Swollen Am I

I’m going to try something different this week. This blog will have an introduction—a short reflection before diving into everything that followed. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. Either way, I’d love to hear your feedback.

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Some weeks quietly drift by without much to write home about. This wasn’t one of them. It was a week filled with family, soccer, good meals, laughter, birthdays, birdwatching, dragons, and an all-out war. Life managed to keep things interesting from beginning to end, proving that even the most ordinary weeks can take an unexpected turn. Looking back now, I’m just grateful I came out of it with all my fingers still attached.

Let’s rewind the week.

I awoke with a grogginess on Saturday morning that was to be expected after a night with all the brothers. The time was well worth it, despite my current self-inflicted illness. I needed a little cure, so I made my way to the kitchen. I warmed up some tortillas and leftover chorizo and potatoes, chopped cilantro and jalapeño, and fried up an egg. A delicious breakfast taco and a cup of coffee did the trick, alleviating my burdensome grogginess.

Afterward, I got myself in gear and watched some more World Cup soccer—Norway versus Sweden. I’m telling you, it’s one of the most exciting sporting events on Earth, and I take full advantage of it by not missing many matches if I can help it. Some might consider it lazy, but it only happens every four years. I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t try to catch as many games as possible.

After watching Norway beat the hell out of Sweden, I decided to bring Hazel over to my mom’s to visit her friends. It had been years since she’d been around my brother’s dog, Billie. Of course, they both had to put on a little show and establish dominance. Silly dogs. After that little performance was over, I felt comfortable leaving them with my mother.

My brothers and nephews were at the pool, so I met them there in the heat of summer. While they swam around in the sun, I ordered a beer under the cover of the cabana and watched more soccer—Germany versus Ivory Coast. Eventually, they came out of the water and joined me. I helped them eat a few cheese fries before departing back to my mother’s house, where it was cool.

When I made it back home, I didn’t realize I would soon be going to war.

Deciding to give our new transplants a really thorough watering, I went to the hose spigot. When I reached for it beneath a low-hanging palm branch, I brushed up against an unseen threat. A nest—and my hand was immediately swarmed by wasps, and a searing pain washed over me unlike anything I can remember experiencing before. The bastards pulled a blitzkrieg on me.

I swatted the bastards from my hand and probably made a damn fool of myself trying to get away. Lord knows what obscenities flew from my mouth in that moment. It was multiple stings—multiple stings. I counted four, though later the true number would be revealed. Good Lord, did it hurt like hell.

I told Yvette, and she suggested meat tenderizer. Apparently, it works on jellyfish stings. Fuck it—it was worth a try. The result? I smelled like a steak—but I was still in pain. The swelling was already beginning to take hold.

I scoured the medicine cabinet, desperately looking for Benadryl. I had been stung by wasps many times in my youth, so I knew I wasn’t allergic, but never had I taken that many stings at once, especially in such a localized area. I found myself worried about that amount of venom.

Once I was able to calm down and the pain began to subside, it was time for some retaliation. I armed myself with a bottle of poison and went on the offensive. I wasn’t even sure exactly where they were located at that moment. I couldn’t see the nest, so I began firing away blindly into the general area—and got results. The cowardly bastards began fleeing, and there were a lot of them.

The motherfuckers must pay.

That night was little Alaya’s second birthday party. We held it at the Goodfellow Rec Camp swimming pool. It had originally been scheduled for the municipal pool, but they were closed for repairs. My hand was a swollen mess, and everyone wanted to shake it, as is the polite thing to do. I also had to explain what had happened without looking like a complete wuss, making sure to emphasize that it wasn’t just one wasp, but multiple wasps.

My swollen, aching hand aside, the party was actually a real blast. I was surrounded by both sides of my family. My brother Chris brought along a cooler full of beer, which served the adults nicely. Well, really just my side of the family. What can I say? We like to drink. I mean, really, a little alcohol is needed at a two-year-old’s birthday party—for sanity’s sake.

