Alright, after hearing stuff from other people's conversations at work, the project will end next week. Next week? I thought we had until the end of the month!
Well, this blows. I really, really thought that this company would be better at accurately projecting the end date of projects. But I guess I should have learned from our first project, one they said was going to last two weeks that instead ended after only four days. Look, I know for some time that we weren't going to make it to the very last projected week of work. Also, I've got to admit, I was able to line up another test scoring project that begins a couple weeks from now. The quick end to this project does help; I'd be screwed if the current project didn't end before this new one started. But if they are right, I have a one-week gap where I am doing absolutely nothing. Hell, give me four days, or even three, but please, occupy my time! Otherwise, this project ended exactly three weeks earlier than what I was initially told. Yes, they say that end dates are fungible. But in the previous test scoring project I've done with we were, at most, done two days early. Two days, and I was still pissed. Should have stopped being pissed if I knew that this one would get done three weeks early! Come on, this is ridiculous.
On the bright side, I guess: Since I'll be in the area, I think I'll have time to get to the track and lay some money down on the Belmont Stakes. But I might not be able to stick around, because I then have to go to St. Paul for this opera. Moreover, I should go to sleep now because I have to wake up in less than four hours. So much for relaxing on the weekend.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Friday, June 5, 2015
Wasted Repreive
Parents' flight was canceled. Saw that while waiting at the Mall of America. So what did I do to celebrate? Nothing. Well, since I was at MOA I took advantage of the Hard Rock Cafe's Happy Hour for the first time. Nachos filled me up; didn't need to eat anything later that night. I wanted to go out for My Last Night Of Freedom, but I was too tired. I actually did do a couple things I thought I had no time for before they came home: Cleaning out the old car's trunk and writing some of their real estate payments. But that was it; I was done by midnight. My excuse was I was watching Game 1 of the NBA Finals, but I was on the Internet the whole time, so I don't know how much I was actually watching it.
Just thought of something this morning. Their flight comes in at around 2:30. It's up in the air now, no chance for cancellation. I told them that I can't get off of work until 5:30 at the earliest. Will I pick them up as they wait three hours for me, or are they just going to get home through public transportation? They won't wait; they're coming home on their own. Which means they might see all the shit in the back of my car. And they'll have plenty of time to go through my dirty room and find things to bitch about. Fuck.
Just thought of something this morning. Their flight comes in at around 2:30. It's up in the air now, no chance for cancellation. I told them that I can't get off of work until 5:30 at the earliest. Will I pick them up as they wait three hours for me, or are they just going to get home through public transportation? They won't wait; they're coming home on their own. Which means they might see all the shit in the back of my car. And they'll have plenty of time to go through my dirty room and find things to bitch about. Fuck.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
The Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey
#-1: Twins (Last Week: Positive Numbers). Well, last week I was afraid that a correction was going to come. I don't think this week was the correction. But going 3-3 seems to be a cool-off.
On a whim my friend asked if we could go to the Twinks game Sunday afternoon against Toronto. It was good to see him besides our annual dinner, and my parents were away, so yeah, I'd much rather do that than go through my papers. No matter that Ricky Nolasco was pitching against some youngster I never heard of named Hutchison who will probably shut down the Twins in a laugher. And although he had won his last five decisions, I still harken back to the injured bust Nolasco was last year. My friend said that if he chokes on the mound he's running out on the field to choke him. He didn't have time to even do warm-up stretches; Nolasco's ankle flared up and he was gone in the second inning.
I certainly thought that spelled doom for the home team. And they fell behind the Blue Jays 4-1 at one point. But they battled back. First, Trevor Plouffe tied it at 4 with a two-run home run to left field. Then after Josh Donaldson cranked one to the flower bed in right, The Ageless Wonder, Torii Hunter, doubled to left (and made Left Fielder and former Twin Chris Colabello look like a fool as he jumped up to try to catch the ball before it smacked off the wall; he didn't have a good day defensively, which kind of showed why he is no longer with Minnesota) scoring the tying and game-winning runs in a very entertaining 6-5 win. And it was even sweeter when, after I came home, a friend of mine through Facebook showed that, by percentage points over Kansas City, the Minnesota Twins held the best record not in the American League Central, but the entire American League.
Key word being "held." I'm pretty sure that after winning two-of-three vs. Toronto and so far dropping two-of-three in Boston they are no longer tops in the A.L. Oh, hell, I'll just check ... yep, as of press time, the Twins are not in first. They are not second either. They are in third place in the AmerLeague, behind the second-place Royals and first-place Houston. But those three have pulled away from the other teams in the rest of the junior circuit.
They wrap up the four-game series against the Red Sox before coming back to Target Field for the rest of the week: A trio against Milwaukee followed by a big early-season test: Three games against the division-leading Kansas City Royals.
On a whim my friend asked if we could go to the Twinks game Sunday afternoon against Toronto. It was good to see him besides our annual dinner, and my parents were away, so yeah, I'd much rather do that than go through my papers. No matter that Ricky Nolasco was pitching against some youngster I never heard of named Hutchison who will probably shut down the Twins in a laugher. And although he had won his last five decisions, I still harken back to the injured bust Nolasco was last year. My friend said that if he chokes on the mound he's running out on the field to choke him. He didn't have time to even do warm-up stretches; Nolasco's ankle flared up and he was gone in the second inning.
