Fuck you, Mother.  I don't need to be asked such a huge and heavy question.  Especially now.  And I resent, absolutely fucking resent, you treating this like it's no big deal, like I have a choice ... like you would even entertain kicking me out of this house.

I don't know if I can.  But this is the only house I know.  And I'll do my goddamndest to die in it.

Goddammit, Can You Just Let Me Get My Shots By Myself?

So I'm taking my old man to get his second vaccination.  And I knew that my parents would say, "Hey, why don't we ask if you can get a shot?"  And that turned to, "OK, you're gonna walk in with me and we are gonna ask if we could get a shot, OK?"  Even though I do not have an appointment, I currently do not meet eligibility requirements to get a shot, and the state of Minnesota will expand eligibility to include everybody over the age of 15 on Tuesday.  But no, I'm supposed to walk my ass alongside him and beg if I could cut in line and get a shot alongside him.

This is another instance where I am being babied by my folks even though I can take care of this by myself.  Yes, this is a very contagious and possibly dangerous virus, and yes, I do understand that my parents just want me to be safe.  But I've been able to dodge the coronavirus this long, and I think I am disciplined enough to continue to do this.  Besides, I only have to wait one more goddamn week before I can sign up for a shot.  Instead, I have to potentially be humiliated in front of strangers who think I'm a weasel for trying to get my vaccine before it's my turn.

What a stupid goddamn idea.  I don't have to fucking do this.  But my parents really, really want me to, and if I resist long and hard enough, they're going to pull the "If you could do this by yourself, you'd be living by yourself," and I know that it's already in the back of their minds when they brought up this bullshit at dinner.  Can't they just leave this alone?  Can't they just leave me alone?  This is so fucking infantilizing.

A Sign That The World Is Out To Get Me

It wasn't a good day for me.  Fearing how My Fucking Mother is going to come at me, or the thought of coming home to see all my stuff out in the driveway, or have both parents at the dining room table, presented with a pamphlet for this nice and affordable apartment I can move into (that thought still can happen, and that frightens me to tears) occupied my mind so much that my work suffered.

So I didn't need the world or karma or whatever it is piling on with this oddly coincidental story that broke yesterday about a 30-year-old ordered by a judge to leave his parents' house.  (I won't link to it, nor will I read it.  It hurts too much to even think of it.)  I know my folks saw this story and thought of me.  They don't need any fucking ideas.

Oh My Fucking God, My Fucking Mother Went Crazy Last Night

A part of still doesn't understand what the fuck happened.  So I was late getting home to eat dinner.  My Fucking Mother talks to me about finding a picture of my cousin's new baby girl.  She tried to get on his Facebook yesterday morning but couldn't.  The thing is, I think she started to get upset with me that morning because I had to run out of the house because I needed to get my driver's license changed.  (I was going to blog post about that, but, uh, circumstances changed.)

She really, really wanted to see a photo of the baby, for some reason.  After some agitated back-and-forth, I told her I'd get on that.  Then she immediately flipped to another subject, one that blindsided me and one that I still don't quite get.  "Are you on your niece's group?" My Fucking Mother asked me.

"What group?" I asked.

"Your niece's group."

"Mom, what group?"

"DON'T YELL AT ME!  OH MY GOD, I WANT TO COME OVER AND HIT YOU WITH THIS FRYING PAN!"

And in my mind I'm going, what the fuck?  How did me asking a question turn into me yelling at her?  If anything, she was yelling at me.  She yells.  She's a yeller.  Always has been.

I tried to reason with her -- "Mom, are you talking about a group on Facebook?  A text?  What?"  But she was off on this rant, pointing the pan she had in her hand at my face and still threatening to beat me over the head with it because I was "disrespecting" her or some shit.  She can't beat me around like she did when I was young, however, so I defended myself: "Don't you even dare."  At which point this fucking crazy bitch comes around the kitchen.  I get up off my chair and stare her down, trying to listen to her insane ramblings about how I don't appreciate her cooking and how I treat this place only as a hotel or some shit.  The disrespect card is shit My Fucking Father pulls, not her.

