Procrastination Continuation, or, The Good Night

So, I know I should be writing about my trip to Portland before I forget but I have a feeling that writing all that will take forever and I just haven't had time to sit down and start writing everything. However, this post will not be a last minute post like the last two have been. I actually have a story to tell this time and I am writing it a couple of days in advance. Now, the story I am about to tell may not be the greatest story but I am sure it will do. Before we get to the actual story, though, I will give you some background.

I have a tendency to enjoy the darker side of human emotions. It doesn't make much sense to most people but it does to me and that is all that matters. It's actually kind of hard for me to get depressed because, as soon as I realize that I am depressed, I get excited about it which alleviates the depression. I still try my hardest to be be depressed as I believe that the whole gambit of human emotions are to be experienced and, dare I say, enjoyed as they are what makes us human. Along these same lines, I tend to enjoy when things go horribly awry. I don't like the middle ground as I prefer the extremes. Things either have to go perfect, or near perfect, or terribly wrong for me to enjoy them. If only a few things go wrong, it just ruins it for me and I get annoyed. However, if nothing or everything goes wrong, I tend to enjoy it. Point in case, a few weeks back the BF and I were going to watch a movie. That's not relevant so don't pay it any attention. Before the movie, we decided to have a bite to eat. We were not too hungry so we decided to just go to Subway. Now, my favorite Subway sandwich is the foot-long meatball sub on jalapeno cheddar bread with pepper jack cheese, olives, a little bit of onions and Parmesan cheese. You don't need to know all that. All you have to know is that I like the meatball sub. We arrived at the Subway closest to the movie theater and the BF, being a gentleman, let me go first. Mainly because I don't let anything or anyone stand between me and my food. It was a Saturday night which apparently is a slow night at Subways because there was only one employee. I ordered my sandwich and the sandwich artist, their preferred title, informed us that this was his second day on the job. He asked me if I wanted my sandwich toasted and I answered with a resounding, "Yes, please." I know that does not sound resounding but believe me when I tell you that it resounded the way I said it. He put my sub in the toaster oven and he started making a second meatball sandwich for the BF whose choice had been influenced by my own. The toaster timer went off. I looked at the sandwich artisan but he did not seem too concerned by it as he continued making the BF's sub. The toaster timer went off again and a creeping suspicion that something was off spawned within me. The sub virtuoso did not seem at all concerned though so I chalked it up to my paranoia. When the Subway handicrafter finished fixing the BF's sandwich and opened the door to the toaster to switch subs, we noticed that mine had been burnt. The poor guy got all flustered and apologized about the burnt sandwich and offered to make me a new one. I happily agreed and he started making a second sandwich for me after he put the BF's sub in the toaster. This is when he realized that he did not have enough meatballs to make another sub. Unfortunately, this was after he had already spread marinara sauce all over the bread. He apologized one more time and I just told him to make me a different sandwich that would go with marinara sauce. At that point the toaster timer went off but the sub creator's attitude towards that ringing bell continued to be very blasé.  I helpfully pointed out that the timer had gone out and he replied that the oven would stop heating by itself. Seeing as to how my first sub had burned I insisted that he open the toaster door and we found the BF's sub crisper than was expected but, thankfully, not burnt. The sandwich maker then asked if I wanted my new sandwich toasted and I replied with a kind, but emphatic, "No, thank you." At this point, I could tell that the whole situation was unnerving the BF. The sandwich artiste had already finished making the BF's sandwich so I asked the BF to find a table, which wasn't hard to do on the nigh empty diner, and to get our drinks while my sub was finished. With the BF gone and my sandwich completed, the sub composer/cashier/only employee proceeded to ring me up. I handed over my card and when I got my receipt back I realized that he had overcharged me. He had charged me for three drinks and we only really needed two what with the free refills and all. At this moment, I could not feel worse for the guy if I tried. He had a few other people waiting to be helped and he did not know how to fix my ticket and, when he tried calling his manager, his call went to voicemail. He kept apologizing and offering me some cookies in exchange for the drink price. I just smiled, declined his cookie offer as we really did not want any cookies, and instructed him to just give the extra drink to the people waiting in line behind us. He thanked me with a sheepish lopsided smile of relief and hurried over to help the next customers. I grabbed my sandwich and headed over to the table the BF had chosen and sat down. He looked up at me and asked me why I was smiling and I told him that I had really enjoyed my Subway experience. When he asked me why I told him that it was not because it made me feel superior, it's not that at all (really!!!), but because it reminded me that people were still human and that we, as humans, can cause hiccups and disrupt even the most streamlined designs that scientific management can throw our way. In a way, it reminds me that mistakes are what makes us human and they remind me that we are alive. I don't think he really quite got it. I think he usually thinks I am crazy and just goes along for the ride because it is easier than arguing with crazy. But, there is a method to my madness, or, at the very least, I have to believe that.

