So I tried to do some housework, specfically wiping down the plant leaves. But it was really warm in my bed and there was hockey on, so I rolled out of bed just in time to be up and at 'em at around the time I thought my parents would be home so they would see that I was working.
Then my Grandmother wakes up and sees the pail I'm toting around. So she panicks and decides to give the floor a quick mopping, which is where I'm at, so I just quit. When she's done, I'm still up, so I decide to break out the pail again, but before I do that I need to piss, and when I was on the toilet I hear the front door open.
Mother came through the front with jugs of water I took downstairs. But Father? My Father didn't come in yet. He was outside; I saw him with a shovel. Oh shit. You see, with all the snow we've been having, somehow the tallest parts of the snowbank on both sides of our driveway is at the very end, so that if you're backing down to leave, you won't be able to see either side of the street. You would have to reverse very, very slowly to make sure someone sees you in order not to get hit. I've meant to clear that part of the snowbank for a long time because whenever I back out of the driveway I'm blind to the street when I should be able to see, and I think, "Goddamn." But I never did. Apparently it was enough to bother My Fucking Father.
So that meant that he's got it in for me, which means I needed to keep it quiet, even defensive, when he wants to talk to me. And it looked like my fears were well-founded when he banged on the door to give me the phone without speaking to me (sister called; more on that later). So I start setting the table for Sunday dinner and I turn the TV on; the NFC Championship Game, the one between Green Bay and Chicago, is on. "Is it on now?" Father said, and from his tone of voice I'm pretty sure he's sincere and isn't softening me up so that he could verbally lower the boom on me for not clearing the snowbank that he busted his ass doing just now. I give it about ten seconds before replying, "It's in the third quarter now, Father." And he didn't snap at me then. Whew.
Spoke too soon. For some fucking reason, as I was about to pass out in my bedroom, he whispers, quietly, something at me. I am conditioned to go back and lean in to hear what he's repeating: "I've got a new bottle of dressing, Is there enough in the old one?" And before I could say, "I don't know," he blurts out, "Go check." And when I reach into the fridge (which he was closer to than I, so why couldn't he fucking check it?) to show him, he waves he hands at me, saying in that condescending tone of voice, "Put it on the table, don't show it to me." You wanted me to check so I showed it to you. Asshole. Now I don't feel guilty for retreating back into my room without doing any chores. And I snapped at him after he snapped at me for giving Grandmother her insulin shots right after he knocks outside my room for dinner and right before we begin eating. It's insulin -- it has to be taken just before, not an hour before. Psssh.
But then, for dinner, he gets all nicey-nice on me, talking about football and shit. He even makes me stand up and put my hand over my heart because we were watching the National Anthem for the AFC Championship Game between Pittsburgh and the Jets. And then, after dinner, he seemed a bit upset that I was watching the game on TV and I made him replace the bag in the trash can.
I don't know. His threats again over going back to school is really weighing on me.
Or, I could be paranoid.
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