I certainly thought that spelled doom for the home team. And they fell behind the Blue Jays 4-1 at one point. But they battled back. First, Trevor Plouffe tied it at 4 with a two-run home run to left field. Then after Josh Donaldson cranked one to the flower bed in right, The Ageless Wonder, Torii Hunter, doubled to left (and made Left Fielder and former Twin Chris Colabello look like a fool as he jumped up to try to catch the ball before it smacked off the wall; he didn't have a good day defensively, which kind of showed why he is no longer with Minnesota) scoring the tying and game-winning runs in a very entertaining 6-5 win. And it was even sweeter when, after I came home, a friend of mine through Facebook showed that, by percentage points over Kansas City, the Minnesota Twins held the best record not in the American League Central, but the entire American League.
Key word being "held." I'm pretty sure that after winning two-of-three vs. Toronto and so far dropping two-of-three in Boston they are no longer tops in the A.L. Oh, hell, I'll just check ... yep, as of press time, the Twins are not in first. They are not second either. They are in third place in the AmerLeague, behind the second-place Royals and first-place Houston. But those three have pulled away from the other teams in the rest of the junior circuit.
They wrap up the four-game series against the Red Sox before coming back to Target Field for the rest of the week: A trio against Milwaukee followed by a big early-season test: Three games against the division-leading Kansas City Royals.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Feeling Resentful
Parents come home tomorrow. Yet another disruption, probably filled with questions about going back to school or finding a new job or cleaning the house or "finding a program," whatever the fuck that means.
In preparation of them coming home, I have had to make sure that everything at the house is tidy. That meant that I had to bring in that babe from yesterday to clean the house, but that's not all that has to be done. I have to throw all my papers into a bag, take that bag to storage (as well as all the bags I took out of storage in a failed attempt to sort through them all), take all my bed stuff back out of my sister's room (which used to be my room -- and still should be) and back into my current bedroom (which actually is Grandmother's room), then clean out the garbage and wash and dry all the rags the niece used last night. Oh, and I have to go through the mail, too. Oh, and there is a bunch of carrots I should eat, or throw away.
I could be having fun now. I could be happy now. I could be watching Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Fianls now. Instead I'm stuck covering my ass in anticipation of the return of my folks, and I hate it. Them coming home from a cruise should not be this stressful. We should just be happy to see each other, like normal folks. But no, it'll be fucking judgement and nagging and guilt trips.
I resent needing to spend all these days doing fucking chores. It shouldn't matter if they come back to a dirty house and a dirty bathroom; you're home, isn't that good enough?! Now, I will say that since I have to do all these chores, there isn't a better time to do them than just before they come home, so assuming that they have to come home at some point I'll have to do some of this shit anyway. But taking out my papers, and cleaning the house? Normal parents wouldn't get bent out of shape over that. Too goddamn bad for me that I wasn't born or raised under normal parents.
In preparation of them coming home, I have had to make sure that everything at the house is tidy. That meant that I had to bring in that babe from yesterday to clean the house, but that's not all that has to be done. I have to throw all my papers into a bag, take that bag to storage (as well as all the bags I took out of storage in a failed attempt to sort through them all), take all my bed stuff back out of my sister's room (which used to be my room -- and still should be) and back into my current bedroom (which actually is Grandmother's room), then clean out the garbage and wash and dry all the rags the niece used last night. Oh, and I have to go through the mail, too. Oh, and there is a bunch of carrots I should eat, or throw away.
I could be having fun now. I could be happy now. I could be watching Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Fianls now. Instead I'm stuck covering my ass in anticipation of the return of my folks, and I hate it. Them coming home from a cruise should not be this stressful. We should just be happy to see each other, like normal folks. But no, it'll be fucking judgement and nagging and guilt trips.
I resent needing to spend all these days doing fucking chores. It shouldn't matter if they come back to a dirty house and a dirty bathroom; you're home, isn't that good enough?! Now, I will say that since I have to do all these chores, there isn't a better time to do them than just before they come home, so assuming that they have to come home at some point I'll have to do some of this shit anyway. But taking out my papers, and cleaning the house? Normal parents wouldn't get bent out of shape over that. Too goddamn bad for me that I wasn't born or raised under normal parents.
There's A Stranger In My House
(I remember a long, long time ago either watching this video or seeing Ronnie Milsap perform this song on Solid Gold. Too lazy to completely preview the video before I publish it.)
So my ATF, ***e*, is in the wind. Well, she Facebooked that she needed a ride in the south metro yesterday, so I don't know what's going on with her. My Plan B was to have her jack-off friend, *a***, come over; I remember calling her once while she was in the middle of a cleaning job, and I thought, "OK, if ***e* can't come over, how about *a***?" And she agreed, for last (Tuesday) night at 7.
But then 7:30 rolled around and I was sure that she either forgot or stood me up. Then I heard the bell ring. Thank God! And then I see this short white girl. She's not who I was expecting. She isn't following up from the two religious solicitors who gave me that hellfire CD last night, is she?
No. She is *a***'s niece. She was told by her to come over and clean the house because she suddenly went down with a migraine, something that she did not tell me. Great. I'm supposed to allow someone I've never seen before into my house? Yes. Because I really have no choice; either this woman cleans my house or I clean it, and the latter won't happen, therefore the house won't be cleaned and my parents are going to give me so much shit. So, welcome.
But after getting to know her, it is possible that I have seen her before. She has danced at *a***'s parties before. We may have met, but I have never gotten a dance from her. Still too weird for me to invite her into my home -- my parents definitely will not hear about this if I have any say in it -- but, well, if she's a relative of *a*** she's not gonna rob me, is she?
