motherfucking bullshit.

And then I realized: Why did I sign off on it?  You are supposed to initial for each Month.  Does initialing mean I approve of the number?  Because I don't.  Fuck me, I might have just signed my death warrant, especially if That Cunt set me up with a bogus number.

Shit, I need to talk to my boss about this.  That number can't be real.

So I Finally Talked To My Boss, And ...

... I found him to be receptive.  I did tell him my beef and continuous worry about my supervisor, and I think he acknowledged it with a monitoring stance, any more of which would have made me scared that he would overreact.  I made him aware, and I think that's the important thing.

However ... when it came to the issues of what That Bitch accused me of and how I fucked up that folder, he took the training baton I handed off to him and he ran with it.  He noted that one of my other supervisors is going to re-train me on the other departments ... to get me to work faster.

Yeah, um, I was implying to my boss that That Cunt's accusation that I was slow was bullshit.  I get that, uh, he doesn't think so.  I am ... miffed.  Maybe I should take this as them not giving up on me, that it's not my fault.  But honestly?  One foot may not be out the door, but my mind is now really, really wandering.  And if she comes back at me with more backhanded insults, well, I'll have to talk to the temp agency again.

Damn That Traffic Jam

One thing I have liked about the pandemic, and in particular the economic shutdown over the pandemic, is the decrease in traffic.  In the couple weeks before my hours were cut that shutdown began, and I noticed it in the lack of cars on the highway.  That helped me a lot, especially in the morning.  There is one right turn I need to make onto the street that marks the heavy traffic for morning rush, and if I don't get to the light before it turns red or before the cars on the cross-street stop making their lefts, I might be stuck there.  It can't be more than two Minutes, but it seems like 20.  And although I always try to find an empty spot I can turn and accelerate into, if I can't find it, my commute instantly becomes more aggravating.

There were no issues like that when I headed out in the morning to start my full day.  Coast was so clear, it nearly brought a tear to my eye.  And then my hours were cut and I started heading off at around 8 or 8:30 or 9 and ... even though I don't remember the last time my morning commute started then, there were even fewer cars on the road then.  So for the past two Months or so I have had no heart palpitations over being late for work.  (Well, I'm still late for work, but for the past couple Months it's because of me deciding to get and eat breakfast before getting to my company.)

I wonder if thing are going to go back to normal now.  I have to remember that two things changed: The cut in traffic because of the economic shutdown and the cut in my hours.  The latter may be restored, but the former may not be, at least not yet.  So, if I'm back to full-time but the rest of the state hasn't, that'll still be good for my commute.  But if not, and Minnesota is fully back to work?  Well, that short, quick, unimpeded drive to work in the morning was too good to last, I guess.