In case you didn't know yet, I've ditched this blog.
I am now at my own domain...
www.gimpsworld.org
Also, I am importing these posts with me as soon as Wordpress fixes whatever it is blogger beta fubarred with the post importing system.
01 September 2006
27 August 2006
26 August 2006
25 August 2006
Have you ever blindly defended a loved one who often faces unwarranted and unfounded, biased criticisms? They know nothing about it, of course, but you do. You could never tell them about some of the stupid things people have said about them because it would destroy what precious little dignity they have managed to preserve. You don't want them to inadvertently give the rumormongers more fire to fuel their lie factories, so you tend to micromanage the loved one in question. You tell them when they're out of line. And, of course, they do what you expect: They insult you, tell you that you're obsessed with them and that you just need to shut up and stay out of their life. All the while you are carrying around baggage from your most recent bout of defending this person tooth and nail.
And yet, if they only knew what you were going through - - if they knew how you feel when you hear the crap people disseminate far and wide about them...then things would be so completely different. This person would then somehow realize how deeply their words hurt you when you've only been trying to help them all this time. They would give you thanks from the innermost depths of their heart for being a caring family member and an overall decent human being.
And yet, this will never transpire. Since you don't want to damage them anymore than they've already been damaged, you maintain a painful silence about the rumors. You try and help them, but you're constantly yelled at and cut by one stinging accusation or insult after another. You resolve in your heart to continue your cursed vigil, hoping that someday, just someday, that they see what you've been doing for them.
And yet, if they only knew what you were going through - - if they knew how you feel when you hear the crap people disseminate far and wide about them...then things would be so completely different. This person would then somehow realize how deeply their words hurt you when you've only been trying to help them all this time. They would give you thanks from the innermost depths of their heart for being a caring family member and an overall decent human being.
And yet, this will never transpire. Since you don't want to damage them anymore than they've already been damaged, you maintain a painful silence about the rumors. You try and help them, but you're constantly yelled at and cut by one stinging accusation or insult after another. You resolve in your heart to continue your cursed vigil, hoping that someday, just someday, that they see what you've been doing for them.
24 August 2006
Nice. Self-righteous fools, you just ruined the solar system as we knew it.
My
Very
Elegant
Mother
Just
Served
Us
Nine...
Now what? Pizzas are out of the equation.
My
Very
Elegant
Mother
Just
Served
Us
Nine...
Now what? Pizzas are out of the equation.
Before you start reading this, I suggest you start the following video at youtube in another window, due to its recurring appearances in my life as of late. It's Ryan Adams' La Cienga Just Smiled...a song I want played at my funeral, by Gnif if at all possible. You know, should the unfortunate need should arise. Anyway....
Today I was struck by something. At first, it would seem so simple, such an obvious sentiment, that would at first seem unworthy of even mentioning to another due to its mundanity, but at the same time so profound that it's hard to grasp. If you're wondering what on earth I'm getting at, I'm referring to the fragility of life as we know it. It is indeed a seldom occasion when I am smitten with this recurring thought, but as of late I am all but obliged to meditate on the subject. After Mr. Reeves blowing his head off...after seeing several car wrecks...after the Vietnamese shrimp boats laden with dead families in the storm debris left by Katrina. It's something that even though I am not constantly dwelling upon every waking moment manages to stay in a dark corner in my mind.
Last night Mrs. Gimp had a bad bout with the bronchial spasms that have been plaguing her lately. She is forced to sleep in a semi-sitting position, propped up with every available pillow and cushion (including my own, forcing me to sleep with a rolled-towel to support my neck). This position permits her to sleep without choking on her own phlegm. That didn't remedy the situation last night. She began choking with severe bronchial spasms at 01:00, 03:00, and 06:00. I held her hair and shook the albuterol spray and reassured her that she was indeed alive...
