Reason Number 77 Why I Am Going to Hell

I realize I have not written a blog in a while. I have stuff to write, just not enough time to write it. I have found a simple solution. I will have some mini blog entries. These will be list of reasons why I am going to hell. Now, I have never kept track of all the reasons I have accumulated during my life, that is why I am starting with number 77. Especially since I am sure there have been more than 76 reasons in the past. Anyway, moving on to reason number 77.

I was sitting at my desk working on some forms that had been submitted. These forms have to be signed by every adult in the household. One of the forms had a note from a lady saying that her son was unable to sign the forms because he had color cancer. I understand the gravity of the situation, but my mind just kept wondering how exactly would colon cancer deter someone from being able to sign a form. After that, I was stuck with the mental image of a guy squatting over some paper with a pen stuck you-know-where trying to sign with his colon. I bust out laughing and thought the image was quite hilarious. Yes, I was sitting at my desk laughing at a poor guy with colon cancer and his struggling mother. I thus realized that was one more reason why I was going to hell and knew I would have to post it.

Well, till next time. I hope the next post will be a long post. If not, you will just learn about one more reason why I am going to hell.

So, If You Had a White Dodge Avenger, What Would You Name Him?

First of all, yes, I referred to a car as a "him." Why? I don't know. I know most people refer to their cars as feminine, but that has always rang false to me. My cars are boys. Now, if it were a van or a truck, it would be feminine. That's a given. I think this stems from the fact that in Spanish the word "carro" is masculine and the word "van" and "troca" are feminine. All this, however, is neither here nor there. Regardless, I am going to go into excruciating detail because that is what I do best.

My first vehicle was an '89 GMC VanDura. I do not have a picture of it, but it was a huge van that was all metal. I mention that because it was a great car to learn to drive in. People will get out of your way if you are driving a big chunk of metal and seem to have no clue as to what you are doing. If they don't, they soon realize that a collision with said vehicle will damage their car while leaving mine mostly intact. In all the years I drove that van, only one car had to learn that lesson the hard way (it ended up with no back bumper). The van also emerged victorious from an encounter with a stop sign. In fact, the only object that managed to damage my van was a wall I backed into. I guess walls are sturdier than expected. I loved this van. I had it while I was still a church going kid and we used to drive it everywhere. It was not unusual for me to have anywhere from eight to fifteen teens packed in that van, which was really fun considering it did not have a/c. Lucky for me, I was always driving and the driver and passenger windows did roll down. I have many fun memories of that van. Among them, the very first parking lot talks of my life. Many of the great conversations in my life have happened in parking lots. We would sit in that van and discuss everything, from our biggest problems to the latest gossip. This led to us having a motto, "Lo que pasa en la Scooby, se queda en la Scooby." This meant, "What happens in the Scooby, stays in the Scooby." As you can probably infer, the name of the van was "The Scooby Van." It wasn't green, but it was big and it worked for us. Thus, the tradition of naming my cars was born.

My second car was green, but it wasn't a van. It was a Ford Focus. Do not expect me to explain why, but I loved that car as well. I have an eclectic taste for cars but from the moment the Focus first came out, it was on my list of favorite cars. And no, I did not like the hatchback but the four-door sedan. I know the car was not unique and that was part of its appeal. I never put a bumper sticker on it or anything that would make it stand out from any other green Focus. I loved that. The reason why I loved that, and this is going to sound shady, is that if I ever committed a crime and a witness was trying to describe the getaway car, they would have nothing more than "green focus." I am not planning on committing any crimes, but anonymity seemed really important for some reason. I don't remember how the naming of this car came about, but I do know that his name is Frank. I think at one point Frank had a last name, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was. Last year, and I know it was mostly because of how badly I took care of it for the five years I had it, Frank started malfunctioning so I had to get a new car. Thankfully, my dad needed a car to use so he could drive to and from work so I still get to see, and even drive, Frank fairly often.

