I am sorry if this comes off as incoherent. I need to write this down, yet if I try to ruminate what happened over dinner last (Tuesday) night in my head in an effort to organize my thoughts, I'll just roll back into bed and cry, and I can't do that because I have to go to work.
After My Fucking Father "broke the ice" by complaining I'm back to not drinking water again, the interrogation from my folks began. It started with him commenting that he's thinking about cutting off the insurance for the minivan. That would fuck up my plans for 1) bringing my car in to replace the knock sensor and 2) just having the luxury of two cars because hey, two cars. That led Mother to chastise me for thinking I should fix the car again, which led to her thinking I should buy a Kia. That's bullshit. First of all, and I told her this, I would rather keep my twenty-plus-old car than get a Kia. And second, what happened to my sister's Mercedes-Benz? Are you just going to keep it like a prized curio in the garage?
Subsequently Mother asked me another goddamn question: What kind of job do you have now? And I knew they weren't going to like the actual answer of temping back at the flu billing place. So I said I went back there and that it's permanent, that my boss got fired and I took his job. That last part is true, but from there I leaped into a lie. Fuck, these assholes are breathing down my neck again, what I am supposed to do? And besides, the questions didn't stop. My Fucking Father said I should get a job with a pension. A pension?! What does he think this is, 1972?
That was all bad, but Mother was the one who dropped the bombshell. She asked if I had insurance through them. I told her no, it's through the state, still. I didn't think I needed to lie with that; it's good insurance, and so I sure as hell am not going to apologize. But she asked that question because they have big plans for themselves starting with this vacation. Eventually they want to live in Las Vegas full-time, and that means divesting themselves of the house. So, they want to sell me the house ... if I can afford it. And if I can't -- if the job isn't stable enough for me to support myself -- they'll make an arrangement where I "pay rent."
Through this conversation I noticed something: Streams of sweat pouring from my forehead. It was hot and humid outside, and the air conditioning wasn't on. But I know, just know, that that sweat came from their big move.
I'm not begrudging them moving away for the winter. It's not being alone that scares me, although five months (at a minimum) is the longest I'll go without seeing them in my lifetime. And it's not as if they'll never be back; after all, they have real estate interests here that I'll do my best to keep up for them while they're away. Hell, it's not giving up the house per se that worries me. What worries me are more abstract. For one thing, I love this house but I don't know if I can keep it financially. Hope to Buddha they've paid off the mortgage because I know I wouldn't be able to pay that. Gas bill, electric bill, maintenance? That also would probably destroy me. Shit, I don't think I have enough to pay for the phone and Internet, and I'm already paying for that.
But beyond the responsibility of the house, their intention of giving me the house and/or making me a renter (which allows them to become residents of Nevada) represents the passage of time, not a rite of passage. I've known this house all my life, and although that's not going away, and though ownership of the house was never something I thought about, I've never not thought that my parents would be the ones who own the house. However, that is what they want to do. So now what? That's a future I never contemplated possibly because I never wanted to contemplate it. And, eventually, that means more change and, finally, death.
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That is a decision that needs to be made once they come back. Right now the more pressing issue is the cars. I volunteered to pay insurance for both my car and theirs, and I even volunteered to shut down my car so I can continue to drive theirs. I'd prefer two, but they at least understand I need one. We'll see -- and all this other shit I'll keep down the sidewalk because I can't even. Not right now, although, to be honest, I never will.
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