In case you don't know what a bronchial spasm is, do this -- exhale, and I mean HARD. Let all the air out of your lungs, then force the last few dribbles out. Now, pinch your nose and close your mouth and make a hard, determined effort to breathe back in. Fight, but don't let yourself inhale. Mrs. Gimp is doing this an alarming number of times as of late due to her bronchitis and previous childhood asthma. I feel rather helpless when I watch her fight so hard for the simple pleasure of breathing air. I sat in my living room the other night and silently cried because of what I had just seen. I've never lived in close proximity to an asthmatic, so I don't know how to take all of this...it's so overwhelming when I see her colour change and watch as tears stream down her face as she struggles. When the air finally fills her lungs I say a silent prayer of thanks. I refuse to sleep at night, opting to watch over her. I wet a finger in my mouth, and place it near her nose to reassure myself that she is still breathing. That she is still my wife, and that she's not dead.
The doctors have increased her albuterol to every 4 to 6 hours instead of twice a day. She's decided to stop the advair steroid due to the fact that it gave her a disgusting thrush infection in her throat (read: yeast infection in your friggin mouth) that necessitated another $50 visit to the doctor, followed by a $40 Rx for an antifungal mouthwash. (Is Ryan Adams hitting it down on the end of this song yet? It's awesome live. It's also key to this post, so start the damn song already if you haven't, and if you have, make sure it's still going).
I bought her a cushion with arm rests today, to keep her from having to use all those pillows. I also bought her 2 red roses surrounded by baby's breath, and a card that has a pit bull on it. It says "I like you so much that I wag my tail til..." and when you open the card it says "...my butt hurts." I also bought her a copy of Troy on DVD so she can get a Brad Pitt fix tomorrow.
I was thinking about last night and how scared I was. It began to rain this afternoon at around five, and of course my windows were down. La Cienga Just Smiled was on the ipod, and for some reason I felt gravitated to the cemetery where my grandpa's are, along with Holly (see my July post about Holly, my beloved cousin who has attained legendary status). It was raining, and I pulled up at Lake Park Hills, rolled through the iron gates where I skated and played street hockey at night so many times before. I drove past the spot where I downed my first beer as a teenager, and around the curve to the second lake on the 'back 40' where I played fetch with Crouton Sherwin recently. I drove past Devan's grave, with its black lab puppy statues on it (Devan was murdered by a vengeful husband who was too stupid to know he shot the wrong damn person), then walked past Dottie's brother Paul's grave. Paul went to sleep at the wheel coming home from Miss. State I understand...don't recall for sure but know for a fact it tore her up and I felt sorry but unable to express it to her at the time.
I walked through the rain, with La Cienga Just Smiled going in my headphones, and then I passed them. First grandma's vacant and morbid-as-hell stone waiting in silent testimony of how creepy it is for the living to purchase a stone beforehand...no deathdate, only the birth date. Then I passed TuTu's grave (my paternal grandpa)...and there was Pa buried right below him (my maternal grandpa). I thought about how both grew up in a difficult time, but one had a lawyer for a dad and the other one's dad made him quit school to pick cotton, something he always resented because it delayed him learning how to read. And by them was Holly...and the song in my ipod declares "How'd I end up to feel so bad for such a little girl? / I hold you close in the back of my mind / It feels so good, but damn it makes me hurt." It's a romantic song, but that one line in a familial sense just described my entire being in that given moment, then it goes "La Cienga just smiles and says 'I'll see you around'." I squatted down and cleaned some bird crap off her stone, it was covering the 4 of July 4, 1989. By then I had been rained on to the point of being wet down to the socks, but I still stood there, admiring my loved ones: Holly, Pa, and Tutu. I kissed two fingers and placed a tender kiss on each of their stones then walked back to my car in the rain, thinking about how a life can be snuffed out in an instant.
I would be depressed, but a close friend of mine is helping me to stop living for the past. I have stopped reaching back and purposely holding on to painful snippets of my life, striving better yet for the present and the unpredictable future.