Well, it looks like she didn't. There are a bunch of plates in our cabinet, and I made sure to snap photos of them while this niece was downstairs, and it looks like they are still there. This was an up-and-up operation, where no one got screwed at all. Now, I wish she had done a better job. She did not bring any cleaning supplies, and we didn't have a whole lot, either. She was reduced to spraying floor cleaner from a bottle to mop the floors. And there's now a weird smell that is still permeating the entire house even now, about three hours after she left. The sudden increase in humidity did not help with the drying, which is made even more difficult when there were huge gobs and streaks of water all around the floors of the house.
See, that's the great thing about ***e*. Forget the fact that once she was done she jerk me off, and at an affordable price. She was a pretty good cleaner -- thorough, went back to make sure things were done, no standing water everywhere and things were left clean but not too ammonia-smelling. The niece did not do a bad job; in fact, if she did too good a job there's a chance that my parents would suspect that I brought someone in to clean the house. But I don't know if she did a good job. Oh, and I just noticed that are are scratches on the hardwood floor where the piano bench is. I didn't notice it before, which means (I'm afraid) she scratched the floor when mopping it.
Whatever. After about two hours I paid her the $100 and she got her ride. But not before we hashed out some, uh, other things. Since she does her aunt's parties, I had to know if she knew what, ahem, went on there, and, more importantly, if, ahem, she partook. Yes, she does. All of it, in fact. Of course it'd take a hell of a lot of money to fuck her, and she'd need a condom for that. She also insists on a condom if I want her to suck my dick. CBJ? No OK. Handjobs, well, HJs are $100, and although I could entertain that (I would have done it mostly because it was just the two of us and we wouldn't be distracted by the possibility of any guy walking in on us at a stripper party) I was expecting *a***, and I didn't want to fork over $200 to a person I just met. And even if *a*** made it I wasn't given her more than $100 because she usually demands $150 for a handie. As I said, it was an up-and-up operation, where no one got screwed at all.
Although in retrospect I should've asked if I could see her boobs. She would have flashed me for free, right?
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Fitness Hottie De-/Unfriended Me
OK, so most of my Facebook friends are female bodybuilders and "fitness models." I friend them because they're hot and, in my deepest and darkest fantasy, I sidle up to them to the point where we'd have sex. I'm working on it, but I'm afraid I lost one.
She is absolutely fucking hot. From time to time she would post pictures of herself, usually in front of some weight apparatus, working out with itty-bitty tops and bottoms, glistening with sweat, tattoo on her hot-ass ribs popping out. She would also post selfies of her ripped abs, and she would roll down her pants to show her powerful, v-shaped, uh, down-there place. Have to note that I haven't jerked off to her yet.
But I may have stumbled with her. First she updated her status (which she does ... a lot) saying that was on the beach in her bikini relaxing from working out (which she also does, a lot) with a skinny-tini or something. So, innocently, just like a joke, I said, "Pic?" To which she replied, "Don't be a creep." Strike one.
And then she had another status update about substituting for a fellow personal trainer. Her update was something like, "Wait till the students see who's filling in for their regular trainer!" Now, I have to admit that deep down, I have a negative visceral reaction to someone saying that. She's being a bully, is what she's saying. But I didn't want her to know that. I kind of hedged that thought instead, so I was hoping that she would understand that my comment was meant to be a joke that she actually was a dominatrix of some sort, and that her whipping these people into shape meant that she would not mind whipping a saggy, middle-aged man like me into shape, in bed, where I would get my ass kicked and then eventually pegged up my butthole for rolling down her panties all the way, thus revealing not only her v-shaped down-there place but her vagina, too.
Sorry, I just had one of my sex dreams. Anyway, that was my thought process when commenting on her status update. And that status update was: "Are you a sadist?"
I meant that as a joke, just a joke! Of course she's not a sadist. Besides, if you're going to imply that you're going to be a bitch to these people, well, own it!
I didn't think much of my comment, to be honest. But then I noticed that whenever I checked my feed, I no longer saw her status updates, the ones about working her booty, or being in her pajamas and getting to bed early, or her incessant fucking obsession with Kevin Hart. And so I went to her page and it appears that we she un-/defriended me.
Guess I should be sad or upset. But hey, like I said, it was supposed to be a joke. Besides, if you didn't understand how you came off in that update, hey, it's not my fault. Finally, you get three strikes in baseball.
I thought of messaging her and apologizing. But I don't want to know if she's going to reject my apology or rip me a new asshole in reaction to my entreaty. Hey, I still have a bunch of other fitness hotties I can masturbate over who aren't so defensive.
She is absolutely fucking hot. From time to time she would post pictures of herself, usually in front of some weight apparatus, working out with itty-bitty tops and bottoms, glistening with sweat, tattoo on her hot-ass ribs popping out. She would also post selfies of her ripped abs, and she would roll down her pants to show her powerful, v-shaped, uh, down-there place. Have to note that I haven't jerked off to her yet.
But I may have stumbled with her. First she updated her status (which she does ... a lot) saying that was on the beach in her bikini relaxing from working out (which she also does, a lot) with a skinny-tini or something. So, innocently, just like a joke, I said, "Pic?" To which she replied, "Don't be a creep." Strike one.
And then she had another status update about substituting for a fellow personal trainer. Her update was something like, "Wait till the students see who's filling in for their regular trainer!" Now, I have to admit that deep down, I have a negative visceral reaction to someone saying that. She's being a bully, is what she's saying. But I didn't want her to know that. I kind of hedged that thought instead, so I was hoping that she would understand that my comment was meant to be a joke that she actually was a dominatrix of some sort, and that her whipping these people into shape meant that she would not mind whipping a saggy, middle-aged man like me into shape, in bed, where I would get my ass kicked and then eventually pegged up my butthole for rolling down her panties all the way, thus revealing not only her v-shaped down-there place but her vagina, too.
