Well, Thanks, Father, I Guess ...

I still resent My Father going into my room and fucking with my stuff, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it.  Well, maybe put a lock on the door.  But as bad as our relations have been and probably will be, I'm not ready to lock my door when I leave the house.  And he's been OK with not opening my bedroom door when I am in, so I guess this will be the compromise I will live with.

Nevertheless he will storm through my bedroom because he wants to wipe the floor, which at a minimum is once a week but can often be more than that.  After he does that he usually admonishes me for not cleaning my room, which usually results in yelling and eye-rolling.  That's why I don't want him in my room.

Thursday and yesterday he was off on one of his cleaning jags.  Thursday he rearranged the whole upstairs bathroom in order to clean everything.  Yesterday he tossed everything I had on the floor of my bedroom somewhere else in order, presumably, to wipe the floor.  Today, before dashing off to drive my old car and see if it's holding up, My Father called me down and ordered me to clean my room.

And then he said that if there was anything broken in the room to let him know and he'll fix it.  What do you mean?  Well, there are things that broken in my room.  The more annoying thing is that an area of the screen door to the window was cut.  That has allowed many an insect to come into my room, especially that past couple of humid days, when a pair of, well, big insects have come in.  The track to one of the closet doors is also off, making it kind of hard to push open and close.

Now, they are former problems, because Father fixed them.  As soon as he told me he fixed them I went back upstairs to my room, Father tailing behind.  Apparently he put in a whole new screen window, and Father showed me how easily the door moves to open and close.  And that is ... fantastic.

You know, I hate to give My Father credit.  I really do.  But whenever I saw that open screen I'd say to myself, "OK, this weekend I'm going to fix it," and whenever I tried to force open my closet door, I would say to myself, "This sucks, but I'll just deal with it."  Actually fixing it, to be honest with myself, was pretty low on the list.  Hell, I didn't even think about either problem as I bolted out the door this morning.  So what My Father did was, well, really, really ... ugh ... nice.

So I thanked him -- to which he took advantage of my rare compliment and ordered me to pick up my stuff.  It felt really nice to have a working closet door and a screen window that actually screened stuff, so I just shrugged him off.  I think my stuff's fine where they are.  But, uh, thanks, anyway, Father.