La Cienga Just Smiled and said "I'll see ya around..."
Holly, I'll see ya 'round one day, and we'll have a whiskey sour with Tutu and talk about all the things ya'll have missed. Ya'll have missed my beautiful wife and my three kids who fell from the sky and into my life. Ya'll missed my first house, which I sold, and my second, which is less than two miles from where ya'll are resting, but only a mile from where we played football in Tutu's yard. I'll pick on you for the big 80's hair you had when you left us, and I'll tell you all the things I was too scared to tell you due to my youthful bashfulness, like how I wanted to tell you to stop hanging out with those drunk whores who you called your 'friends', and how I didn't like you drinking so much, or how I missed you on Saturday nights when you stopped coming over to our house to eat a steak and a salad like we had all done as a family since decades before you or I had ever entered into the equation. I'll tell you about how me and your little brother used to stay up all night watching music videos when they were still a novelty, and how much I miss him too ever since I'd lost touch with him and he'd gotten into the same drug trap that ultimately brought about your demise.
People, remember your families. If you have problems or divisions, it doesn't matter. One day you could wake up and realise that in an instant your loved ones are no longer a part of your day-to-day lives.
And, for the lazy fool that didn't bother to start La Cienga Just Smiled, here:
Today I was struck by something. At first, it would seem so simple, such an obvious sentiment, that would at first seem unworthy of even mentioning to another due to its mundanity, but at the same time so profound that it's hard to grasp. If you're wondering what on earth I'm getting at, I'm referring to the fragility of life as we know it. It is indeed a seldom occasion when I am smitten with this recurring thought, but as of late I am all but obliged to meditate on the subject. After Mr. Reeves blowing his head off...after seeing several car wrecks...after the Vietnamese shrimp boats laden with dead families in the storm debris left by Katrina. It's something that even though I am not constantly dwelling upon every waking moment manages to stay in a dark corner in my mind.
Last night Mrs. Gimp had a bad bout with the bronchial spasms that have been plaguing her lately. She is forced to sleep in a semi-sitting position, propped up with every available pillow and cushion (including my own, forcing me to sleep with a rolled-towel to support my neck). This position permits her to sleep without choking on her own phlegm. That didn't remedy the situation last night. She began choking with severe bronchial spasms at 01:00, 03:00, and 06:00. I held her hair and shook the albuterol spray and reassured her that she was indeed alive...
In case you don't know what a bronchial spasm is, do this -- exhale, and I mean HARD. Let all the air out of your lungs, then force the last few dribbles out. Now, pinch your nose and close your mouth and make a hard, determined effort to breathe back in. Fight, but don't let yourself inhale. Mrs. Gimp is doing this an alarming number of times as of late due to her bronchitis and previous childhood asthma. I feel rather helpless when I watch her fight so hard for the simple pleasure of breathing air. I sat in my living room the other night and silently cried because of what I had just seen. I've never lived in close proximity to an asthmatic, so I don't know how to take all of this...it's so overwhelming when I see her colour change and watch as tears stream down her face as she struggles. When the air finally fills her lungs I say a silent prayer of thanks. I refuse to sleep at night, opting to watch over her. I wet a finger in my mouth, and place it near her nose to reassure myself that she is still breathing. That she is still my wife, and that she's not dead.
The doctors have increased her albuterol to every 4 to 6 hours instead of twice a day. She's decided to stop the advair steroid due to the fact that it gave her a disgusting thrush infection in her throat (read: yeast infection in your friggin mouth) that necessitated another $50 visit to the doctor, followed by a $40 Rx for an antifungal mouthwash. (Is Ryan Adams hitting it down on the end of this song yet? It's awesome live. It's also key to this post, so start the damn song already if you haven't, and if you have, make sure it's still going).
I bought her a cushion with arm rests today, to keep her from having to use all those pillows. I also bought her 2 red roses surrounded by baby's breath, and a card that has a pit bull on it. It says "I like you so much that I wag my tail til..." and when you open the card it says "...my butt hurts." I also bought her a copy of Troy on DVD so she can get a Brad Pitt fix tomorrow.