Sorry, I just had one of my sex dreams. Anyway, that was my thought process when commenting on her status update. And that status update was: "Are you a sadist?"
I meant that as a joke, just a joke! Of course she's not a sadist. Besides, if you're going to imply that you're going to be a bitch to these people, well, own it!
I didn't think much of my comment, to be honest. But then I noticed that whenever I checked my feed, I no longer saw her status updates, the ones about working her booty, or being in her pajamas and getting to bed early, or her incessant fucking obsession with Kevin Hart. And so I went to her page and it appears that we she un-/defriended me.
Guess I should be sad or upset. But hey, like I said, it was supposed to be a joke. Besides, if you didn't understand how you came off in that update, hey, it's not my fault. Finally, you get three strikes in baseball.
I thought of messaging her and apologizing. But I don't want to know if she's going to reject my apology or rip me a new asshole in reaction to my entreaty. Hey, I still have a bunch of other fitness hotties I can masturbate over who aren't so defensive.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Initial Thoughts On My New Car
So today marks the end of the first month (although it is incomplete; I got it on the 5th) of my new car. I still can't believe I have a new car after I had one for 22 years. But the feeling that I'm using a rental car is fading with each passing day.
Without naming the make and model (I'm coy and shy like that) I have generated some thoughts on it. First and foremost, however, I have to admit that it's really, really nice to drive a car that won't break down. I have absolutely no stress that the Check Engine light will come on or the temperature gauge will shoot up. (It runs so well, in fact, that now I worry about my parents' minivan. I have had absolutely no trouble with that car besides a permanent Check Engine light and some weird sounds I hear when I cut the steering wheel to the right or the left and some braking issues. But those issues are enough for me to contrast it poorly to my new car. It pales so much in comparison that I am starting to think of it as not good. And on my trip to My Favorite Stripclub [Cover Edition] Saturday night I decided against driving the minivan because I was afraid that something bad would happen while I was driving it, even though that has never happened before.) For that reason alone it's better than my old, formerly-trusted car.
Beyond that, I have realized that 22 years is light years in the development of car technology. It may be because of my make and model, but there is a lot of new stuff in it that didn't exist two decades ago. For example, the back-up camera I have is fantastic for parallel parking. The right-turn lane camera is great for blind spots (even though I wish there was a camera for lefts, but there isn't). And of course it's fantastic to have a radio that works. It even has AM, which the minivan doesn't have! The ability to change channels on the steering wheel is great, even though that technology's been around for at least a decade.
I also have a key fob and push-button start. Is that a standard feature on new cars up and down the line? I have a subcompact, and I've been led to believe push-button starts are rare. I'm still getting used to it; sometimes, especially when I'm switching from the minivan, I get in or get out of the car and I'm searching my pockets for the key I don't need.
Now for the downsides. Most of them have been affirmed by what Consumer Reports says about it. The seats are not that comfortable. When I recline the passenger seat to take a nap for lunch (I much prefer the manual handle to the electric one in the old car; it seems unnecessary) the arch jabs into my spine too much. Also, the transmission is not as responsive as I think it should be. Sometimes I would gently step on the gas pedal and the car won't move. That's a problem I associate with the advanced age of my old car, and I my heart beats fast that something's gone very wrong with it. (OK, so I have to take back that I have felt absolutely no stress in my new car.) And the engine isn't powerful, and even less so when it's in ECON mode.
Those problems, however, are what's expected in a subcompact. What puts it over the top is how much it is unlike other subcompacts. That the interior is roomy for its class, for example, is true, and a big advantage. So is the response in handling. Finally, you can't beat that it's a Japanese car. One that I hope to keep around for 22 years.
Without naming the make and model (I'm coy and shy like that) I have generated some thoughts on it. First and foremost, however, I have to admit that it's really, really nice to drive a car that won't break down. I have absolutely no stress that the Check Engine light will come on or the temperature gauge will shoot up. (It runs so well, in fact, that now I worry about my parents' minivan. I have had absolutely no trouble with that car besides a permanent Check Engine light and some weird sounds I hear when I cut the steering wheel to the right or the left and some braking issues. But those issues are enough for me to contrast it poorly to my new car. It pales so much in comparison that I am starting to think of it as not good. And on my trip to My Favorite Stripclub [Cover Edition] Saturday night I decided against driving the minivan because I was afraid that something bad would happen while I was driving it, even though that has never happened before.) For that reason alone it's better than my old, formerly-trusted car.
Beyond that, I have realized that 22 years is light years in the development of car technology. It may be because of my make and model, but there is a lot of new stuff in it that didn't exist two decades ago. For example, the back-up camera I have is fantastic for parallel parking. The right-turn lane camera is great for blind spots (even though I wish there was a camera for lefts, but there isn't). And of course it's fantastic to have a radio that works. It even has AM, which the minivan doesn't have! The ability to change channels on the steering wheel is great, even though that technology's been around for at least a decade.
I also have a key fob and push-button start. Is that a standard feature on new cars up and down the line? I have a subcompact, and I've been led to believe push-button starts are rare. I'm still getting used to it; sometimes, especially when I'm switching from the minivan, I get in or get out of the car and I'm searching my pockets for the key I don't need.