Why did I tell y'all that story? Was that the whole point of this post? Maybe, but no. Not at all. We are just getting started, so, buckle up. The reason I mentioned that story is so that you can maybe understand my frame of mind yesterday night which could possibly be considered a very bad night. It all started with a horrible week. It had been a terrible week at work. I was actually having to work and I am a strong believer that my current employers are paying me enough to show up everyday and work every once in a while, but I am not getting paid enough to actually work all day, everyday. So, last night, after I got off work, I had a plan. Let me set it up for you bullet point-style,

• I was going to go to the store after work to pick up some wasp spray as they were building a new nest right outside my door.
• I was going to go home and change into shorts and a t-shirt in order to go into the very hot shed and look for a post-hole digger Dad wanted and that Sister would take to him on Friday.
• I was going to spray the wasps with the recently acquired wasp spray.
• I was going to have some dinner.
• I was going to do dishes and clean the kitchen.
• I was going to clean my room and bathroom.
• I was going to take out the trash as Thursdays are trash day which I made clear in a previous post.
• I was going to take a shower.
• I was going to watch an episode of Supernatural.
• I was going to go to sleep.

I had everything planned. I had even planned a bowel movement but figured I would leave that out of the list for the sake of decency. The best laid plans... though. At first, it started out smoothly. I went to the store and bought two cans of wasp spray. One to use that day and another just in case I they decided to build a new nest again. I would have made a great boy scout since I am always prepared except for their whole anti-gay agenda of course. I also bought stuff to make sandwiches because that sounded good for dinner. I even bought some bolillos, a type of Mexican bread, and some avocado. I digressed from the plan a bit, but I had to have something for dinner so I did not feel that bad about it. Usually, it is when I get home that I abandon all plans I have made for the evening and end up just watching TV. Not yesterday though. I got home and, since I was not hungry yet, decided to change and head out to the shed. I grabbed the keys to the shed and locked the door behind me. I, however, failed to grab my house keys, a mistake I realized the moment the door clicked shut behind me. I don't have an extra key. I used to have a key hidden outside but we changed our locks about a year ago and I never hid another copy. My first instinct was to panic. Then I realized that the Old Man should come back soon. The time was around 6:30 pm and he can't drive in the dark so he should be home before sunset. With that in mind, I decided to head to the shed to get the post-hole digger. The temperature yesterday was over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It was a lot hotter inside that shed. On top of that, and despite the many wonderful qualities Dad possesses, being organized is not one of Dad's strong points. He tends to hoard stuff, which has worked to our advantage before, but without an organizational schematic, that shed, to continue quoting The Big Bang Theory, was a swirling vortex of entropy. Scratch that. It was a sweltering, fever-inducing, blister-creating swirling vortex of entropy. In Dad's defense, he did have all his shovels and long-handled tools in the same area in the back. In Dad's offense, if that is how you say it as I am not clear on the correct terminology, there was no clear path to them. At one point I was stepping on a lawnmower while straddling a bicycle and using a crutch to try and move the handle of the digger within arm distance. Needless to say, a misstep would have been a very painful, and dangerous, development. After about fifteen to twenty minutes of acrobatic feats the likes of which I never thought myself capable of achieving, I was standing outside the shed with the post-hole digger in hand. I felt accomplished. At least I did until I remembered I was locked outside of the house. Then the wait began.