I was thinking about last night and how scared I was. It began to rain this afternoon at around five, and of course my windows were down. La Cienga Just Smiled was on the ipod, and for some reason I felt gravitated to the cemetery where my grandpa's are, along with Holly (see my July post about Holly, my beloved cousin who has attained legendary status). It was raining, and I pulled up at Lake Park Hills, rolled through the iron gates where I skated and played street hockey at night so many times before. I drove past the spot where I downed my first beer as a teenager, and around the curve to the second lake on the 'back 40' where I played fetch with Crouton Sherwin recently. I drove past Devan's grave, with its black lab puppy statues on it (Devan was murdered by a vengeful husband who was too stupid to know he shot the wrong damn person), then walked past Dottie's brother Paul's grave. Paul went to sleep at the wheel coming home from Miss. State I understand...don't recall for sure but know for a fact it tore her up and I felt sorry but unable to express it to her at the time.
I walked through the rain, with La Cienga Just Smiled going in my headphones, and then I passed them. First grandma's vacant and morbid-as-hell stone waiting in silent testimony of how creepy it is for the living to purchase a stone beforehand...no deathdate, only the birth date. Then I passed TuTu's grave (my paternal grandpa)...and there was Pa buried right below him (my maternal grandpa). I thought about how both grew up in a difficult time, but one had a lawyer for a dad and the other one's dad made him quit school to pick cotton, something he always resented because it delayed him learning how to read. And by them was Holly...and the song in my ipod declares "How'd I end up to feel so bad for such a little girl? / I hold you close in the back of my mind / It feels so good, but damn it makes me hurt." It's a romantic song, but that one line in a familial sense just described my entire being in that given moment, then it goes "La Cienga just smiles and says 'I'll see you around'." I squatted down and cleaned some bird crap off her stone, it was covering the 4 of July 4, 1989. By then I had been rained on to the point of being wet down to the socks, but I still stood there, admiring my loved ones: Holly, Pa, and Tutu. I kissed two fingers and placed a tender kiss on each of their stones then walked back to my car in the rain, thinking about how a life can be snuffed out in an instant.
I would be depressed, but a close friend of mine is helping me to stop living for the past. I have stopped reaching back and purposely holding on to painful snippets of my life, striving better yet for the present and the unpredictable future.
La Cienga Just Smiled and said "I'll see ya around..."
Holly, I'll see ya 'round one day, and we'll have a whiskey sour with Tutu and talk about all the things ya'll have missed. Ya'll have missed my beautiful wife and my three kids who fell from the sky and into my life. Ya'll missed my first house, which I sold, and my second, which is less than two miles from where ya'll are resting, but only a mile from where we played football in Tutu's yard. I'll pick on you for the big 80's hair you had when you left us, and I'll tell you all the things I was too scared to tell you due to my youthful bashfulness, like how I wanted to tell you to stop hanging out with those drunk whores who you called your 'friends', and how I didn't like you drinking so much, or how I missed you on Saturday nights when you stopped coming over to our house to eat a steak and a salad like we had all done as a family since decades before you or I had ever entered into the equation. I'll tell you about how me and your little brother used to stay up all night watching music videos when they were still a novelty, and how much I miss him too ever since I'd lost touch with him and he'd gotten into the same drug trap that ultimately brought about your demise.
People, remember your families. If you have problems or divisions, it doesn't matter. One day you could wake up and realise that in an instant your loved ones are no longer a part of your day-to-day lives.