I still cannot comprehend what she's talking about.  I can only think missing photos of newborn family members triggers something in her.  And possibly the "disrespect" card comes from the fact that I give off this bothered attitude every time she asks me for something.  I will cop to that; yes, it annoys me often when My Fucking Mother asks me for something.  But I don't think I need to help out with a shit-eating grin on my face when my whole life, when I've asked for something, My Fucking Mother (both my parental units actually) couldn't seem bothered to smile either.  Also, let's look at the bullshit My Fucking Mother asks me to do.  Invoicing, even though I get pissed when she lays down invoice after invoice without telling me how many invoices she needs me to proofread, is a legitimate ask.  But downloading an app, or asking how to play this game on her phone, or trying to set up her brand-new iPhad are not asks, especially if I don't know how to work them.  My Fucking Mother is a teenager, if not a kid, whose retirement seems to be filled with games she plays, and she's regressed to a juvenile attitude where, if I can't get something to operate correctly and immediately, she accuses me of not caring.

Well, I don't care.  I fucking don't.  And despite what My Fucking Father seems to be advising, I'm not going to give in to her spiteful attitude and profusely apologize.  Fuck that cunt!  I need to tip-toe around her crazy moods whenever she feels like lashing out?  This landmark argument got so bad that, when she told me I have three months to move out of the house, I thought, OK.  I have no way of supporting myself, and I will be out on the street within a month.  But if that means I don't have to put up with this batshit-crazy bullshit anymore, man, I'm totally fine with it.  Because My Fucking Mother is fucking nuts.

We'll see if she takes her pills in the morning.  In the meantime I am falling back into placating her bitch ass.  I wonder if I should ask my cousin to bring her daughter to the house.  I won't be there.  Fuck that, I need to stay the fuck away from her.

(Aside: This out-of-the-blue temper tantrum, along with the myriad requests in the past to help her set up her toys, makes me think that she will develop Alzheimer's.  Just saying.)

Because Of My Folks, I Literally Am Not In A Good Place Right Now

I'm going to kill my parents if they keep this shit up, I swear to God.

Yesterday (Saturday) morning, after I gave My Mother a draft of an e-mail she was going to type verbatim because she was freaking out that the fax she made me send to the recipient was never received, I was going upstairs to help My Fucking Father outside with the snow.  I had heard that overnight we might get some snow, but we got blindsided with a couple, maybe a few, inches, and My Fucking Father probably was freaking out about clearing the driveway because my brother, sister-in-law and niece were dropping by in the afternoon.

I was walking up the stairs past the front door, which was open, when My Fucking Father threw the screen door open and, without missing a beat, screeched, "Is the snowblower broken?!"  To which I said -- said -- "It worked just fine."  To which he said, and I still cannot fucking believe this shit that he pulled, he said, "Why are you yelling at me?!"

YELLING AT YOU!!!  YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER, YOU JUST YELLED AT ME AND THEN ACCUSED ME OF DOING TO YOU WHAT YOU JUST DID TO ME!!!  AND HAVE DONE TO ME FOR THE PAST 42 GODDAMN YEARS?!?!?!  FUCK OFF!!!

(Man, I really don't feel like talking about this after I just wrote that.  But I have to, because if I don't I think I'm shying away from my real feelings, and this blog is about trying to address them in order to process my feelings and, hopefully, finally getting through them.)

So, to his question about why he made up thinking I was yelling at him, I told him that I was yelling at My Fucking Mother -- which is a total lie, because I wasn't yelling at her because she was actually being calm, but I couldn't think on my feet because My Fucking Father blindsided me again.

I finally get dressed and head out to the snowblower, where I find that the dumbass bitch didn't turn on the gas knob.  Once I did that, it worked fine and, because I'm the dutiful son, I plowed so that old, crazy dingbat didn't have to ... until I had to kill it so I could move the cars and plow the rest of the snow.  I moved the cars and tried to restart it, but it didn't work.  I'm going to assume the engine is flooded and it needs time to settle down, but I might be saying that just because I got it to work.

He may -- may -- have calmed down as soon as I turned that knob.  But as I was done and going back into the house, both of my parents were on their way out.  I overheard My Fucking Mother call me a son-of-a-bitch, probably because My Fucking Father ratted on me to her about what I said, which, again, was a lie because I couldn't pull a better excuse out of my ass.

She replied to my text about getting that e-mail sent during last night's United FC match, but I am writing this at Glam Doll because I'm scared as hell I'm going to drive home and get to the front door, only to see that I can't get in.  Both of My Fucking Parents are pissed at me, and this may be the final straw in their paranoid minds to finally throw me out of the house.  I hope not -- I've got nowhere else to go, and I still haven't finished punishing them for ruining my life.  But even if I can get in, it doesn't feel ... safe in the house anymore.  I remember having the house all to myself just a week ago, and even though it's more shelter than I need, I felt secure in there.  Not anymore, thanks to these two assholes I'm made from and their yelling and false accusations and shit.  So even though I live there, I literally am not in a good place right now.