The Old Man has a cell number but I did not want to disrupt his evening with my stupidity. I went back to the porch and, being careful to avoid the wasps, had a seat in a white plastic chair and started waiting. I realized that I may have to cut my to-do list down depending on what time the Old Man made it back. I figured I would still be able to get the wasp nest because that way I could spray it after the Old Man went inside and that way he would not be exposed to the harsh chemicals. The bottle even recommended that one spray in the evening when the wasps are less active. I figure I could at least get that done and then get at least some of the cleaning done. While I was waiting, I decided to play Candy Crush Saga. I refuse to play anything on Facebook as I refuse to get on Facebook much anymore. Also, I know how annoying it can get to keep getting requests for lives and stuff of that sort so I decided to play it solo. What that means is that at the end of every section, you have to pass three specific stages to unlock the new section. Each time you pass one of the stages, you have to wait twenty-four hours to play the next one. I was in the middle of one of those twenty-four hour periods so I started playing from the beginning again trying to beat my own scores. That kept me busy for about an hour. Yes, an hour. Bear with me, I still have a ways to go. Next I decided to text people whom I have been meaning to contact but hadn't had time. I had time now. I had nothing but time and about forty-five percent battery left. Well, I got to catch up with some people and I did not hear back from a few others which made me question whether or not I should keep their numbers. I have not decided yet. After another hour had passed, I looked around and noticed that, although there was still some light, the sun had set. I decided to give in and call the Old Man. Unfortunately, he did not answer. I figured I would give him a few minutes and call him back. At around 9:00 pm I called him again. This time, he answered. When I asked where he was, he had no qualms in explaining that he had found a boil in his fundillo, as he put it, and he was at the hospital. If you did not follow that link to the Urban Dictionary definition, the word he so eloquently used is crude Mexican slang for "butt". Point being, he was going to have to spend the night at the hospital. I told him about my predicament and he said that I could come by and pick up an extra key he had. I was now faced with the daunting task of finding a ride to the hospital. I called Sister but she didn't answer. She sent me a text saying that she would call me back in a minute. I texted back telling her to make sure to do so. Well, it was after nine at night and I had ten percent battery left and there was only about a fifty percent chance Sister would call me back. I decided to look online for locksmiths but then changed my mind because I don't want to know how easy it would be, for someone with the know-how, to break into my house. I decided to start walking to the hospital, as I only live about two miles away, and hope for the best. I figured, worst case scenario, I would call a taxi and pay them once I got into the house. I started walking and I thanked my lucky stars that I was wearing a white shirt because most of the way I had to walk did not have a sidewalk and I had to walk on the shoulder. I remembered from my Driver's Ed class that, if you had to walk on the side of the road, it was better to walk on the side of oncoming traffic. The reason for that is that you can see a car coming and have a chance to get out of the way if the driver fails to see you. Despite the fact that I had very low battery, I was texting Preggo while I walked. When she was caught up on the whole situation, she said she was sorry I was having such a bad night. The problem was that I was not having a horrible night. I was quite happy in fact. Almost euphorically actually. I tried to explain it to her but she replied by saying that she did not understand me