And, for the lazy fool that didn't bother to start La Cienga Just Smiled, here:
21 August 2006
Edit: You know, I just heard prez say something on CNN that wigged me out. He yelled at the press corps and basically said that as long as he was president that no one is leaving Iraq until the mission is accomplished. Can you explain to me what exactly the mission is and when it will be accomplished? Is it depleting the entire population of 30-somethings? Nothing's changed in that part of the world, except a lot of us have friends who have come home as emotional wrecks. Do you know what it's like to have a friend talk to you in the wee hours of the night on a weeknight, wasted and crying? Babbling about stuff and not wanting to go into detail about the guts, the bodies burned to a crisp, the bones snapped off, the compound fractures and extremity stumps, the natives who take shots at you when you aren't even save on your own base?
I hate bringing up politics, because they're useless, but...I mean. C'mon.
In case the video in my earlier post was lost on you, check the lyrics to Dead American from Lars Frederiksen and The Bastards. It's how I feel everytime the news comes on now and they announce that another young person has been blown to bits.
Trench warfare dug in deep brutal bloody No retreat
American dead better than red another politician with a debt on his head
Bodies ripped covered in shit Napalm blitz the City is lit
Bombs blast mustard gas throat slash truncheon smash
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about another dead American
Blitzkrieg flames buildings ablaze killings fields where the bodies decay
Torture racks machine gun racks never surrender it's an all-out attack
Money whores open sores plan quiet wars behind closed doors
Clandestine games human remains cyanide genocide
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about a dead American
=============================================================
Yo G-nif, here's a video for you and I to derive some inspiration.
:-)
I hate bringing up politics, because they're useless, but...I mean. C'mon.
In case the video in my earlier post was lost on you, check the lyrics to Dead American from Lars Frederiksen and The Bastards. It's how I feel everytime the news comes on now and they announce that another young person has been blown to bits.
Trench warfare dug in deep brutal bloody No retreat
American dead better than red another politician with a debt on his head
Bodies ripped covered in shit Napalm blitz the City is lit
Bombs blast mustard gas throat slash truncheon smash
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about another dead American
Blitzkrieg flames buildings ablaze killings fields where the bodies decay
Torture racks machine gun racks never surrender it's an all-out attack
Money whores open sores plan quiet wars behind closed doors
Clandestine games human remains cyanide genocide
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey Another story about another dead American...
Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey One more story about a dead American
=============================================================
Yo G-nif, here's a video for you and I to derive some inspiration.
:-)
I have changed over to Blogger's new system, still in its beta infancy. I must admit I was terrified at first, but I'm feeling more confident for now. I'm still wanting to get more hosting and buy back my domain from those stupid snipers from New Orleans who took it from me. They said they'd give it back to me for a handsome three digit fee, which seemed ri-damn-diculous to me. My Co.Uk domain was sniped up too. Oh well.
My American comrades: If you have not heard them, please take the time to listen to the Kooks and the Dogs, two UK groups who currently hold very dear places in my heart. As we have all figured out by now, unless you have an ipod or satellite radio, you aren't going to hear good music, at least not in our rural area of the dark, dusty and cobweb-infested corner of the world.
I must say I am concerned about Mrs. Gimp. Yesterday, she decided to leave the house for the first time in two weeks after dealing with a long bout of bronchitis and other bronchial maladies. I think she was attempting to show us how much stronger she felt now that she's been taking care of herself. Well, she did make a point at least: she passed out and I ended up carrying her to the car. The doctor says she's going to be ok, but it still doesn't make me feel any better after I was scared half to death.
I still want to know who in God's name you are in or around Hammond, LA. You aren't going to get off easily with only one mention. The paranoid self-critic in me thinks it's some class who is using my blog as a teaching tool on how not to behave like a mongoloid in public view.
By the way, nice going G-nif, you finally updated for the first time in January. Hence, you get your very own link again. ;-)
My American comrades: If you have not heard them, please take the time to listen to the Kooks and the Dogs, two UK groups who currently hold very dear places in my heart. As we have all figured out by now, unless you have an ipod or satellite radio, you aren't going to hear good music, at least not in our rural area of the dark, dusty and cobweb-infested corner of the world.