This brings me to the white Dodge Avenger I have now. I have had it for about a year. It usually runs well and is pretty comfortable. The acquisition of this car was quite different from the other two. The Scooby Van was a hand me down from my parents. Frank, I went out and looked till I found him. It was funny because the only thing I knew when I went car shopping is that I wanted a green Focus. People thought I was weird. I called myself eccentric. The Avenger, however, has a whole different story.

I had told my parents I was thinking of getting a new car. This was of course last May. I was at my old job as a receptionist at the retirement village and I had to work for four hours on Saturdays. Well, one Saturday, I get a call from my parents asking me to step outside for a minute. When I did, I saw them drive up in this white car. They told me that they had gone car shopping in the morning and that they liked this car for me. I was then instructed to stop by the car dealership after work so I could sign the paperwork. When I got off work, I met them at the dealership. We talked for a few minutes in which I told them that I really wanted to just get another Focus. They said that they did not like the Focus anymore and that I needed something else. After that, I walked in and signed the papers. The car is under my name, purchased with my credit, I will be making the monthly payments, I am responsible for the insurance, in fact it's one hundred percent my car, except for the fact that I did not get to pick it.

I suffer from a big delusion. I think, and believe, inanimate objects have feelings. Which is part of the reason why I feel bad writing the next sentence. I am not sure I like my new car. It is not my style. Also, my parents took it to Mexico within a month of me buying it and tinted the windows dark. I guess that is OK, but it wasn't my choice as I tend to think of cars with tinted windows as drug dealer cars. Granted, that may be because I grew up in Juarez and drug dealers tended to tint their windows really dark. All I am saying is that it is not really my style. I still feel a disconnect between me and the new car. I think it comes from the fact that he really was not my number one option and that I did not have much choice in choosing him. Don't get me wrong, he has been a good car. That is until it broke down about a month ago.

I woke up on a Wednesday morning, got ready for work and stepped outside to go to work. I got into my car and turned the ignition on and, since I was a bit early, I even let it warm up a bit before I left. That's when things went wrong. When I went to shift into gear, I could not shift out of Park. I tried for a few minutes and, after failing repeatedly, I decided to take my dad's truck to work. Upon arriving at work, I consulted with several friends and got several tips on trying to get it to work. None of them worked when I tried them at lunch so I had to have it towed to the dealership to get it worked on. By Thursday, the car was working again.

It really wasn't anything more than a major inconvenience but it did get me thinking. Was I being unfair to him because I did not like him as much? Did he realize that he was the red-headed step child of my cars and thus was acting out? Had I hurt his feelings since I had not made an effort to bond with him? Was I taking him for granted and was he trying to teach me a lesson? While talking to The Co-Worker, her who convinced me to start writing a blog, I realized I had not even named this car yet. For one, she thought that cars having guy names was hilarious and was cracking up about Frank's name. But the fact that the Avenger did not have a name bothered me and we tried to come up with a few. We thought of Moby-Dick and such but nothing really seemed satisfactory which brings me to the title of this post, "If you had a white Dodge Avenger, what would you name him?"

I know I probably do not have a lot of readers left since I have been bad about writing often, but for those few of you that still read it, any and all suggestions will be appreciated. I don't have a picture of my car today but I will take one tomorrow and add it to this post to help give you an idea. Please help me bond to the car that I will have for the next four years at the very least. After all, he is a good car and it is not his fault that my parents chose him instead of me. He has performed admirably and he deserves a good name, won't you help him?


Picture courtesy of my friend Preggo (not her real name). Thanks for taking the picture Preggo!

I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friend.

