Told My Fucking Father this over dinner. He asked if these are with new parts. No, I said. "Nooooooooooooooo!" My Fucking Father whined. Crap.
"You want new parts?" I asked, innocently enough, as if I assumed I would get a civilized response in'well, return. It is My Fucking Father, but I'm an optimist that way.
Shouldn't've done that. "Well, we're giving this to insurance, aren't we?" he cried. Man, I fucking hate it when he asks me a question he knows the answer to. Is there any way I could know more about this situation than you do, especially when you didn't fucking tell me you wanted insurance t0 pay for this? Asshole. Turns out that Mother didn't get into an accident; she was parked and some woman, for some unknown reason, drove across grass and plowed right into the car. Geez, if I would've known that, I would have at least asked my folks if this woman's insurance was going to pay. Such logic seems beyond My Fucking Father's comprehension, however.
I wasn't going to put up with his puerile, condescending verbal barrage. Not today, not now, not during this. So I stopped his moaning with, "I want to get this right!" I saw his face change from one of complaining to one of anger. And I was glad, so fucking glad.
I also did the thing he always does, where he gets a verbal shot at me, and before I can say anything back to him, he asks me a question that moves the conversation from finger-pointing to problem-solving. It's a way of controlling the dialogue as well as a rather sleazy way of saying you're above it all when in fact he's not. So after I yelled, "I want to get this right!" and before he could say his stupid thing back, I asked him a question about the estimate he wants redone in order to make it right. God, I love that. I need to do that more often. I'm working on it. I'm trying.
But leave it to the passive-aggressive master, the man I learned all those tricks from, My Fucking Father, to let loose his arsenal. When I gave back to Mother money for the PCA work because I was short, My Fucking Father asked me for a toothpick that was on the sill. To re-establish dominance, of course. The last time he asked me for a toothpick I was six, I think. Shit, I don't remember him using a toothpick this millennium.
And then, while they were washing dishes but I was still eating, My Fucking Father went downstairs, grabbed the clothes hanging where the water heater is (our dryer no longer works -- maybe that should be a blog post) and put them on the living room sofa, clothes hangers still attached. "You're a big boy now, you have to take care of yourself," he sniped. What does leaving them downstairs have anything to do with any perception of my immaturity, you dick? My Fucking Father has never brought up my clothes for me. He only brought those clothes up to say that and get back to me.
And this is what scares me about ... this secret I'm still keeping, as tenuously as I am. Am I going to face more of this bullshit from My Fucking Father now that he'll have more time to tool around the house? I am facing the possibility of being around this asshole more soon, and if this is the way things are trending ... I'll have to leave. I just can't stand to be around this man, even if he is (allegedly) my biological father.
In the meantime, I'll have to passive-aggressively get back at him. I didn't go to the store this afternoon (after the estimate) because I wanted to finally mow the lawn. I was going to make it up to him by helping out tomorrow. I still will ... maybe ... but first I might hit the Borders in Rosedale. See, they're liquidating, so maybe there are some deals to be had. And then I want to cash in on my free chocolate at Godiva; you get one each month if you're a part of their frequent-buyers club. And then I need to pick up that estimate for all-new parts! Instead of 1:30, I'll get there around, oh, 3:30. And I won't call ahead of time. I'll just show up and, with a defiant tone, say, "Well, let's work, for fuck's sake!"
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