I must say I am concerned about Mrs. Gimp. Yesterday, she decided to leave the house for the first time in two weeks after dealing with a long bout of bronchitis and other bronchial maladies. I think she was attempting to show us how much stronger she felt now that she's been taking care of herself. Well, she did make a point at least: she passed out and I ended up carrying her to the car. The doctor says she's going to be ok, but it still doesn't make me feel any better after I was scared half to death.
I still want to know who in God's name you are in or around Hammond, LA. You aren't going to get off easily with only one mention. The paranoid self-critic in me thinks it's some class who is using my blog as a teaching tool on how not to behave like a mongoloid in public view.
By the way, nice going G-nif, you finally updated for the first time in January. Hence, you get your very own link again. ;-)
20 August 2006
==========================
When horseplay goes terribly wrong
==========================
It's still a bit touchy around this house. Mrs. Gimp can't sleep very well and as a consequence, I don't sleep either. The bags under my eyes are quite voluminous these days, representing almost a complete month of 3-5 hours sleep a night, beginning in Mexico. The asthmatic choking spasms are claming down slowly but surely, and as long as I don't sit up in the night terrified my better half is dying, that's a plus.
You know, it's kind of funny that all of this transpires the month after she is officially insurance-less.
Yesterday, she informs me that she wants something to eat and that I needed to go to the store for her. I get in my car, put on my headphones, and start down the road. When I get there, a brief flashback of what it's like to trounce about in public completely oblivious to one's surroundings (thanks Petite Anglaise!) convinces me to leave the ipod in my pocket as I'm doing my shopping.
The shopping experience was much, much better to the Clash, Pink Grease, and Paul van Dyk. along with a generous smattering of the Sex Pistols. Normally I get to the point where I want to run out of the store screaming and pulling my hair out when there are that many people there, but somehow, I just ignored them, lost in my own personal world. No borderline panic attacks, no rudeness...nothing but the music, and the groceries...
Except now Walmart has stopped selling rueditas ... you know, the wheat chicharrones that you throw in hot oil. Here:
So I ended up having to go to one of the local Mexican markets, which is really hell on a weekend. I think everyone and their momma was there. Since everyone kills themselves working during the week, the weekend is the time to get out and do the typical lavar hablar comprar mandado mandar dinero pa'la casa thing, so everyone was there buying fajitas, pan, and of course sending money back home to the house. While I was in line I counted maybe 8 grand changing hands...about eight guys and each one sending between 800 and a thousand bucks home. That represents a lot of sweat and work...I hope they're doing something worthwhile. Most of the guys I know usually do...it's all about putting your little sister through private school, getting her a laptop and internet access at home, paying off your mom's huge hospital debt, or the classic building a house one friggin room at a time...the construction literally depends on homeboy's paycheck up here at the plant...when he sends a little more home, there goes another room, and then another and another, and before you know it there's a two story house to move into, with decent plumbing and fixtures...and when that's finished...time for dude to come home after saving up another few thousand to maybe open up a family business to ensure they don't ever have to go through the whole mojado thing ever again.
What a tangent...
Anyway, I got the Duritos home, we heated up some oil, and fried the suckers. They expand to maybe 6 times their original size (about the size of a quarter)...and when they're done you arrange a nice pile on a plate, squeeze some lime juice on them, bathe liberally in hot sauce, and maybe a little crumbled fresco cheese, and there ya go...the best junk food money can buy. I LOVE these things. We ended up eating that for dinner since no one felt like cooking.
After watching A Very Long Engagement, I decided to go to bed. Somehow or another, a bit of rough-housing ensued between the missus and myself, she thought it was funny...and I thought it sucked. I went and locked myself in the bathroom, and when I cracked open the door to see what was happening, she sprays FEBREEZE into the partially opened door, not caring where it went. (In this case, my eyes)
I ran to the sink and desperately began pawing at my contacts to get them out of my eyes. "Clean Linen" smell and many tears later, I finally got them out, but now there is a major drawback. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people who doesn't really take his contacts out like he should. So it hurts to put them back in...really, really bad. I have to wait a couple of days to let the eye gunk and protein fairies clear out before I put a new pair in. And now I can't find my glasses.