Now for the downsides. Most of them have been affirmed by what Consumer Reports says about it. The seats are not that comfortable. When I recline the passenger seat to take a nap for lunch (I much prefer the manual handle to the electric one in the old car; it seems unnecessary) the arch jabs into my spine too much. Also, the transmission is not as responsive as I think it should be. Sometimes I would gently step on the gas pedal and the car won't move. That's a problem I associate with the advanced age of my old car, and I my heart beats fast that something's gone very wrong with it. (OK, so I have to take back that I have felt absolutely no stress in my new car.) And the engine isn't powerful, and even less so when it's in ECON mode.
Those problems, however, are what's expected in a subcompact. What puts it over the top is how much it is unlike other subcompacts. That the interior is roomy for its class, for example, is true, and a big advantage. So is the response in handling. Finally, you can't beat that it's a Japanese car. One that I hope to keep around for 22 years.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Batgirl Ain't Answering The Bat Signal
OK, so my parents are coming home soon, which means I need to get the house cleaned up before they come back. Of course, I do not clean it. I have my ATF, ***e*, clean it. And then afterward she gives me a handjob. On top of that I haven't had to pay money for her to come over ever since I shelled out a game console for her son. She has been paying me back ever since, diligently, and my fears that she was just going to walk away without paying her debt has largely abated. She is a woman of her word.
Saying that, I have not been able to reach her the past few days. Since I trust her, I sincerely believe that the only reason I haven't heard from her is that there is something serious that she needs to tend to. Normally, though, we would have arranged a day and time by now. And although I have a few days left, if I haven't heard from her by now, I don't think she'll be free to clean my house.
So what are my options now? I don't know, frankly. There are other strippers whose day job is cleaning houses. I think I know one; I might have to ask her. Other than that I've got nothing. I'll try and do the best I can with doing it myself, but I might as well not even try and take my parents' consequences for not cleaning up the house at all, let alone doing a shitty job cleaning it.
Saying that, I have not been able to reach her the past few days. Since I trust her, I sincerely believe that the only reason I haven't heard from her is that there is something serious that she needs to tend to. Normally, though, we would have arranged a day and time by now. And although I have a few days left, if I haven't heard from her by now, I don't think she'll be free to clean my house.
So what are my options now? I don't know, frankly. There are other strippers whose day job is cleaning houses. I think I know one; I might have to ask her. Other than that I've got nothing. I'll try and do the best I can with doing it myself, but I might as well not even try and take my parents' consequences for not cleaning up the house at all, let alone doing a shitty job cleaning it.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
I Don't Remember The Last Time I Saw The Store
To my everlasting shame, I do not know, for sure, the last time I went into The Store.
I did not track every single trip to The Store. I was just too heartbroken to note every single visit because I was afraid I would be documenting my last visit. I figured I needed some time to decompress, and then I would be able to circle back and know for certain the very last day I entered The Store. But, I got busy, and things got in the way, as they always do, and now that I have time to think and realize this is a long time coming, I am scrambling to remember the last day, which was more than 18 months ago.
And sadly, Wailing And Failing is of no help. My day planner is of some help; at least I wrote down the dates I took my parents to the airport and when I needed to pick them up. That meant that those were the days I had to tend to The Store. But within that I have no idea; I didn't write down when I went to The Store in my day planner. And the two weeks' worth of blog posts yielded not one puny mention of The Store, at least one that's of any use of me. I want to yell at myself back in September 2013 for being so sloppy.
So I have to make a guess. They came back on a Monday. The day before I worked the Vikings game. As custom, I go to My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition) afterward. Also, my day planner said that I went to a house party, and I don't think I would stop at The Store if I were going from tits to tits. Therefore, I don't think I went to The Store on Sunday.
The only thing I did on Saturday was my alma mater's game, which was in the afternoon. Doesn't seem like I had any plans after that viewing. Finally, my parents came home that Monday. Assuming they did actually arrive Monday night, and knowing how I doted after The Store, I think I went in to check on her Saturday after the game, then came back to it just before I went to the airport Monday evening.
Therefore, Monday, September 23, 2013 was the last day I ever set foot in The Store.
Am I sure of that? Not 100%. Obviously it would have helped if I wrote it down the day after I went; it would have helped if I blogged every single visit to The Store as soon as I came home from her, or at least a day or two afterward, when I may still have had some memory of it. But again, with my sadness over being about to lose her, I was not in a mental state to chronicle that. Nonetheless, I am confident those were the last dates I went to The Store.
So what did I do my last time there? Again, my memory is hazy, but knowing what I usually did there didn't change, I first looked up at the ceiling of The Store's main floor to see if there was any further damage to it. From what I blogged about The Last Days Of The Store, the crack that was up on that ceiling for decades expanded, then water started to leak through, then a lot of water made pools of water on The Store floor, then chunks of the ceiling crashed to ground. It got so bad that some time before they left, Father tore off more parts of the ceiling so they wouldn't fall on their own. So I just needed to see what else happened while I was away. My best guess is that there was some tiny pools of water, but the ceiling crashing to the floor alleviated all the stress from the water that apparently seeped in from above.
By the way, all of that water came because the roof had a hole in it. There was a pretty big storm that blew through the area a few years ago, and I guess debris from one part of the roof was blown right down onto the part of the roof over The Store, tearing a hole through it. I think that at that point my parents were thinking about selling The Store, so they didn't feel they wanted to invest the money into fixing it. So what they did was set plastic sheeting underneath the hole in the top floor/storage room, then put a huge plastic garbage bucket underneath to catch any water that spilled from the sheeting. That still didn't help because it would oftentimes rain so heavily that the bucket would overflow, which then would seep through the permeable floor, which is the ceiling for the main floor, and that's how the ceiling deteriorated.
