Fuck You, Father (Again)

I knew something was up the minute I heard My Fucking Father tool around in my sister's old bedroom, the one where we threw all the shit (most of it mine, admittedly) so the contractor could re-tile my old bedroom. He hasn't told me, but apparently the contractor's done, so it's time to start moving things back.  I did some of that a couple days ago, but per usual, that wasn't good enough for My Fucking Father.

He's putting up this martyred, fine-I'll-do-it bullshit that he always has pulled on us.  It's on him; he doesn't have to clean things that don't need to be cleaned and won't be used, but he has to because ... well, either he's anal, he's crazy, or he's getting as mentally deranged as Grandmother did the last few weeks she was here.  Whatever it is that consumes and drives him, all I heard was banging in that room.  Then, I heard him (I was my bedroom/Grandmother's old bedroom through all this) go out to the minivan, ostensibly to throw something away.  I made a mental note to myself: Check my sister's bedroom, just in case.

I went to a concert tonight.  A Silent Film; heard their song "You Will Leave A Mark" on satellite radio and I wanted to see them.  They were great.  Good people.  Anyway, my ears were ringing to the point of giving me fatigue.  I almost forgot that I wanted to see what My Fucking Father did in my sis' bedroom.

Good thing I did.  Going between the rooms I swore something was missing.  And then I figured it out.  My alumni club president wanted me to hold a box of club stuff for him.  I threw it in my sister's bedroom because it was out of the way.  I even told My Fucking Father this.  He either forgot or he didn't care, because it wasn't in either room.

So that's what My Fucking Father was putting in his minivan to haul away in the morning!  I had to reopen the deadbolts from the front door, grab my parents' car keys and opened up the power doors to see if it was there -- and it was, as well as a lot of other stuff.  Four bags' worth, all junk to him, more than to me.  Man, if I just told myself I was too tired and fell immediately to bed, like I wanted to, my president would have been pissed at me.

Instead, I was pissed at My Fucking Father.  Still am.  The fatigue evaporated from my body.  I was so keyed up that I have stayed up ever since.  Got stuff done, too -- folded all my clothes, put my day planners in my old bedroom, I'm blogging about the shit My Fucking Father pulled by writing this, etc.

In the meantime I thought about how to explain to My Fucking Father of the boxes that disappeared from the minivan.  My first thought was to really lean into him, accusing him of intentionally throwing away the club's stuff because he wanted to be an asshole: "You have no respect for my stuff, I know that, but you don't have the right to throw away other people's stuff!  That's why I did that!"

But I can't afford a full-blown fight.  Tomorrow morning, I just won't bring it up, act like it's no big deal.  If My Fucking Father asks, I will "remind" him that the boxes he put in his car were not his, and I was holding it for him until my president ... uh, got home from family issues out of town, and if he really wants them out of here, I'll just find a place at work to hide them -- "And by the way, it was so dark outside I thought I saw other things that belonged to my president in the other two or three or four other bags you wanted to toss, and I took those, too.  Don't you worry about them; I'll take care of it."

I hope that defuses things.  As much as I want to pick a fight over the bullshit he pulled this afternoon, upon further reflection this is the way to go.  Although I also am passive-aggressively defying him by not taking a shower tonight.