My nephew Patrick might have had the most fun of the lot. Once he saw that slide, he was sold. The kid who hadn’t even planned on swimming suddenly didn’t want to get out of the pool. He went up and down that slide so many times I lost track. He swam from ladder to ladder, timing himself to see how long it took. He was in the water for at least an hour and a half.

It was a heartwarming thing to behold. I told myself at that moment that I would go by my mother’s house every day they were in town.

The birthday girl was also very content. Alaya discovered some new floaties that really allowed her the freedom to move around on her own. It was cute as can be watching her newfound independence in the water. She’s really become a pretty good swimmer. I guess she’s getting a lot of practice at her mama’s new boyfriend’s house. As much as I dislike her being over there, at least she’s spending time with her mom and learning new things.

The turnout was also very good. The food was excellent. The company was great. A real treat. We had a good time.

Sunday was both Father’s Day and the Summer Solstice—a bummer of a deal.

It was a sad day for me for two reasons. One, I miss my father. Two, I fucking hate summer. The forecast for the week looked absolutely brutal, with consistent temperatures above 100 degrees. Fuck summer.

The day was also a bummer because the kids no longer have a father. I know that must be hard on them every day, but especially on Father’s Day.

I decided to make something special for breakfast on Father’s Day. I am a stepfather, right? I made biscuits and gravy, but with the gravy I first cooked some chorizo for flavor and then added sausage for heartiness and texture. The end product was spicy and unbelievably flavorful. I topped the buttery biscuits with gravy, a sunny-side-up egg, grilled jalapeño, and fresh cilantro. A true Father’s Day brunch.

Later that morning, Alaya opened all of her gifts from the night before. She wound up with a pretty decent haul. Lots of the gifts were more on the practical side, which was great. She already has enough toys to open a shop. We really need to try and downsize a bit—maybe donate some to children in need.

Afterward, I drove out to my mother’s house to hang out with my brothers before they hit the road. My nephews were sticking around for a week, so they lounged around the house without much urgency. We watched the Spain–Saudi Arabia World Cup match, with Spain utterly blowing Saudi Arabia away. It was a brutal 4–0 beating.

I said goodbye to my brothers and departed for my in-laws’.

When I got there, I was treated to lunch. I hadn’t expected to be fed, but my father-in-law had made brisket, potatoes, and beans. How could I resist the man’s brisket? It’s by far some of the best I’ve ever had. We ate and chatted for a couple of hours before I left to run the usual Sunday errands. Oh, the joy.

After errands, I prepped for dinner—pizza and wings—and went out to my mother’s house to see how she and my nephews were doing. The kids hadn’t left the house at all. I suppose my mom was surviving—maybe a little frayed around the edges, but that’s to be expected.

That night it was dinner and more soccer. Teegan watched House of the Dragon, which reminded me that I need to catch up. I want to be able to watch one last show with him before he leaves for college. Jesus, I am going to miss him. I will miss our conversations and the general good vibes he brings into the house.

Overall, it was a good way to wind down before the encroaching week.

Monday my hand was still swollen from the wasps, so I made plans to go to the clinic. Some urgency was pushed upon me by Yvette. Bless her for being in my life.

First things first—before the clinic, I went into work to get a game plan together for the week. With Troy back, I had to lay out everyone’s duties for the days ahead. After getting things moving, I caught up on everything I hadn’t finished on Friday. Then it was time for medical attention.

The clinic is on campus, so it didn’t take me more than a minute or two to get there. I was expecting to have to wait a while, but they got me into a room almost immediately. The nurse ran the usual tests, and the doctor showed up shortly afterward. It didn’t take him long to conclude that I had cellulitis, an infection beneath the skin. I had eight fucking wasp stings—let that sink in. Good Lord. No wonder it hurt so damn badly and was so swollen.

The doctor ran some tests and decided to give me a nice long needle in the ass, jump-starting treatment before prescribing an antibiotic regimen of four doses a day. I was told to keep my hand elevated as much as possible and keep a close eye on the swelling. The concern was that it could spread to my elbow, and if that happened, I was to head to the ER immediately. If that scenario presented itself, I would likely need to be hospitalized.