And a bad blogger to boot. Honestly, I have had some things to write about for a while. I just haven't made myself get on here and get with it lately. Let me update you on a few things first. No, I have not gotten my clipboard back. Yes, I wussed out and turned in her application so I don't have the thief's number anymore. I think this is a lost cause so I may have to let it go. You gotta know when to cut your losses. Next, unfortunately my jersey number for The Sons of Pitches will not be Pi, but 42. Or 44. At this point, who cares, right? Just kidding. I still love the team and am looking forward to our fourth practice. I have realized though that the sport is a lot more dangerous than I was initially told. For example, on our second practice, a ball hit me on my left thigh. I am not saying I overreacted, but I wore an athletic cup for the third practice. But when one of our teammates got hit on the chin with the ball on our third practice, I realize that a cup is not enough. I need a freakin' suit of armor to play this sport. Unfortunately, those are not easily accessible or conductive to a good range of movement. Plus, I don't think it would meet the uniform requirements. All caught up? Let's move on.

Allow me to whine for a moment. I had a horrible week. It didn't start out too bad. I was off Monday since it was Memorial Day (insert something good about soldiers here to make you feel better and make me look good). But Tuesday, oh god Tuesday, was a whole different story. Now I don't want to be all gross, but we all know I am going to so brace yourself. Let's just say that, halfway through my morning shift at work, I kept getting the urge to pee. Let's also say that, right before lunch, I realized I was peeing blood. I don't wanna say this scared the living daylights out of me, but I started writing a will before realizing I had nothing to bequeath to anyone but debts. So during lunch I went home and looked at the ever handy WebMD site. It said that it was likely a urinary tract infection. Under home remedies, it said to drink lots of fluids and specifically cranberry juice. I called work and informed them that I would be unable to return to work and immediately headed to the grocery store to buy cranberry juice. I got one of those one liter bottles of it and downed it hoping it would help. Let me just say this, cranberry juice should never be drunk without some form of liquor accompanying it. Then I just sat at the toilet for the next few hours as the urge to pee would not abate and it was pointless to go anywhere. I cannot say if the juice did much but by the end of the day I had stopped peeing blood, even though the discomfort was still there, and I thought the worst was over.

I was wrong. On Wednesday I got up and figured I would go to work. I realized, when I was driving to work, that I wasn't all there. My reaction time was slower than usual and I was moving slow. Well, slower. Touche. I must say that I hate doctors. The last time I went to one, I was forced to go by my parents. This time, I willingly made an appointment and left work shortly after I had arrived.

Later that morning when I got to the doctor's office, he was not too happy with the fact that I had not had a physical in over ten years and that I had not had a tetanus shot in just about as long. He asked what my symptoms were and I described them to him, adding that now I actually had body aches and was sore all over. He proceeded to examine me, a bit too roughly if you ask me. I mean, when he was checking for hernias and asked me to cough, I could swear he applied so much pressure a tear may have slid down my cheek. Then again, my body was just probably a bit more tender because of being sick but I still held a grudge. To make matters worse, he looked perplexed when he announced that I had a urinary tract infection. He said that men rarely ever got them. I did not say much, but what the hell? Was he questioning my manhood? I mean, he knew I was a guy. He almost made me cry while handling my equipment. Can you see why I hate doctors? Also, he said guys "rarely" got them. He did not say "never." Let's just say I was happy to get my prescription for antibiotics and get going.

Does the story get better? For most people it would after that. For me, it did not. I dropped the prescription at the pharmacy and they told me it was going to be about an hour and a half. I asked, very nice and politely, if they would please give me a call when they got the prescription ready. The nice lady said she would, so, when I got home I took a nap trusting I would receive a call to wake me up and pick my meds up. Four hours later, Medea got home from work. First thing she asked was why did I not go to work. Simple enough, I did not feel well. Plus, I did go to work, I just did not stay. I told her I had to go get my meds and she said that she would offer to go get them for me but she had to cook dinner. I figured that was fair so I went and got my own meds. They are supposed to be taken with food so I also bought a whole bunch of cans of chicken noodle soup and I picked up some Azo the doctor had recommended. For those of you who don't know what Azo is, and I speak mainly to any guy readers I might have (as if!), Azo is a urinary analgesic that makes peeing less painful when you have a UTI. It also makes your pee a bright orange which is really weird. Back to the story, I get home and start preparing a can of soup for myself so I can take the meds. I am moving really slow as my whole body aches and I am really tired. Medea, upon noticing my state, commented that the reason I felt so miserable was because I was just too lazy and had slept the day away. Oh My Freaking god!!! I could have slapped her if it hadn't taken so much energy. I was furious though. There I was taking care of myself, making my own soup, picking up my own meds, feeling like I am dying, and she has the decency to say that. She did not stop there. She said that if I wanted to feel better, I should clean around the house. When I did not respond to that she then suggested I just go outside and just walk or run for a while so I could shake the lethargy off. She wanted me to go running! I could not believe it. I was speechless, which was a good thing because who knows what I would have said. I did get her back a few minutes later though because she said that she had a headache. I quickly suggested that she go for a run to get rid of her headache. Funny, right? She didn't think so. So now she was mad because I was upset because of what she said. I have no idea how she does it, but she always turns things around and gets mad at me for being offended because she insulted me.