I was almost thrown out of the house several years ago, but as of right now, that seems like a not-unreasonable possibility.  And I am not completely unwelcome of the idea.  Right now.

I had plans of being part of a mock jury tomorrow.  Got through the screening questions and everything.  I was set up last week to come in after work tomorrow downtown.  For four hours of work, I'd get a gift card worth $275.

But I got a message this afternoon saying I'm out.  Why?  I was truthful about one question: I was part of a mock jury over a decade ago.  It used to be OK, but now, apparently, I was thrown out because of it.

I participated in something more than ten years ago and I'm out because of it?  Fuck you!

Router Problems

Well of course My Fucking Father would start bitching about the wi-fi as soon as I bought a modem.  We had to return the one Comcast gave us because everyone says it's stupid to keep renting it, especially since it's a combo modem/router.  But as soon as I replaced it, Mother started complaining that she can't watch her goddamn Chinese soap operas on YouTube through Apple TV's AirPlay.  I swear it has to be the video itself, or some motherfucking interference from, like, the lawnmower the neighbor turns on the same time of day Mother wants to watch.  But no; just this evening, My Fucking Father goes in on me, saying that he doesn't like that my modem doesn't work when the rental that would cost me $120 a year was working just fine.  He even went to Best Buy, where the young punk-ass who's working on commission confirmed it's my fault.  Yeah, I'll get right on returning my kick-ass awesome modem the day before I leave for Hong Kong so I can see Grandmother -- who, by the way, was all the authority figure you never were -- turned to ash.

My God, what an asshole, and what a dick move one day before I leave the country.

He's going to clean out my room, I just know it.  Hell, he just might move out my stuff and tell me to find my own apartment, too.

Oh My God, They Are Going To Throw Me Out

So I'm coming home from the library last night where I worked on my taxes.  That's all I was doing!  That's all I was doing!  So I take off my shoes and lock the door and put the keys on the sill ... and right next to it I see a business card.

I wouldn't have paid any more mind to it, but I noticed what it said on the upper-left corner: REMAX.

My God, now they're fucking hellbent on selling this house and making me fend for myself.

I can just see it now.  I'll come home for dinner tonight, thinking everything's hunky-dory with us, and BOOM! they'll drop the bomb that they're going to sell the house.

I ... I ... I don't know what to do, I can't even think about it. ...

So It Is True, Mother

The housing market has been hot for the past couple of years.  I've seen it in the news, and I can't help but look around me and see several properties on my street with "For Sale" signs up on the front yard, followed extremely quickly by "SOLD" signs.  So it wasn't too much of a leap of faith to know that, deep down inside, my parents want to sell this house, too.

It's obvious why.  If this house gets on the market, chances are it'll sell within the day.  I guarantee it.  Plus they'll get a fortune, especially compared to how much they paid for it back 40 some-odd years ago.  They have no more ties to the area.  They sold The Store, and even though there are relatives very close by, my folks never talk to them.  They are in the process of selling all the rental properties they acquired in the area; they say that the bureaucracy with the city of Minneapolis got to be too much for them.  They do, however, still have their real estate in Las Vegas, and they are quite intent on being there a lot more throughout the year, if not full-time.

They are empty nesters, but unlike some, they don't seem to be heart-broken that my brother, sister and Grandmother have moved out.  It's just me.  I am the sole impediment to their plan.  Yet I am the impediment that is blocking the plan.  Even though my parents bought this house and thus were cognizant that it was under the ownership of someone else before them, for all I know, this house has always been ours.  And goddammit, it'll remain so as long as I have any say in it.  I can't bear seeing myself living somewhere else besides the only place I've ever known.  I certainly can't afford to live out on my own.  Not like I want to, either.  It's like The Store; if there ever comes a time that I will have to leave this place, it'll be like a piece of my died.  And frankly, I can't take any more change or stress if I have to move.  And my God, the moving!!!

Still, if they can sell The Store and evict Grandmother, giving away the house would have to be next on their to-do list.  I just assumed that, and was OK keeping that sentiment unspoken.  But it kind of erupted yesterday (Sunday) morning.

This weekend I was a participant in a research study at the U.  I had to wake up and get to the tube at 8 both weekend days.  However I did not tell my parents that.  There truly was a possibility that a person from the alumni group needed my help moving out of her place this weekend.  It did not come to be; she decided to hire movers instead.  But considering the blow-up My Fucking Father had on me, I decided to tell them that the reason I was busy this weekend (and the reason I had to wake up so early Saturday and Sunday) was to help her move.  I was going to help her Friday and Saturday evenings, too; that way I could sneak out to parties on the former night and head downtown to watch the Frozen Four Final the latter.