All because of some motherfucking wasps.

Now I was worried about losing a damn limb. Being diabetic added another layer of worry. The doctor gave me the option of a note excusing me from work, but I decided to go in anyway. What else was I going to do? The pain wasn’t going to disappear at home, and I wasn’t going to stop worrying about the very real possibility that I could be screwed. I might as well keep myself occupied and prevent my mind from dwelling on my hand.

God—it was a terribly long Monday.

I really felt like the pressure from the swelling was going to tear my skin open. It was uncomfortable, painful, and beginning to itch like crazy. Damn those fucking wasps. Who knew those little bastards would bring me such lasting grief? I reminded myself that once I got home, I needed to make sure I finished the job and murdered every last one of the little bastards.

While everyone was at lunch, I watched the Argentina–Austria World Cup match. I had a few friends at the game cheering on Argentina, so I was excited to see what they would do. That team boasts one of the greatest soccer players of all time, and during the match he made World Cup history by scoring more goals in the tournament than anyone else ever has. What a thing for my friends to witness. It ended in a 2–0 win for Argentina.

That night I began watching House of the Dragon. Being such a big Game of Thrones nerd, I’m really not sure why I’m only now starting a prequel series that first aired in 2022. I suppose the fact that it was a prequel—and that I already knew how things would eventually turn out—gave me some hesitation. Also, at the time of its release, it felt a little too soon after GoT’s finale to jump back into that epic world.

What I discovered was that waiting seven years since that series finale was apparently the perfect amount of time. I thoroughly enjoyed jumping back into the world, especially after the little taste I’d gotten from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms earlier this year. I thought I would be put off by a story focused primarily on the Targaryens, but I was thankfully wrong. Sure, keeping track of all the names can be a challenge when half the cast seems to share the same family tree, but by the second episode I was getting the hang of it.

And honestly, there’s something nice about coming to a show late. No waiting years between seasons, no dodging spoilers online, and no cliffhangers hanging over my head for months at a time. Just two full seasons sitting there, waiting to be binged whenever I felt like it.

Tuesday I woke up with some relief. I could make a fist. The swelling hadn’t completely gone down, but at least my hand no longer looked like an overinflated rubber glove. Thank the Lord for that small favor. Work was much easier with two functioning hands, and the day stayed busy enough to keep the hours moving. Before I knew it, it was five o’clock.

After work it was off to my mother’s house to visit with her and my nephews. Really, it’s mostly visiting with her. The boys are too into their games to really call it visiting. It’s a little bit of this and a little bit of that here and there. I get it. That’s being a kid.

I don’t think “visiting” is really an activity many kids willingly participate in, and that’s fine. It’s more about my presence and simply hanging out with them. I really wish I could see them more often than I do, but it’s not so easy when they live six hours away. At least I have this week—and I’ll take what I can get.

That night Yvette and I watched a sweet little rom-com called Voicemails for Isabelle. It touched all the feelings one expects from comfort food cinema: warmth, lighthearted joy, hopeful optimism, and heartbreaking sorrow mixed in for good measure. I thought it was a brilliant film with a well-written script and great performances from actors unfamiliar to me.

The movie is very much in the spirit of You’ve Got Mail, which it even acknowledges itself. The older sister leaves messages on her deceased sister’s voicemail as a form of therapy, only to discover that the phone number has been reassigned as a work phone for a real estate agent. He listens to the messages and eventually becomes infatuated with her. Using what he learns from the voicemails, he gradually weasels his way into her life. Yes, it’s morally wrong. Everyone watching the movie and everyone in the movie is fully aware of this, but you know how rom-coms work. Eventually, love finds a way.

I realized that evening that Tuesday was the only day I didn’t watch a single World Cup match.

Wednesday—three days later—my damn hand was still swollen. Can you fucking believe that?