Which meant that I was fighting a noble but losing battle trying to bail all the water from the bucket every time I visited The Store. But I did so anyway; after surveying and cleaning up any water or debris from the main floor, I went up the conveyor belt that went up to the second floor and looked at the bucket to see how much water I needed to scoop into these pails, after which I would open a second-floor door and just dump the water from those pails outside. The bucket may not have been overflowing with water, so it's possible I didn't have to bail water on this Monday night, although I assume there was enough for me to do a little before I had to pick up my parents. Pain in the ass, but hey, this place allowed my parents and this family to enter the middle class, so I was loyal to it, even if I was tilting at windmills with every pailful of water.
With all the necessary stuff out of the way, I needed to make sure that no one broke into the place, or that there were no huge insect infestations. Didn't look too hard for that; there was a basement I'm sure I didn't go down to, mostly because I never could figure out where the light was. But the rest of the second floor I checked for broken windows, and there were no more than the ones that were there already. By the way, there is a staircase that leads not only down to the first floor but to an old door that was an entrance from the street. It's been boarded up for a long time, but I had not discovered it until several times before The Store was sold. I didn't know The Store used to be an old union hall, and during its heyday union members would party at The Store presumably by walking through this now-boraded-up door. So to reminisce, knowing that I didn't know when I'd be able to go back, I walked up and down that grand but musty staircase one more time.
After poking my head around the back of the main floor, where my parents had stored the majority of our goods for sale and delivery, then saying goodbye to the back kitchen and sink, I turned on the lights to The Store itself and did my customary figure-eight pattern. There are three aisles to the place, and I made sure to walk it one way, then backtrack and walk it the other way, to make sure I walked through each of the three aisles from both directions. Do you understand what I mean? Do I have OCD like that? Yes, I have OCD like that.
And then I sat down at a chair where the lottery ticket machine and cash register used to be, just to the left of the front door, and I did the second of my three "traditions" with The Store: Sit and think for 15 minutes. This chair is behind a display case of things -- games like Chinese checkers, small Chinese clothes for babies, etc. None of it sold. In fact, I don't remember the last time we sold any food product or clothing item on the convenience store side. In that sense it was useless to continue the business. But I'm sure my parents weren't losing money on them, even though they weren't making money on them either. I just sat there and harkened back to my childhood days, days where (after I got over being told to help my parents work for them at The Store, something that grew into a Saturday tradition) The Store was a lot livelier, and actually made business by people coming through the front door and needing rice or soy sauce or medicine or videotapes of Chinese movies. Things change, of course, but back then my family could be proud of the work they forged for itself. They were a mom-and-pop small business, and back in the day they were kicking ass and taking names. And it was enough to afford a good house in a nice suburb and help send three kids to college. Like I said before, it was the epitome of the American Dream. And The Store's faded, shabby, even decrepit current state does not rob it of its past glory. It was the integrity of those times, what The Store allowed us to enjoy in this country, that convinced me it was right to check up on it every other day (even though it was closed), to check the ceiling for water leaks or failing chunks of paint and to bail the water falling through the roof and to sit there and meditate of what The Store once was. Fifteen minutes didn't pass by quick; I checked my watch a couple times to see if I reached my self-imposed sentence, as I usually did. That does not mean I was in a hurry, and it certainly didn't mean I was bummed to sit on that chair.
But on this Monday time was short; I did have to go the airport to pick up my parents. I hope -- I even pray -- that I was able to fit in 15 minutes meditating over and about The Store. After that I think I went into the private bathroom where many a time I perused the porn my folks threw in there and, just for shits and giggles, jostled some Chinese magazines around to see if there were still any. Just like all the times before, there were none. I then went up to Buddha and lit some incense, and then I closed The Store up and locked up the back door. Then I stood there, just for a few seconds, and like I had every time once I knew my parents were actively trying to sell her, told The Store I loved her, said I hoped to be inside her again but said goodbye just in case I never would, and then kissed its nasty, unsanitary red front door with my lips.
Monday, September 23, 2013 was indeed the last time I saw her. And while the burden of keeping her dry is a good thing, I can't help but think of her from time to time. I wonder what it's like in there now. Time dragged slowly for the past several years before The Store closed because no one went in there. Now? It probably hasn't aged since Monday, September 23, 2013. Well, unless someone broke into it since. I wonder if someone's noticed the light hasn't been on in a long time and decided to see what The Store was really like. There's nothing we would be able to do in that case. My parents have moved on from her, and quite well. Me? I haven't, not really.
My heartache is so bad that I haven't been able to even look at The Store since the night My Father told me they sold her. I alter my trips to avoid the exit that leads there. And in the few times I have had to drive by it I make it a point not to look at her. I'm sorry, baby, but I can't bear to look at you now that you're no longer in our lives. I should look at you and not be ashamed of you, but without me around I haven't been able to take care of you, and I can't bring myself to seeing how you are in your current state. I'm so ashamed, but I ... I just can't do it.
I thought about The Store a lot during my night test project. It wasn't just the boredom leading me to space out between papers. A couple nights during the project it rained, heavily. And I couldn't help but think that water is seeping into the hole in the roof, and then onto the plastic sheeting, and then into the garbage bucket, and finally through the floor and the ceiling, dropping to the floor below, maybe taking some pieces of the ceiling with it. Oftentimes I imagine looking through the real front door of The Store in the middle of a rain storm and peering in, and seeing all these heavy beads of rain from above, and then pieces of the ceiling crashing, violently, onto the floor. The Store, in its quiet but weathered dignity, slowly dying because my parents no longer need to care and because I can't stop its death.
