This has been a very, very bad past couple of days. I'm back on bad terms with My Fucking Father, who has again threatened to throw me out of the house. And now I'm really mad at Grandmother, who may be getting more senile by the day and whose "antics" started this whole thing.
Grandmother's been sick lately. And when she's sick, she seems to get a lot more needy. I shouldn't complain; I was very needy when I was a child and wanted things from her. But the many times she calls for me, all the times she shuffles up to my door and scratches it like a cat, blah-blah-blah, it gets to me. I take after My Fucking Father, who is quick to be annoyed whenever someone talks to him about anything.
Friday was the day we were going to have ribs, and my job was to stick around to put it in, change the temperature, and just look at it all afternoon. But Grandmother, who's been fighting this cold, out of the blue wanted something to eat. There's a lot to eat at home -- much of bought by her -- but she wanted to go this grocery store close by. She's my Grandmother; how can I say no, even after she pissed me off the previous two days by asking me to get her soup and not drinking it?
So, after Father gave me the go-ahead, I preheat the oven and start the car and we go out. She looks like she just wants potatoes and gravy, but just as soon as I think we're done, she all of a sudden wants ribs. Just like a child. And then she thinks we need tomatoes and cucumbers. I then dreamt that the house was on fire. We took almost half an hour at the grocery store, but luckily it was just hot. I put the ribs in and then, without telling Father, I leave to drop off Grandmother's medication, something that has to be done.
One problem: Between concentrating on getting the ribs done right and my frustration that My Fucking Grandmother wanted to buy lunch, I forgot my phone. I remembered it at Target and I hoped to Buddha My Fucking Father didn't call. But when I came home, My Fucking Grandmother told me he did. And when I found my phone (which was in my room all this time), I saw that I missed four calls. And I knew they were all from my panicky bitch of a father.
I called him back. He asked me where I was; like a too-dutiful son I told him. Like I thought, he called to remind me to turn down the heat. He then told me I shouldn't be going to Target blah-blah-blah, bitch, piss and moan. I hang up on him.
Per his instructions I needed to keep the ribs moist, so a little later I took the ribs out and spritzed some water on them. But when I put it back it wouldn't go in all the way. On the underside of the oven there's a ceiling grill; either I didn't notice it or it just slipped off, but it was now low enough that it was preventing the very tall ribs from going all the way through the oven.
I was in a panic; I got My Fucking Father yelling at me and now I get caught with this happening to me??? Grandmother tried to help, but try as we wanted to shove it in, the pan would go all askew and we would have to take it out again. She suggested I call My Fucking Father and tell him what happened; three times I said, "I am not going to call that bastard." I give her my cellphone and even dial the number. She at first refused but then relented. She told him everything; I couldn't tell what he was saying, but since it wasn't on speakerphone I knew he was yelling.
My Fucking Father told her to just shut everything down. As soon as she told me, I just shoved the whole pan in, and it was fine. Well, the grill was touching the taller of the two ribs, but, you know, whatever. I'm not going to just harpoon the entire operation just because a grill's touching the food, although it's kind of gross. I made Grandmother call My Fucking Father again to tell him we have things "working" now.
Just as I thought, My Fucking Father was being a dick to me for dinner. But instead of out and out yelling at me, he gave me the silent treatment. He'd usually slice pieces of meat for me, but not tonight. He would shoot the shit with me about the Vikings game on Sunday, but not tonight. Whatever -- I had a couple bumps in the road but the food is cooked, no? Are you happy ... well, I should never ask that question to you, but the bottom line is I got the food done. I utter "fucking asshole" after he was done passing out slices of rib without giving me one. He may, may, have shoved the bowl of sauce my way when I carved out my own slice, but otherwise he didn't even acknowledge me.
By the way, I checked later that afternoon (before dinner) on the trays of food we bought at the grocery store. My Fucking Grandmother did not eat a single scrap of food. You mean to tell me that I got off my ass, put more miles on my old car, risked the wrath of My Fucking Father and jeopardized the goddamn house to GET YOU FOOD YOU DIDN'T EVEN FUCKING EAT?!?!?! GODDAMN YOU, GRANDMOTHER, GODDAMN YOU FOR GETTING ME INTO SO MUCH FUCKING TROUBLE FOR NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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I had it with My Fucking Father today. I decided I was going to eat out tonight, just to put a little space between us. I call my mother's cell because I wanted to make sure I avoided My Fucking Father. But guess who answers her cell?
"Why are you answering Mama's phone?"
"What?!"
Then I let him have it ... without yelling: "Why are you answering Mama's phone?"
And then My Fucking Father went off about ... I can't tell what he was ranting about. Probably disrespect. But he accuses me of being stupid and lazy (true, but don't tell him), of being so untidy that I attract mice (it ain't my fault, asshole), and of being a freeloader like Grandmother, the woman who helped raise him when he was young (nice job of being grateful, dick). He says I'm being ungrateful for cleaning up after me; I wish I knew how to say "You always make me feel guilty when you help me" in Chinese, but once again the language barrier short-circuits any ability for me to hold my end of an argument. He also told me that if I don't like it, I should move out and take Grandmother with me. He made it very clear to me that he feels that we're both a burden to him. And while that may be true, I really, really can't believe that anybody who considers himself to be a good father, let alone a good person, would actually say that.
He gave up talking to me and handed my mom's cell to my mom, who tried to explain what was going on: Besides not antagonizing him, apparently they found several mice downstairs (which explains the glue traps upstairs). That does explain his mood, but like always, it doesn't excuse the way he yells at me. I just want him to stop yelling at me. He won't, so not only did I not eat at home tonight but I'm not eating at home tomorrow night, either. I'll find somewhere else to go to watch the Vikings game.
I'm not going anywhere. I can't make it out there.
I still want to kill both My Fucking Father and My Fucking Grandmother.
Like I said before, it's going to wind up to where either I kill him, or he kills me.
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