but that it did not matter as it was part of what made me special. Luckily, fifteen minutes and a quarter mile into my journey, Sister called me back. I answered and asked her if she had a key to my place and she said she didn't. When she asked me why I was asking her that, I told her that I had been locked out of the house for about three hours and was currently walking towards the hospital to get an extra key from the Old Man. I think at that point she was kind of exasperated with me. She kept asking me how come I had not told her that earlier. I said that I had called her and that she had texted me saying that she would call me back so I was waiting for her to call me back. She then informed me that being locked out for three hours was an emergency and that I should have texted her back informing her of my situation and that she would have come sooner. I was not aware that being locked out was an emergency but I am glad to know that for future reference. Actually, I thought being locked out was a very stupid, thoughtless mistake but to each their own. Sister and Brother-in-law (Bil) came to pick me up and, after a failed attempt to jimmy my door open with a Starbucks gift card, drove me to the hospital. BTW, I was very glad to find out the house could not be broken into using a five dollar Starbucks gift card. If there was a silver lining, that was definitely it. When we arrived at the hospital, Sister told me to tell the Old Man that I had gotten a ride from a friend so that he wouldn't go into long health explanations. I walked into the hospital and was immediately reminded of the horrible state I was in. I was wearing blue basketball shorts, a white undershirt, gray dress socks, and slip-on blue plaid shoes. To say I was embarrassed to be seen in public like that is an understatement. It did not matter that there were people dressed worse than me at the emergency waiting room, this was probably the low point of the evening. I arrived at the Old Man's room and was careful enough to knock before I entered to give him enough time to become decent. It did not matter though. He was wearing a hospital gown but we all know that those things don't close in the back and I got an eyeful of old man tighty-whiteys. Scratch what I said earlier, this was definitely the low point of the evening. He grabbed his wallet and handed me a spare key. It was not the house key. I told him that and he insisted that it was. I told him that it looked like a car key and that is when he remembered that he had made a copy of his truck key. He dug into his wallet one more time and fished out two more keys, one for his P.O. Box and the extra key to the house. I tried to leave as soon as possible, just as my sister had instructed me, but was unable to extricate myself from the room without first hearing about how they had given him a shot in the buttocks to numb them and that then they had lanced the boil and squeezed a whole bunch of pus out of it. As bad as hearing that was, it still did not take the low point of the evening prize from the earlier exhibitionist show.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. I made my way back to Sister and Bil and they proceeded to drive me back to my place. I gave them the extra key for them to keep in case of future "emergencies." as they called them, as I know I am careless enough to lock myself out again. After they left, I made myself some dinner and sat down to watch Supernatural as I ate. It was eleven o'clock at night, my whole plan was shot to hell (pardon my French but it seemed appropriate), but I had had a very pleasant evening. As near perfect as I am, I like having these kind of nights when I am reminded of how human I still am. Ironically, as much of a misanthrope as I am, I do cherish when my humanity shows up unexpectedly. I know this is not a perfect story, but that is why I like it. I am tired of perfection. Humanity is imperfect and it is time we let our imperfections shine through. I am getting off my high horse now. 'Til next week.

