Saturday afternoon Grandmother abruptly goes to the casino with her friend. I tell my parents that when they come home. And all of a sudden My Fucking Father turns into fucking Ty Pennington.
Before I know it, he's tearing into what was my sister's old room. Since she moved over to my brother's room, it's been used mostly as a storage space. Grandmother uses it most often; she threw her tapes, old VCR's, and clothing in there. We all have a room that we store all our shit in, and that was ours. Until now.
When My Fucking Father doesn't give a shit about sentimentality, which is always when he's cleaning out stuff that's not his, he can fucking go. In about half an hour he had about one-third of the stuff in there out in the hallway, categorized into boxes. Unlike when he fucking invaded my goddamn room and moved all my shit out -- for which I still haven't forgiven him for, and for which I will have my revenge, somehow -- he didn't immediately throw out all the stuff in there that was mine, namely my books, magazines, tapes of reality shows I recorded off the TV, and my box of Playbills and game programs.
But Grandmother's stuff? He didn't give a flying fuck. I came out of my room after watching a snippet of college basketball and he ordered me to throw those boxes into their minivan. One box was just a bunch of bags. Another? Shoes. And another had Chinese clothing. It may have been hers, but it seemed to be those for a baby. Either way, I think they were Grandmother's, or at least untiil My Fucking Father ordered me to toss them.
That is such a waste, I thought to myself as I was doing what he said. Why the fuck can't he just let things lie? At the very least, the very least, I could take these things to the Goodwill. I don't think he'd be stupid enough to literally dump them like he said, but who knows how he'd be when he gets a head of steam like he did on Saturday?
I didn't like it when he threw away my shit, so I wanted to go behind his back to help Grandmother. But she wasn't there. In fact, I think that if she was at home, My Fucking Father wouldn't toss over the room. Now that most of her stuff was now in my parents' car, I hatched a plan: I was going out that evening, and I would take out all of the bags that had something valuable, like clothes or shoes, and on Sunday I'd show it to her. If she wants them, I'll put them in her bedroom. If not, I'll donate them. Makes sense to me, and it'd be a passive-aggressive snub to the nose of My Fucking Father.
What I didn't plan on was Grandmother just taking it. She actually came home from the casino while I was in the bathroom preparing to leave for the evening. With my parents still prepping stuff in the kitchen, I think Grandmother coming home to find most of her shit gone would've made for an awkward situation. So I asked her -- quietly, in her room, while I was testing her blood sugar -- if she wanted me to retrieve some of the items that are in the old folks' minivan. Because I would've done it.
But she said no. "He's just cleaning out the room. Let him," she said. I was floored. This was her stuff; wasn't she angry that someone is, basically, taking it away from her?
Then again, maybe I shouldn't be surprised at her who-cares attitude. She's the type of person who would cook something on the stove or toaster oven and completely forget because she's on the phone with a friend. And my uncle once made a joke that she would make a bet at a gambling table and then just walk away. Either she's forgetful or she just likes to buy stuff for the adrenaline rush she gets from actually buying the stuff.
At any rate, I let it go. When I came back home late Saturday, I went right into the house, without taking anything out of the minivan. It is gone -- to my parents' store, to the dumpster, who knows.
I don't know, but something I think I'm the only one who gives a shit about material things.
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