This morning I got up early, like at seven, because my mom had a thing at the hospital. And whereas I’d planned to make breakfast then leave with my parents, I decided to vote instead. That’s right, America–I VOTED–instead of eating. You’re welcome.

In all honesty, I skipped breakfast because Dad said we could eat Chick-fil-A later. (Yes, I’m a gay man who eats at Chick-fil-A–it’s delicious!–get over it.) Plus, since I wanted to vote SOMETIME today, this morning’s situation worked out perfectly. I was there just after the polls opened in Van Buren, in and out in thirty minutes, and back at the house on time to pick up Mom and Dad. From there, we picked up my aunt, and the four of us were at the hospital about 8:30.

Over a year ago, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and this last January she had a double mastectomy. Things are better now, over really, and today she had surgery to have her port (where they administered the chemotherapy) removed. Anyway, everything went great. The prep, surgery, and recovery all happened in about four hours, during which time my dad, aunt, and I visited with each other, read our respective books, and harassed total strangers in the waiting room. Well, Dad harassed total strangers in the waiting room. It’s sort of his thing.

Like, he asked Mom’s hot doctor, “Can I just leave her here with you?” Then after he wrangled the guy into looking at my aunt’s scratched/infected forearm and the guy left, my dad said, “I was TRYING to keep him over here because you’re single and he’s rich and good looking.” My mouth dropped open just as my aunt said, “Don’t you think he’s good looking, Marcus?” (So she was in on it too.)

This is the price you pay for talking to your family about your private life.

Since Mom felt all right after her surgery (they used a mild anesthetic, apparently), afterwards we ran a couple errands and went out for Mexican food. Then we came home, and because I’d spent the morning exhausted from being up early, I went straight to bed and took a nap.

And no, I did not dream of the hot doctor. (He’s married–to a woman–and I have boundaries.)

This evening as Mom and Dad watched the election results, I worked more on my photo-organizing project. Specifically, I sorted the rest of my summer camp photos into years, then placed several “strays,” about two dozen physical photos that I’ve managed to collect over the last couple years. (Everything is digital these days.) Here’s where I’m at so far–four full storage bins of photos and one full storage bin of negatives and index cards (cards with miniature versions of the photos on the negatives). The minimalist in me thinks this is a lot of photos, but overall I’m thrilled because I had eight full storage bins of photos and negatives before this project started.

Any progress is good progress.

Once everything was sorted into large-ish groups, I arranged my index cards by date (some of them, but not all, have dates on them) so I could get an idea of WHEN all these memories actually took place. I’m hoping this will help me formulate a timeline later. Like, Oh right, that summer I dyed my hair blue was the same summer I took that photography class. Or whatever. I’m not sure why this is important to me, to get all these memories organized and labeled; I just know it is. Plus, I’m not great at guessing ages–even my own–based on photos, so if I don’t do it now, it’ll be tougher later. Like tonight I had several photos of my nephew out, and I had to ask my mom and text my sister to help me decide how old he was in each one. Thankfully, they knew. Now all those are labeled. Phew.

That’s a relief.

The end.