And Then There Was The Family.

Welcome back. In keeping with my new-found desire to keep up with this blog and updating you all with what has been going on in my life in the last three years, I will now write about my family. Of course, no family post would be complete without Medea and, fortunately, she never disappoints. I will leave her many exploits til later in the post. First, I shall introduce my family.

Let's start with Dad. He's my dad. I think that's all that needs to be said about him. He does not create much drama as he is very easygoing and blends into the background of stories very easily. I will say this about him, though; he is one of the happiest people I know as I have never seen him stress about unimportant things. Unfortunately, my and my sister inherited my mom's personality so, except for him, we are all ticking time bombs waiting to go off.

This brings me to Sister. What can I say about my sister? She is 4 years older than me and has had three kids while I have yet to have any. To the casual observer, it may seem like she is trying to make me look bad. The joke is on her though because I don't like kids and don't plan on having any. She could have outdone me by just having one instead of tripling that burden for no sane reason. Yes, she says that she wanted three kids, but she is not fooling me. No, sir. I am no fool and will not be a victim to her lies about wanting children for reasons unrelated to me. Like I would believe that. She is obviously a crappy liar. As for my relationship with my sister, there is not much to say. We are civil to each other and we care about each other, but, we are not the closest siblings in the history of sibling-hood. We have different tastes in everything (mine are good and hers are tacky, fyi) and different viewpoints. I am convinced she may be a political conservative which makes no sense to me as a self-proclaimed liberal. I think the biggest reason why we are not close is the fact that I am gay. I don't fully understand her views on it. I know she is influenced by the hyper-religious upbringing we both had (mine more hyper than hers as she was not a huge church fan, btw). I also know that she does have gay friends and even had a gay roommate when she first moved out of the house. That being said, on one particular night when we were discussing Medea and during which I felt that we were bonding, I happened to mention that I was gay. I don't think I got the greatest reaction from her. I mean, she cried (as in sobbing not just a few tears) so we cut our chat short and I left. The next morning she did not mention it and has not mentioned it since. I feel fairly safe to assume that's not the greatest reaction though I do think it was not the worst by far. There was no calling my parents plus denial is a pretty sweet, if hurtful, package.

Moving on to Brother-in-law, or Bil as he shall henceforth be known. I debated on whether or not to give Bil his own paragraph. I didn't think he was important enough and the only reason he got his own paragraph is because my sister's paragraph was way too long already. Yes, I am glad he is alive and well since then I don't have to worry about Sister and her progeny being cared for. That's about it though. We don't see eye to eye on much. I was not really aware there were levels of how Mexican you can be, and then I met him. He is way, WAY, more Mexican than me. Think of a Mexican stereotype and he either fulfills it or has family that does. Is he Catholic? Yes. Does he like soccer? Yes. Has he ever gotten a buzz cut with designs on it? No, but his brother did once and I was not allowed to laugh, point, or make otherwise derisive comments. Has he ever worn those pointy boots that are, in my mind, the equivalent of a Mexican vasectomy? Once again, no. But his brother has. Did he have his last name or his hometown tinted in the back window of his vehicle? He wanted to but thankfully my sister was able to knock some sense into him.  Does he eat rat stew? Yes. Now I know that last one is not a Mexican stereotype but I thought it was worth mentioning because it is disgusting. Granted, they are mountain rats and not sewer rats that he is eating so they are supposed to be healthier. That didn't change the fact that when I lifted that pot lid there were rat whiskers, teeth and eyes staring back at me.  I think Bil's definitive story would be the one time I was riding in their Tahoe about eight or nine years ago. We were driving back to Denton from Dallas and it was close to X-mas. As we were driving going north on I-35E, an SUV with X-mas lights along its interior passed us. I was amused, in a condescending sort of way, until I looked over at Bil's face and my amusement quickly changed to terror. His face was lit-up like a child on X-mas morning who just opened one of his presents to find the one thing he had longed for the most. The child who found the one present he had made sure was in his letter to Santa and for which he had behaved and avoided having any fun in the slim chance that he might get it. Bil's smile was so intense even the Joker would have asked him to tone it down a bit. He turned to Sister and made a statement which my mind has luckily blocked out but which amounted to him wanting to place X-mas lights on his vehicle. Fortunately, Sister was not as enthusiastic about his idea as he was so it was never carried to fruition. Nevertheless, take it or leave it but that story encapsulates everything that is Bil.

Moving on to my nephews. I have two. For the sake of simplicity, I will call the older nephew Older and the younger nephew will be known as Younger. ( I must give credit where credit is due and I have to thank my Houston friend for such a clear method of pseudonym assignment.) I hope none of you are lost so far.

Older is about to finish elementary school and move to middle school. I must say that I am very protective of him. I feel a strong bond with him as I have lived with him and his parents during various periods of my life. I have always loved cartoons and I remember having a routine when I used to live with him around 2005. I would get home from work at the same time everyday and he would come into my room and we would watch The Fairly Oddparents and take a nap afterward. I feel it necessary to explain that my disdain for children does not extend to my nephews at all. Although, I am always very glad that I can send them home to their parents when I am done with them. I think the phrase to keep in mind here is, small doses.

