Snow Storms & Rabid Dogs

I just haven’t the words to describe my hostility. Stupid fucking bitch seems so inadequate to depict the hatred I feel right now. That stupid, stupid, woman. I told them verbally. I told them in writing. Don’t call me. Don’t try to correspond with me. Don’t send me packages. I hate them. They know that they cause me nightmares every time I hear from them. I won’t sleep for a week now. Could they possibly have thought I had forgotten? A few months and all is forgiven? Seven months ago they did the unthinkable. Not only did they manipulate me, they USED my nephew to do it. The poor kid is twelve. They are without remorse. They are fucking demons. They should share this pain.

That’s how I felt when I realized I had signed for a package from them. I was expecting the UPS lady to bring the box my wife ordered for me. Oh god, the feeling of betrayal. It was a week late because of some snow storm in Kentucky. I called them. I broke my vow of silence, and I called them. I wonder what they heard.

I want you to know you have ruined my vacation. This package is going straight to the dumpster.

“Bark, bark, grrrrr, ruff.”

I asked you verbally, and I asked you in writing. Will you ever get it?

“Bark, bark.”

Stop manipulating me. Stop contacting me. Just stay the fuck out of my life.

“Grrrrr.”

Do you fucking understand now?

“Bark, Bark, Grrrrr, RUFF!”


I don’t speak their language. I never will. I gave up on reaching them years ago. Why did I bother calling? They have proven too many times that they will not listen. They are too selfish to worry about my well being. “What? You have nightmares when we call? Maybe you should call us when you can’t sleep.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There is nothing I dislike more than knowing that I truly hate them.

More detail follows at: Holiday Cheer Revisited.

That Simple Request

It was two years ago that I started planning my conversations with my parents. I had spent the previous third of my life trying to communicate with them over the phone. Our collective grasp of language seemed insufficient. Those calls always ended in screaming and crying; always my screaming, always her crying. The last call I did not scream. I read a script. It was so well planned; I thought it would have to work. How could it not?

“You are a manipulative bully. It is time for you to acknowledge my right and ability to govern my own life. If you cannot do that, then our interaction will end.”

It has been two years since that conversation, and without having it written down I remember it perfectly. I often wonder how long she remembered it. I wonder if she even heard the words over her crying. The crying had lost its potency by then. As a tool it no longer achieved the ends she pursued. Perhaps she believed the crying made her exempt from listening. My parents speak a different language than most people. It’s based on chapter and verse and the assumption that age has something to do with who is right and who should listen.

She was not able to comply with my request.

I am not expecting any screwdrivers this year.

Screwdrivers

I have received no less than 20 screwdrivers and screwdriver sets as xmas and birthday gifts over the past 15 years. I have regular size screwdrivers, giant screwdrivers, and tiny little screwdrivers. I have ratchet screwdrivers and flexible screwdrivers. Two of my screwdrivers have built-in lights. Most of my screwdrivers have attachments. I have phillips, hex, cube, allen, and star shaped screwdriver heads. Some of my screwdrivers keep their attachments in a separate case, and some are kept in a secret compartment in the handle. I have four-in-one screwdrivers, and I have eight-in-one screwdrivers. I even have the often coveted screwdriver with my name engraved on the handle. And believe it or not, all of these screwdrivers were given to me by my parents.

A year ago I told my brother about this. We were both mystified. Neither of my brothers were getting screwdrivers from our parents. That year for xmas, my wife and I BOTH got screwdriver sets. We each got our own little zippered case with screwdrivers and an itsy-bitsy pair of pliers too. My brother nearly busted a gut. I mean after the first four or five I told myself “better than a desk-set.” By ten the Dead Poets' desk-set was looking pretty original. Why so many fucking screwdrivers? Guilt.

My father was a machinist. His tools were his life. The only person I’ve ever known with more tools was my grandfather, who passed away when I was an undergrad. When they were cleaning out my grandfathers home I asked my dad if he would pick out a few things for me out of the piles of tools left behind. I wasn’t expecting the moon or anything; a hammer, a pair of pliers, maybe even A screwdriver. I figured they were gonna get tossed or sold anyhow. I could use them, and they’d have that special granddad quality. When it was all finished I asked my dad if he saved anything for me. “Na, it was all junk.”

A couple years later I was at my brother’s place. He pulls out his toolbox for something and says “Hey, look at all this cool stuff dad gave me of grandpa’s.”

Merry Christmas

Getting started

I’m not going to start at the beginning; in part because I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprises for anyone, and partly because I really don’t know when it all began. My fabulous wife helped me figure that one out. I use to think I knew when it started, but fifteen years of constant deliberation still hasn’t dug that one up.

My wife has this friend from junior high school who one day in 8th or 9th grade just stopped wanting to hear anything her father had to say. One night she went to bed daddy’s little girl, and by morning she had revoked his ticket to participate in her life. If her mother said “no you can’t...” that was perfectly fine. She’d be no more upset than any teenager wanting to bend a rule or two, but if her father said no to the exact same thing, she would explode. It would unleash a barrage of verbal and physical violence that seemed over the top by any perspective. Screaming, yelling, kicking, and biting, not to mention the flying kitchen utensils. It was unreasonable anger. Where did it come from? He hadn’t touched her in over a decade; not since he promised to stop. When did all this hatred begin?

Intro

What's this all about? A bunch of stupid crap that no one cares to know, including me. Trouble is it's easier to tell everyone about it than to forget it. Maybe if I write it down it'll go away, I'll sleep 8 hours straight 7 days a week, and the awful truth will stop making me talk to myself on the bus every morning. Or, not. Wish me luck.