But ever since, say, high school I've been trying to differentiate how both my folks suck. I guess I don't really need a reason why or how exactly they suck; I could just say they're bad parents and them pro-creating (even if it gave me life) was a huge mistake for those that are bad at rearing kids. But nevertheless I continue to work on detailing their utter failings as people, let alone as parents.
The most obvious conclusion after you watch them for a night is that they yell. A lot. As far as I could understand that I had such a thing called parents, they've been yelling. My earliest memory of them is Mother yelling about something in Chinese and Father talking back, albeit softer. My earliest memory of Mother is her beating the living shit out of me. My earliest memory of Father is me coming to him, crying in his shoulder after Mother beat the shit out me, and him trying to console me. That's why I try to please him to this day, and why him chewing me out on even the littlest thing hurts me at such a deep level.
When they get going, contrasting my parents at their worst is pretty hard to do. This is what I've come up with after more than three decades of observation:
- My Fucking Father is the one who can't let shit go. He's the one that holds a bitter grudge.
- It's boom-or-bust with Mother -- that is, she can be a really good woman, but if she's pissed at me, man, she can go off. And not just at me or My Father but, like, into outer space. She can demand the weirdest shit. Just the other day she told me that because I gave Grandmother's "boyfriend" my phone number, I need to change my number. Fuck that! Anyway, after a yelling session she seems to go back to normal.
- On the other hand, My Fucking Father seemingly is on a permanent simmer of anger. He's always going to complain about something no matter how much you try and appease his ass. And he's often good for a gruff, "You need to do this!" But he rarely yells ... wait a second, he yells a lot. Never mind.
- Beyond making crazy demands, Mother incessantly asks really dumb questions -- "Why can't you do this? Why didn't you do that?" Shut the fuck up! This incessant interrogation inevitably leads to her concluding that, somehow, even the most uncontrollable situation is my fault.
- My Fucking Father is the one with the goddamn cleaning jag. Well, Mother does complain about me not cleaning enough. Well, just once. OK, just once -- therefore that's a difference.
- My Fucking Father frequently acts like a petulant brat -- not just during a heated argument but during a conversation where he verbally throws a fit out of the blue when he wants something. One of his pet insults is calling me a baby. He has no fucking clue that his whining he falls back on whenever he gets into an argument makes him sound like he needs a bottle. Ooh, just thinking about that pisses me off.
- Mother is the nag, continually pestering me to do something ... no, wait, My Fucking Father is also a nag. Not as much as Mother, but they both nag plenty.
- My Fucking Father is the one who usually calls me stupid ... well actually when she gets going she calls me stupid too. That's a tie.
- OK, Mother is the one who acts all superior in an argument ... that's wrong, My Fucking Father gives off that holier-than-thou vibe as well. Call that a wash.
Have I blogged about this before? A storm through downtown Minneapolis blew debris off the rooftop of the business next to The Store onto The Store. Their clean-up crew made it worse by dragging the debris into the dumpsters, thereby scratching up the roof and allowing water to seep through the roof and into The Store. Father dutifully documented everything -- the aftermath of the storm, the tracks on and holes in the roof signifying the further damage down to our property, and the water stains in the aisles and our remaining merchandise.
The contractor he just hired presumably today told him to e-mail him those photos. He tried earlier this afternoon, but he couldn't. So he needed my help. It was there that details are fuzzy because I concentrated on trying to send the photos. But while I hit a dead-end -- I don't have a smartphone, so I stopped after I think I hit "E-Mail Photo" and "Send" but didn't get a message on the iPhone saying it was sent -- Mother started saying that My Father couldn't send photos through his phone and, I think, she's been trying to tell him that all day.
Why couldn't My Fucking Father send photos on his iPhone to this contractor? All three of us were confused as to what to do and about any other tricks we could use. The back-up plan was to upload the photos from his smartphone to his laptop, then attach them to e-mails from his AOL account. The problem was that he has a hacked phone. I remember running into the same issue when I tried to upload photos from another hacked phone (could be his, could be hers) before: You basically lose all function on the phone if you try up- or downloading something from the phone. Once I remembered that plan was a no-go, I had little choice but to wait until my brother returned my call.
My parents -- well, maybe Mother the know-it-all -- had a Plan C: Photos of the roof damage were taken on her phone as well. And either because hers is a legit phone, it's a working phone, or possibly because she is on my brother's family plan that has data, she can send just fine, at least according to her.
So I gave My Father his phone back when Mother called me from upstairs and told me to take her phone and e-mail those pictures to the contractor. My Fucking Father and I were just going to quickly do it at the bottom stairwell, but Mother continued on her hen-pecking mode and told me -- and maybe him -- to just go upstairs.
And once My Fucking Father and I sat down, that's when all hell started breaking loose. They were saying shit to each other Chinese so I don't really know what was spoken. But I think Mother complained/whined about one thing too many and My Fucking Father just let it rip. For a good two minutes they just yelled at each other, I mean YELLED! at each other. It was like hearing them downstairs when I was young, except that I was older, and not only was it upstairs, but in the middle of their argument Mother opened the door to cook something in the backyard propane stove. I am sure that our neighbors could hear them screaming at each other. And by the way, I'd be shocked if this wasn't the first time my folks have gotten the attention of the guys next door to us.
During all of this I mentally took a couple steps backward and noticed that I was trying to send these photos on Mother's smart with My Fucking Father literally screaming into my ear while Mother was making what sounded like condescending potshots (I guess it'd be about him not being tech-savvy or not listening to her) from the kitchen. Then I had an epiphany, or at least confirmation of indescribable feelings I've had for years now: This is why none of us kids have had a baby. We grew up hearing this shit night and day.
I'll be honest: I'm kind of taking My Fucking Father's side on this one. He was acting like a bitch when I asked him what size should I shrink the photos to: He gave me a "tsk" and yelled about something, so I just took a guess. But while I don't know the complete context, this felt like an argument where Mother was hammering away at him, telling him "I told you so" relentlessly. Geez, maybe Mother holds a grudge too. And maybe she's right; after all, My Fucking Father can be stubborn (Mother too -- shit, these two fucking people shouldn't have been parents, but they really do seem made for each other, don't they?). But the trigger for this argument seemed to come from her, and his body language, though generated in order to garner some self-pity, made him look tired as he was just trying to get The Store's roof fixed.
And the worst part about all of this? I'm not sure if even the photos from Mother's phone went through. I called the contractor after hours after I tried to send the pictures on My Fucking Father's iPhone twice, and he said he's on his devices right there and he had received nothing. I need to call again to see if I struck out a third time. Meanwhile, my brother did reach me via text. I still don't quite understand what the problem is, but I don't think you need a data plan to send photos from your smartphone. If that's the case, what the hell happened? Moreover, he told me that what I could have (should have?) done is open up the e-mail app on My Fucking Father's smart, sent all the photos to his AOL e-mail, go to his desktop, download the sent pics, attach those pics to messages through AOL, and send them to the contractor that way. Well, if I could e-mail them from My Fucking Father's own phone to My Fucking Father's own e-mail, why not skip the intermediate step and e-mail them from My Fucking Father's own phone to the contractor -- which is what all of us tried to do yesterday?
Technology sucks. Moreover, my parents do. And yet I can't get away from them. In fact, I'm fascinated by them. I also realized something tonight: I have subconsciously made it my life's mission to observe these two people. Why? I need to figure out who these two fucking human beings are that made me. And I have a long way to go before solving that problem.
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