Anyway, I would love to say that I felt better right away but I actually felt worse before I felt better. That night I had a fever of 101 degrees. Not too high a fever. What sucked though is that I had not had a fever in over twenty years and I can no longer say that. But it does paint a picture of how sick I was. In the past, regardless of how sick I got, I had never gotten a fever. I would get close, but no fever. That is when I started worrying. That night was the toughest one but once the fever broke, the worst was over. I still took Thursday off to fully rest and allow the meds to get me back to feeling better and take away all the pains and aches. The headache was the last to leave on Thursday night.

I don't want to say I have become paranoid, especially since I have been one to always check my urine to make sure I am drinking enough water, but let's just say I pay extra attention now. Unfortunately, I scared the hell out of myself Friday at work when I went to pee and realized my urine was a bright red. I almost had a mini-panic attack, which is not good when you are using a urinal and you have to keep aiming, until I realized that I was still taking the freaking Azo and just had not had enough water because I had been busy at work. That is one of the most relieving realizations I have had while relieving myself.

So that is my week in a nut shell. Why then is my post called "I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friend?" Give me a minute. I am getting to it. I just don't know the meaning of the word "brevity." Anyway, when I posted on my facebook that I wasn't feeling well, I was flooded with people asking if they could do anything for me or bring me some soup. I even had someone offer something that made me blush. Well, it didn't make me blush so much as it made me wonder what the hell he was thinking. But I digress. My best friend checked up on me daily and kept asking if I needed anything and could not be any sweeter. She kept saying that if it weren't for my parents she would come see me and see what I needed. I called her today after work to let her know I was all better and I find out that she has strep throat. I had nothing to say other than, "well, call me when you get better." See how horrible that is? But I could not bring myself to offer anything. I mean, I am still on antibiotics and I am pretty sure my immune system is still down and I already spent a whole week sick. I can't risk getting strep. Yes, I am selfish. One thing I can guarantee though, I will not tell her to go running so that she will feel better. Hey, I guess I am not that bad after all, right?

Happy Birthday, Noe.

This is gonna be a serious one. Those with a weak disposition may want to skip it and wait for the next installment.

I was gonna write a real blog today but I figured I was going to set this day aside in memory of my late younger brother Noe. Today would have been his 22nd birthday. He passed away on Christmas of 1999 at the early age of eleven.

I am not gonna say we always got along. We were brothers so we fought our fair share. He even peed on me when I was a kid once because I made him mad. To be fair, he did warn me but I didn't think he would do it. I was wrong.

He was dealt a difficult hand when he was eight and, after three arduous years of battling leukemia, he passed on.

I miss him though. It is at times like these that I wish I believed in Heaven or an afterlife. I do hope he is still out there, somewhere, in some shape or form.

Sometimes, I feel like he got cheated because he did not get to experience more of life. I think about what life would have been if our roles were reversed. I still don't know if living is really the prize or if being released from this dark world that really is the goal. I will never know. I am just grateful that I had him in my life for as long as I did. I think in the end, that is all that matters.