My Father, The Cuck

As much of a domineering bitch My Fucking Mother has been, I haven't said much about My Fucking Father.  That's because My Fucking Father hasn't done much of anything on this trip.  In fact, he has been well nigh invisible all trip.  Only yesterday/Sunday did he contribute anything of value: We used his card to get into Volcanoes National Park for free, and then he helped My Fucking Mother cook.

Every other time he has been a passenger, if not a cuckold.  The only other time I remember him of any note was back in Honolulu while My Fucking Mother was preparing dinner at my sister and brother-in-law's place.  She was riding him for some bullshit, and he had a hissy fit, left through the front door and, I guess, stood out on the balcony and stewed while she finished cooking and setting up the dining room table.  Besides those three instances, it's as if he wasn't even here.

It is infuriating, if not illuminating, to see how My Fucking Mother treats My Fucking Father.  It's a combustible and at times contemptable relationship.  There are many roles I've seen them play throughout my life, but one where she runs roughshod over him feels like a dominant one, and thus a true one.  She has called the shots too many times on this vacation, and has been wrong too many times.  For example (besides ordering me not to drive), she bought so much food that about half of the food we bought will have to be thrown away.  And she has insulted and belittled pretty much everyone on this trip if she doesn't get her way.

So, what does My Fucking Father do about that?  Psychological displacement, I guess.  It was in full effect just now.  After I finished taking a shower and went downstairs, he walked down the stairs too.  He was rummaging around the kitchen and eating a bunch of things -- chips, cake, etc.  This was about four hours after a big dinner in which I noticed that he didn't eat much.  But eating now?  Well, it seems as if he is trying to tell everyone (including himself) that he eats when he wants to eat.

My Fucking Father then runs up to me and lectures me on things I can do to "improve my lifestyle" -- bullshit issues he has raised with me from time to time like "Don't eat so much" and "Use the scale more often."  I don't know why he raises these issues with me, but I might have a theory as to why he raises these issues with me when he raises them: My Fucking Father wants to reassert some control over me because he thinks My Fucking Mother spells out everything I do in my life.  She doesn't -- neither does he -- but I think he sees himself pushed off to the side, and so, in the dead of night, when My Fucking Mother is asleep, My Fucking Father skulks around and tries to plant ideas in my head in an effort to see them bloom into something that he can call his.

Anyway, I hand-wave his entreaties.  After all, I'm eating so much because My Fucking Mother bought too much goddamn food.  So My Fucking Father goes back into the kitchen and searches for more food to eat.  And then he offers me cake!  I say no because, like he said, I shouldn't eat so much.  So he cuts himself a slice of cake, proceeds to sit down on the stairs leading to the living room where I'm sleeping ... and then offers me a slice again!  And this time, because I don't quite believe him when says I shouldn't eat so much (BTW, is he lecturing anybody else here on eating too much?) and because I want him to shut the fuck up, I fuckin' say yes.  It's guava cake, and actually, it takes good, although it feels fattening as hell.  Whatever ... the point is his hypocrisy.

Why is that?  Why did My Fucking Father do exactly what he told me not to do not even five minutes before?  The only thing I can think of is that he doesn't believe the words coming out of his mouth.  That's all I've got.  You know, maybe I shouldn't care about anything he says from now on.