At least I could finally use it normally again. Eight wasp stings and a case of cellulitis were one hell of a reminder that nature occasionally chooses violence. I made sure to revisit the battleground to finish the job, taking out the survivors of the initial attack and thoroughly destroying the nest. I was just thankful the antibiotics were doing their job and that I still had my hand attached. Needless to say, I’ll be giving that palm tree a wide berth from now on—and I’m a lot more aware of my surroundings.

A little more birdwatching entertained me while trekking back and forth across campus on Wednesday. A few notable encounters I didn’t mention in my last note include the Rock Pigeon, House Finch, Blue Jay, Turkey Vulture, and Mississippi Kite. At least four sightings of Blue Jays… and a rather unique encounter with the Kite—I witnessed two of them mating in a tree above campus. What a sight to see.

For lunch on Thursday, Yvette and I decided to dine out. We were both craving salads, and we had narrowed it down to two contenders. The winner was Angelo Ale House. They have a university discount and a salad we hadn’t yet tried that was supposed to be amazing. Well, it’ll have to wait. Once we arrived, they were told they were completely out of lettuce. When you walk into a pizza joint craving a salad and they’re out of lettuce—well, there’s really only one thing to do. You leave.

Our second choice was Joe’s Italian. They have a house salad we’ve enjoyed every time we’ve ordered it. Loaded with large cubes of ham, salami, and mozzarella, it’s topped with tomatoes, sweet red peppers, pepperoncini peppers, and both green and black olives—not to mention that incredible house dressing. It’s a mouthwatering affair all on its own. I’d say it’s one of the best salads I’ve had in a long time. We were just meant to go to Joe’s.

That afternoon I watched the Germany–Ecuador World Cup match, and it turned out to be one of the better games I’ve watched so far. I expected Germany to control it from the opening whistle, but the two teams battled back and forth the entire match. Then, with only about ten minutes remaining, Ecuador found the winner to make it 2–1. Tough break for the Germans.

That evening, more soccer. The main event. A late game. The USA against Turkey. Christ almighty. Teegan and I watched it. The team had several lineup changes, and this felt like the match that could define this generation of American soccer. The U.S. has been slacking for years when it comes to scoring. Our country still doesn’t seem to treat it like a real sport. I suppose it’s because we didn’t create it so it can’t be real. Fucking USA mentality sometimes. Hell, we’re one of the few countries that call the sport soccer and not football.

Anyways, the game was a fantastic nail-biter. The USA dominated the first half of the game. Of course, we destroy ourselves and then end up losing in the final stretch. Literally the final kick, with no time left. How the fuck did we let that happen?! Turkey scored on the final kick to win 3–2. A real damn bummer to have stayed up so late to watch them lose, but what a game it was to behold. In spite of the loss, they still have enough points to advance to the next level. May their resolve strengthen. At least Teegan and I had fun together.

By Friday, the swelling had finally retreated, and my hand was beginning to look like my own again. Who would have thought it would take an entire week to recover from my battle with that dreaded wasp hive? I might have won the war, but the scars of that battle will linger for a long time. I’ll never forget the pain—or the price—of our hostilities. If there was one lesson to take away from it all, it’s this: always pay attention to your surroundings. You never know when an enemy is lying in wait, ready to launch an ambush.

Once the workday was over, Yvette, Teegan, and I met up with my mother and nephews for dinner at Bonsai Garden for some hibachi. I was thrilled not to have to cook for a change. By week’s end, sometimes you just don’t want to be in the damn kitchen—you want someone else to do the cooking. It was also nice to enjoy the show that comes with a Japanese steakhouse. I could see the wonder in my nephews’ eyes as the chef worked his magic. It was a wonderful way to spend one last evening with them before they headed home.

Honestly, it was the perfect conclusion to the week. I could finally use chopsticks again now that my hand had returned to normal. I had one last meal with my nephews before they left town, surrounded by the people I love most. That coming together of our families means a great deal to me. Good food, laughter, family, and soccer—the perfect ingredients to close out one heck of a week.

Happy Friday!!

Jalapeño

Chorizo potato taco with a fried egg.