And that is my obituary about The Store.
I did not track every single trip to The Store. I was just too heartbroken to note every single visit because I was afraid I would be documenting my last visit. I figured I needed some time to decompress, and then I would be able to circle back and know for certain the very last day I entered The Store. But, I got busy, and things got in the way, as they always do, and now that I have time to think and realize this is a long time coming, I am scrambling to remember the last day, which was more than 18 months ago.
And sadly, Wailing And Failing is of no help. My day planner is of some help; at least I wrote down the dates I took my parents to the airport and when I needed to pick them up. That meant that those were the days I had to tend to The Store. But within that I have no idea; I didn't write down when I went to The Store in my day planner. And the two weeks' worth of blog posts yielded not one puny mention of The Store, at least one that's of any use of me. I want to yell at myself back in September 2013 for being so sloppy.
So I have to make a guess. They came back on a Monday. The day before I worked the Vikings game. As custom, I go to My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition) afterward. Also, my day planner said that I went to a house party, and I don't think I would stop at The Store if I were going from tits to tits. Therefore, I don't think I went to The Store on Sunday.
The only thing I did on Saturday was my alma mater's game, which was in the afternoon. Doesn't seem like I had any plans after that viewing. Finally, my parents came home that Monday. Assuming they did actually arrive Monday night, and knowing how I doted after The Store, I think I went in to check on her Saturday after the game, then came back to it just before I went to the airport Monday evening.
Therefore, Monday, September 23, 2013 was the last day I ever set foot in The Store.
Am I sure of that? Not 100%. Obviously it would have helped if I wrote it down the day after I went; it would have helped if I blogged every single visit to The Store as soon as I came home from her, or at least a day or two afterward, when I may still have had some memory of it. But again, with my sadness over being about to lose her, I was not in a mental state to chronicle that. Nonetheless, I am confident those were the last dates I went to The Store.
So what did I do my last time there? Again, my memory is hazy, but knowing what I usually did there didn't change, I first looked up at the ceiling of The Store's main floor to see if there was any further damage to it. From what I blogged about The Last Days Of The Store, the crack that was up on that ceiling for decades expanded, then water started to leak through, then a lot of water made pools of water on The Store floor, then chunks of the ceiling crashed to ground. It got so bad that some time before they left, Father tore off more parts of the ceiling so they wouldn't fall on their own. So I just needed to see what else happened while I was away. My best guess is that there was some tiny pools of water, but the ceiling crashing to the floor alleviated all the stress from the water that apparently seeped in from above.
By the way, all of that water came because the roof had a hole in it. There was a pretty big storm that blew through the area a few years ago, and I guess debris from one part of the roof was blown right down onto the part of the roof over The Store, tearing a hole through it. I think that at that point my parents were thinking about selling The Store, so they didn't feel they wanted to invest the money into fixing it. So what they did was set plastic sheeting underneath the hole in the top floor/storage room, then put a huge plastic garbage bucket underneath to catch any water that spilled from the sheeting. That still didn't help because it would oftentimes rain so heavily that the bucket would overflow, which then would seep through the permeable floor, which is the ceiling for the main floor, and that's how the ceiling deteriorated.
Which meant that I was fighting a noble but losing battle trying to bail all the water from the bucket every time I visited The Store. But I did so anyway; after surveying and cleaning up any water or debris from the main floor, I went up the conveyor belt that went up to the second floor and looked at the bucket to see how much water I needed to scoop into these pails, after which I would open a second-floor door and just dump the water from those pails outside. The bucket may not have been overflowing with water, so it's possible I didn't have to bail water on this Monday night, although I assume there was enough for me to do a little before I had to pick up my parents. Pain in the ass, but hey, this place allowed my parents and this family to enter the middle class, so I was loyal to it, even if I was tilting at windmills with every pailful of water.
With all the necessary stuff out of the way, I needed to make sure that no one broke into the place, or that there were no huge insect infestations. Didn't look too hard for that; there was a basement I'm sure I didn't go down to, mostly because I never could figure out where the light was. But the rest of the second floor I checked for broken windows, and there were no more than the ones that were there already. By the way, there is a staircase that leads not only down to the first floor but to an old door that was an entrance from the street. It's been boarded up for a long time, but I had not discovered it until several times before The Store was sold. I didn't know The Store used to be an old union hall, and during its heyday union members would party at The Store presumably by walking through this now-boraded-up door. So to reminisce, knowing that I didn't know when I'd be able to go back, I walked up and down that grand but musty staircase one more time.
After poking my head around the back of the main floor, where my parents had stored the majority of our goods for sale and delivery, then saying goodbye to the back kitchen and sink, I turned on the lights to The Store itself and did my customary figure-eight pattern. There are three aisles to the place, and I made sure to walk it one way, then backtrack and walk it the other way, to make sure I walked through each of the three aisles from both directions. Do you understand what I mean? Do I have OCD like that? Yes, I have OCD like that.