Sunday morning I am leaving.  Both parental units are in the dining room.  They ask me what time I'll be home for dinner: "Six?  So late?" Mother said.  "Well, we're not done moving yet," I replied.

And then Mother scooted to the top of the stairs and dropped the bomb on me.  "Hey, ask her if she's selling the house.  I want to buy it, sell this house and move you there.  How's about that?"

So it is true, Mother.  You want me out of the house so you can sell it.  That was the point -- yesterday morning -- when I know for absolute certain that I was blocking their dreams of getting rid of their past.  My past, my childhood, just so they can make a buck.  And while I understand it, by Buddha, I was totally unprepared for the psychosomatic punch to the gut I felt.  I didn't even hide it; I was nearly crying when I stammered out, "But I like living here!" before I staggered my way out to the car.

(I will say this.  There is a chance this is a sentiment prompted by Mother.  Saturday a new family moved into the house to the left of us.  And ... ah, shit, my parents are racist: They're a black family [possibly West Indian] and they think that means the neighborhood's going to shit.  Maybe that's why she said she wanted to move.  But I still think they've wanted to move in order to cash in for a long time.)

Honestly, I was as close to suffering a heart attack all day as I ever have in my life.  I parked in Rosedale just so I could recuperate and think of a story about what to tell her, and to just ... deal with the fact that they want to move out and want me to move out too.  It's not fun knowing that I am the loser/asshole son standing in the way of their dreams and plans.  But ... fuck, I CAN'T MOVE OUT!!!  I CAN'T LIVE OUT THERE IN THE REAL WORLD BY MYSELF!!!  MOTHER SAID THAT SHE'D HELP WITH THE DOWN PAYMENT ON ANY NEW HOUSE, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE MORTGAGE PAYMENTS???  I CAN'T PAY THAT ON JUST MY TEMP SCORING JOB!!!  AND WHAT HAPPENS IF I LOSE THAT, TOO?!?!?!

I'm 41 years old and I still haven't moved out.  And while I really don't want to move out, it's time like yesterday morning where I'm acutely aware that I am not like other people.  I know that people my age have established jobs and are raising families.  That's not me, and I know it's way too late to start.  And so I know that I have become such a burden on my parents that they no longer know what to do with me.  They probably think they failed raising me.  And ... well, they have, it's times like these where I examine what is wrong with me.  All I know, and all I have ever expected out of life, is to go to sleep in a safe place and wake up in a safe place and just ... be, you know?  I get mad a lot, but so long as I have this place to call home, I think I'm doing OK.  So without it, regardless of financial situation or want to do something more or live somewhere else, is a huge and indelible part of my life.  And it's a hallmark symptom of my abandonment issues that I can't just move on and do something else and leave here because I don't know where I'd be.

---

My heart was palpitating to the point of bursting all day.  I finally had to face the music -- and get my lie straight -- and come home.  And I told Mother that I asked "my friend" about the house and she said that her ex-husband got it in the divorce proceedings and that's why she's moving.  And ... that seemed to be the end of it with her.

And so my heart is beating a little more normal now, and my parents and I are back where we were -- in a standoff, them being weighed down by me until I get my shit together.  Except that I know that I will forever be unable to get my shit together, because I am a disappointing son.

What really gets me now?  I fear coming home.  Right now, I am typing this in the library.  Why?  Well, to blog post my thoughts, for one thing, and I do need to do some things that are better done with the faster connection of a library network.  But I want to forestall coming home and seeing My Fucking Father's fucking face.  He did say that he knew I wasn't going to listen to him, and I'm not.  But there really is no telling what faces me once I get home.  Will he have moved out my stuff?  Will Mother be at the front door with a pamphlet for an apartment she checked out today?  Fuck, I don't know.  And unfortunately, I'll have to find out soon.

When To Rake

I need to rake the leaves.  I don't want to; I think I should mulch them, and this article says I should leave them alone, for three reasons.  It seems to be a win-win; I don't have to waste any time on it, and it's best for the environment.  But once my parents come back home and see all these decomposing leaves strewn all over the yards, there level of approval for me will find an ever-lower bottom.

But when?  Because the Vikings are away this week, and my alma mater played last night, I have the weekend all to myself, and I thought now's as good a time as any to at least start.  There's more to winterizing the lawns than just raking; I want to mow one last time, then put fertilizer on the both yards to feed it through the winter months.  It's a huge undertaking, and not all of it will be done in one weekend.  And that is allowing me to procrastinate on even beginning.  That's why I'm blogging right now.

