Father had been acting normal. Funny, even. But then he went out to put the trash in the work van for tomorrow. He should've seen my car outside; I planned to go out after dinner. I will guess that is what pisses him off, me going off to do stuff. Don't know why he'd be so mad, he just is.
Anticipating that I at least have to answer him when he asks if I'm going out tonight, he fuckin' threw me a curveball instead: "Have you talked to the U. art appraiser?" Huh? Oh yeah -- he's got a lot of painting he thinks are worth a lot, but he needs them appraised. My sister thought that going to the University of Minnesota and finding a professor to do it -- for free, I'm guessing she and My Father are thinking -- would be the best way to do it. But it's so inane, I forgot it.
I didn't answer him right away, so he followed up with, essentially, "Get on it." And then he did another passive-aggressive non-verbal action that pisses me off: He sighs heavily after he talks. Sometimes it's after he says something in an overly fake nice way, sometimes after he outright complains, but that sigh is unmistakable: You disappoint me for not knowing what I want, when I want it.
Well, shit, Father, you disappoint me for not telling me what you want without being a goddamn bitch about it. And really, you think an art professor is going to take time out of his schedule to tell someone who's not his student how much a shit painting is worth? I'll do it when I've run out of other things to waste my time over. Fuck You, Father.
It's moments like this that remind me why I'm not going to be a dad.
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