And then I sat down at a chair where the lottery ticket machine and cash register used to be, just to the left of the front door, and I did the second of my three "traditions" with The Store: Sit and think for 15 minutes. This chair is behind a display case of things -- games like Chinese checkers, small Chinese clothes for babies, etc. None of it sold. In fact, I don't remember the last time we sold any food product or clothing item on the convenience store side. In that sense it was useless to continue the business. But I'm sure my parents weren't losing money on them, even though they weren't making money on them either. I just sat there and harkened back to my childhood days, days where (after I got over being told to help my parents work for them at The Store, something that grew into a Saturday tradition) The Store was a lot livelier, and actually made business by people coming through the front door and needing rice or soy sauce or medicine or videotapes of Chinese movies. Things change, of course, but back then my family could be proud of the work they forged for itself. They were a mom-and-pop small business, and back in the day they were kicking ass and taking names. And it was enough to afford a good house in a nice suburb and help send three kids to college. Like I said before, it was the epitome of the American Dream. And The Store's faded, shabby, even decrepit current state does not rob it of its past glory. It was the integrity of those times, what The Store allowed us to enjoy in this country, that convinced me it was right to check up on it every other day (even though it was closed), to check the ceiling for water leaks or failing chunks of paint and to bail the water falling through the roof and to sit there and meditate of what The Store once was. Fifteen minutes didn't pass by quick; I checked my watch a couple times to see if I reached my self-imposed sentence, as I usually did. That does not mean I was in a hurry, and it certainly didn't mean I was bummed to sit on that chair.
But on this Monday time was short; I did have to go the airport to pick up my parents. I hope -- I even pray -- that I was able to fit in 15 minutes meditating over and about The Store. After that I think I went into the private bathroom where many a time I perused the porn my folks threw in there and, just for shits and giggles, jostled some Chinese magazines around to see if there were still any. Just like all the times before, there were none. I then went up to Buddha and lit some incense, and then I closed The Store up and locked up the back door. Then I stood there, just for a few seconds, and like I had every time once I knew my parents were actively trying to sell her, told The Store I loved her, said I hoped to be inside her again but said goodbye just in case I never would, and then kissed its nasty, unsanitary red front door with my lips.
Monday, September 23, 2013 was indeed the last time I saw her. And while the burden of keeping her dry is a good thing, I can't help but think of her from time to time. I wonder what it's like in there now. Time dragged slowly for the past several years before The Store closed because no one went in there. Now? It probably hasn't aged since Monday, September 23, 2013. Well, unless someone broke into it since. I wonder if someone's noticed the light hasn't been on in a long time and decided to see what The Store was really like. There's nothing we would be able to do in that case. My parents have moved on from her, and quite well. Me? I haven't, not really.
My heartache is so bad that I haven't been able to even look at The Store since the night My Father told me they sold her. I alter my trips to avoid the exit that leads there. And in the few times I have had to drive by it I make it a point not to look at her. I'm sorry, baby, but I can't bear to look at you now that you're no longer in our lives. I should look at you and not be ashamed of you, but without me around I haven't been able to take care of you, and I can't bring myself to seeing how you are in your current state. I'm so ashamed, but I ... I just can't do it.
I thought about The Store a lot during my night test project. It wasn't just the boredom leading me to space out between papers. A couple nights during the project it rained, heavily. And I couldn't help but think that water is seeping into the hole in the roof, and then onto the plastic sheeting, and then into the garbage bucket, and finally through the floor and the ceiling, dropping to the floor below, maybe taking some pieces of the ceiling with it. Oftentimes I imagine looking through the real front door of The Store in the middle of a rain storm and peering in, and seeing all these heavy beads of rain from above, and then pieces of the ceiling crashing, violently, onto the floor. The Store, in its quiet but weathered dignity, slowly dying because my parents no longer need to care and because I can't stop its death.
And that is my obituary about The Store.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Passing Along The Panic
So I wake up with a bevy of messages through many of the communication apps on my phone, all of them at the prompting of Mother, who wanted to get ahold of me whenever my parents are trotting around the world. If you can tell they were in a panic, the series of messsages on WhatsApp and the missed calls through Viber (I thought Viber was passe?), and the late night hours when they were transmitted was your evidence. To which I can only say, Hey, I had two beers last night and I am a working stiff and I was asleep.
They needed to know a bus schedule; just sent them the information. Whether or not that stops Mother from panicking, I don't know. Meanwhile, I am panicking because my ATF, ***e*, apparently is in the wind. I need to set up a time for her to come up and clean my house before my parents arrive back home, and I tried both Messenger and plain old text, and I haven't heard from her yet. This woman changes phones like she changes panties, but at some point she would get back to me if I need to transact money, like I do now. Where the hell is she? I don't know, but I'm freaking out -- and unlike Mother, my freaking out is justified.
You know, I think that sometimes my panicking over not getting the information I need when I think I need it gets me into problems. Like The Asshole at the flu biller place. Was he offended/pissed off because he took me not knowing what I need to do but feeling something needs to be done right away as "bossing him around?" Could be. But fuck him. He's an asshole.
They needed to know a bus schedule; just sent them the information. Whether or not that stops Mother from panicking, I don't know. Meanwhile, I am panicking because my ATF, ***e*, apparently is in the wind. I need to set up a time for her to come up and clean my house before my parents arrive back home, and I tried both Messenger and plain old text, and I haven't heard from her yet. This woman changes phones like she changes panties, but at some point she would get back to me if I need to transact money, like I do now. Where the hell is she? I don't know, but I'm freaking out -- and unlike Mother, my freaking out is justified.
You know, I think that sometimes my panicking over not getting the information I need when I think I need it gets me into problems. Like The Asshole at the flu biller place. Was he offended/pissed off because he took me not knowing what I need to do but feeling something needs to be done right away as "bossing him around?" Could be. But fuck him. He's an asshole.
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