Younger is either six or seven years old, depending on when I post this. He is a very interesting character that I often find myself at odds with. He has a very strong will and a very independent streak which are good qualities but can sometimes lead to trouble. On top of that, he is very spoiled. I don't do well with spoiled children. I guess it's because I myself am spoiled and I don't like the competition. He is just more of a handful than Older ever was. I have to say I am not proud of this, even though I secretly really am, in order to come across as more politically correct, but I used to have Older trained to look up and/or come to me when I snapped my fingers. Stop judging me. I know that sounds horrible but it was very practical.  Hear me out. If we were ever in a crowded and loud play area, as we often were, he would not hear us calling his name. However, he would hear the snapping of my fingers and come to us which turned yelling into an unnecessary task. I am only telling you this as an example of something that Younger would never go for.

Although she is the youngest, I think I will just call my niece Emily. That is, of course, not her real name. I don't feel free to divulge that kind of information without parental permission and I don't feel comfortable getting parental permission because then I would have to inform them that I have a blog and they may not like what I write in it. Back to my niece, Emily was the name that my nephews had picked for their sister while she was just an ethereal idea a couple of years ago. It was actually Younger's idea to call her Emily. He wanted her to be called Emily Elizabeth after the girl in the Clifford books. What I love about calling her Emily is that now everyone gets mad at me for calling her that and keep reminding me of her real name as if I had simply gotten confused or forgotten it. They don't know that it is their frustration that fuels my desire to call her Emily. Anyway, Emily is the newest addition to my sister's family. She is not even two months old yet. Her arrival has sure been bittersweet though. On the plus side, Medea can finally stop bugging me about having a granddaughter. She kept telling me how she wanted a granddaughter so that she could dress her up in a nice red dress. Don't ask me why the dress had to be red. Medea is the one responsible for that lunacy. On the negative side though, Emily now has the first birthday of the year. I used to have the first birthday of the year, being a March baby and all, but she had to be born in February and ruin it. On top of that, she doesn't really do anything. She just lays there. She really is kind of boring and I can't wait for her to get a personality because so far I don't think I like her. I am not a big baby person. I like kids more than I like babies and I really don't like kids so you should have an idea how I feel about babies. I have never had to and will, hopefully, never have to change a diaper in my life. I know what I like and I am pretty sure diaper changing is on the list of things I do not enjoy. That being said, I have already told Sister that, just as I did with Older and Younger, I will not babysit Emily until she is potty trained. And that's final.

The last member of what I consider my family would be my mother, or as I affectionately have dubbed her, Medea. I had meant to gloss over the other family members so I could focus on Medea's antics but, alas, brevity has never been my forte. Since this post already seems to be too long and, even if it is not, it has taken me most of the morning to write, I will probably just gloss over her antics and reserve the right to expand on them later. In a nutshell in the past two years I moved out of my parents' house after a specifically terrible fight. After six months, I moved back in with them so I could look after their house since five months later they moved to Mexico. A month after me and a very pregnant Sister (along with her family) visited them in Mexico. During the stay, Medea became very mad at me for talking to one of my aunts she had had an argument with and stopped talking to me. Two months after they came back for the birth of their granddaughter (remember Emily?) but she still refused to talk to me which came as a shock to nobody that ever knew her. Currently, they are staying at their house which coincidentally is where I am staying. They should be here for about another month but their stay is never free of drama. Unfortunately, this drama doesn't lend itself to crafty writing in order to be made bearable so them being here has only been more of an inconvenience and has provided less to write about than usual. I mean, it's not every year they leave me stranded in Odessa.  However, it is worthy of note that Medea has "divorced me" as she keeps repeating to me whenever she is talking to me. I am not necessarily sure what that entails but I shall keep you notified as the disenfranchisement develops.

I think I will stop this post for now. After all, I don't want to sound too bitter. I think I came off as bitter enough. Anyway, isn't life funny? I just realized that the person who I did not even want to write a paragraph about is the one that ended up with the longest paragraph. I was not aware that he could provide so much fodder although it seems obvious in retrospect since the whole family makes fun of him constantly.  I guess you live and you learn.