I set my alarm for 9:45. I thought I heard the door slam. Hit the snooze button but couldn't fall back asleep. The contractor (they hired a new one -- hey, let's hope this guy doesn't steal anything! [Have I blogged about that yet?]) will be here soon, so there has to be someone who's been left behind.
I get up, easily; it helps to fall asleep at 9:30, wake up at 4, then go back to sleep at around 7:30. Looked outside to see my parents' minivan gone, but I still couldn't believe it. That's when I heard My Fucking Father's obnoxious snort from downstairs. Ah, so he's staying home.
I go to the bathroom to freshen up; I don't want to be home whenever My Fucking Father's home, especially when I have the energy to leave right away. Knock on the door -- My Fucking Father stormed up the stairs as soon as I heard the pitter-patter of my little feet. "Come out and help me," he said.
Mistake. Big mistake. When I got done "brushing my teeth" he said he needed my help calling a cruise ship. All their gambling in Vegas netted my folks a free cruise to the Caribbean. But as I was getting the landline he noticed the slippers I was wearing. These are the ones that I took from the great Hotel Berna when we stayed for the night in Milan. Unfortunately the left one is torn. I think I stepped on an nail that wasn't nailed down on my way to the bathroom (courtesy of the previous thieving contractors, whom My Fucking Father hired) and it's been loose ever since. But I've been too lazy to fix it. Hell, My Fucking Father threw it in the trash and I fished it out to wear them -- which I was wearing when I stumbled out of the bathroom.
That's what he was reacting to when he nagged, yet fucking again, "Son, why don't you get some new slippers?" And then he triggered some primal anger in me when he said, yet again, "You have to take care of yourself!" HOW IN THE FUCK ARE BROKEN SLIPPERS ANY FUCKING INDICATION I DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF MYSELF?!?!?! HOW, ASSHOLE??? Didn't help that I had just realized that My Fucking Father caught me wearing the slippers he meant to throw away.
I really had it with My Fucking Father, and so I had to let him have it, contract be damned. "If you can take care of yourself, why do you need me to call these people?!" I said to that bastard. It has taken me a long time to develop the courage to stammer out even that, and trust me, I stumbled over some words while yelling back at him. All that asshole could do was whine, "Do you want to call this number or not?" I swear, at 76 (?) he is the oldest child in the world. I get my immaturity from him. No wonder why I never grew up to be a doctor. I don't have the disposition. My Fucking Father gave me his disposition (with a little help from Mother, too).
So I called and that fucker calmed down. And just to keep the peace -- this past year I'm slowly seeing the need to just fucking do something just so the yelling stops -- is that giving in or maturity? -- I bought some fucking slippers at Target. Slippers I didn't buy because I don't really have the money for them. But seeing them may have mollified My Fucking Father. But it would not shock me at all if he keeps me yelling at him, really yelling at him for the first time since The Contract, in his back pocket in order to use it against me when I wasn't expecting it down the road. It'd be totally like him. See, My Fucking Father gave me his ability to hold grudges, too.
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