So I'm sitting here typing this blindly, squinting at the screen and hoping I didn't make any typo's.
Word to ya' moms.
When horseplay goes terribly wrong
==========================
It's still a bit touchy around this house. Mrs. Gimp can't sleep very well and as a consequence, I don't sleep either. The bags under my eyes are quite voluminous these days, representing almost a complete month of 3-5 hours sleep a night, beginning in Mexico. The asthmatic choking spasms are claming down slowly but surely, and as long as I don't sit up in the night terrified my better half is dying, that's a plus.
You know, it's kind of funny that all of this transpires the month after she is officially insurance-less.
Yesterday, she informs me that she wants something to eat and that I needed to go to the store for her. I get in my car, put on my headphones, and start down the road. When I get there, a brief flashback of what it's like to trounce about in public completely oblivious to one's surroundings (thanks Petite Anglaise!) convinces me to leave the ipod in my pocket as I'm doing my shopping.
The shopping experience was much, much better to the Clash, Pink Grease, and Paul van Dyk. along with a generous smattering of the Sex Pistols. Normally I get to the point where I want to run out of the store screaming and pulling my hair out when there are that many people there, but somehow, I just ignored them, lost in my own personal world. No borderline panic attacks, no rudeness...nothing but the music, and the groceries...
Except now Walmart has stopped selling rueditas ... you know, the wheat chicharrones that you throw in hot oil. Here:
So I ended up having to go to one of the local Mexican markets, which is really hell on a weekend. I think everyone and their momma was there. Since everyone kills themselves working during the week, the weekend is the time to get out and do the typical lavar hablar comprar mandado mandar dinero pa'la casa thing, so everyone was there buying fajitas, pan, and of course sending money back home to the house. While I was in line I counted maybe 8 grand changing hands...about eight guys and each one sending between 800 and a thousand bucks home. That represents a lot of sweat and work...I hope they're doing something worthwhile. Most of the guys I know usually do...it's all about putting your little sister through private school, getting her a laptop and internet access at home, paying off your mom's huge hospital debt, or the classic building a house one friggin room at a time...the construction literally depends on homeboy's paycheck up here at the plant...when he sends a little more home, there goes another room, and then another and another, and before you know it there's a two story house to move into, with decent plumbing and fixtures...and when that's finished...time for dude to come home after saving up another few thousand to maybe open up a family business to ensure they don't ever have to go through the whole mojado thing ever again.What a tangent...
Anyway, I got the Duritos home, we heated up some oil, and fried the suckers. They expand to maybe 6 times their original size (about the size of a quarter)...and when they're done you arrange a nice pile on a plate, squeeze some lime juice on them, bathe liberally in hot sauce, and maybe a little crumbled fresco cheese, and there ya go...the best junk food money can buy. I LOVE these things. We ended up eating that for dinner since no one felt like cooking.
After watching A Very Long Engagement, I decided to go to bed. Somehow or another, a bit of rough-housing ensued between the missus and myself, she thought it was funny...and I thought it sucked. I went and locked myself in the bathroom, and when I cracked open the door to see what was happening, she sprays FEBREEZE into the partially opened door, not caring where it went. (In this case, my eyes)
I ran to the sink and desperately began pawing at my contacts to get them out of my eyes. "Clean Linen" smell and many tears later, I finally got them out, but now there is a major drawback. I hate to admit it, but I am one of those people who doesn't really take his contacts out like he should. So it hurts to put them back in...really, really bad. I have to wait a couple of days to let the eye gunk and protein fairies clear out before I put a new pair in. And now I can't find my glasses.
So I'm sitting here typing this blindly, squinting at the screen and hoping I didn't make any typo's.
Word to ya' moms.
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