And the thing is there are things I could do instead, and other things that I can't do that I take as a sign that I should rake the leaves.  An example of the latter is the English Premiere League, which I'm really getting into.  Initially I thought I wasn't going to do any yardwork this weekend because I was going to wake up early and watch the matches downtown with a brew.  But I saw yesterday that the EPL was taking a break for international tournament qualifying matches, which means I didn't have to go anywhere this or next morning.  So that would be perfect to rake ... right?

An example of the former, on the other hand, is my firm plans to go to St. Paul to see the finals of the high school girls' volleyball tournaments at the Xcel Energy Center, and although I read on a chatboard that the match is sold out, I am going to go to the Sports Pavilion tonight to see #4 Minnesota take on #1 Penn St. in a huge women's college volleyball match.  This is a time to gorge on volleyball, I like to see the next great crop of v-ball players, I've never seen the high school volleyball tournament, and I want to use the Green Line to shuttle between the cities.  Plus, I want to make a night of it, and a night of volleyball would be unique.  So, I could stay and do a huge chunk of the yardwork today, but I would rather bug out in the afternoon.  Early in the afternoon, in fact; I don't want to pay for any meters on the streets of St. Paul, but I want to eat at Cossetta, so I think I will park at the U. on the Minneapolis side and Green Line it to St. Paul and have enough time to eat lunch before going to the X.  And that takes time.  (And I'll need a lot more time if the Prep Bowl sucks up all the available free spots around TCF Bank Stadium; in that case I'll have to drive to St. Paul and pay for parking.)

That means I should leave around 10.  Which means I'll need to drop all my raking by then.  And I see that it's well past 9 o'clock and I haven't even stepped outside yet.

You know, yesterday I had plans that, if I were to wake up early enough, I would rake at 7 in the morning and at least be down with the leaves in the front yard before I had to go.  Oh, well.  There's always tomorrow ... and watching all the football games.  Oh, well.  There's always next week ... when the EPL is back on.  Oh, well.  My parents won't kick me out of the house, will they?

Am I Cheap?

Really bad day at My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition) yesterday.  It was all due to two people.  One of them was this weird, pathetic old man whose seat I mistakenly took.  While I was walking back there he, having vacated that seat to get a dance, marched right back up and took it "back," even though I was standing right beside it.  Whatever, dude.

Just to study this fucker I sat close by.  He drank his can of Michelob Golden Light with anger, slamming it down after taking every forceful gulp.  Later he went up to another girl and I could overhear him pushing her around, saying, "So, you wanna dance or what?"  Temper, temper, asshole.  He was a short, stubby dude with khaki shorts that his polo was tucked into -- in other words, not a gentleman, and not I've ever seen before.

I was going to take back his seat after he got this second dance, but then a group of bikers took over his seat, and mine.  I would like to think he would have gone back over there but was afraid of the bikers, and that's why he left.  But I'm not sure.  Maybe he took out his frustrations to the point where he'll never set foot in there ever again.

---

The other person is way more problematic.  It's the fucking waitress.  She moonlights as a stripper, and I've complained about her because she is one of those five-dollar bitches who would bankrupt me if I kept that up.  I don't know what was going on yesterday; we didn't talk, we kind of just ran into each other a couple times.  But it was hot, and this guy was pissing me off, so I wanted a drink.

After I was there a while, I did what I rarely do, call her over and order a drink.  But she just lashed out at me -- "Go to the bar!"  What?  Why was she acting all rude?  Sure, I didn't tip her or get a dance from her, ever.  But I thought she was cool nonetheless.  We would talk sports from time to time, and a couple weeks ago she fed me snacks.  Why was she so angry with me?

She got me my drink anyway.  I apologized for pissing on her corn flakes, whenever that was, because I need to continue to come back here.  And then she basically called me out: "You don't get dances and you just watch sports.  It's called a sports bar.  Look into it."

Well, I was just shocked.  And hurt, too.  And it exposed my worst fears of being a patron of this place.  I may be the only person who still tips two bucks.  I believe that was the norm when I first came, but that was a long time ago.  I've had more and more strippers tell me they only dance for five, many more of them new.  If the new strippers demand five while the veterans who gladly accept two continue to die off, I'll be priced out of this place.

This also makes me very self-conscious.  I consider this bar to be My Home Away From Home, but I'm not like any of the people there.  I think my repeated visits have made me some sort of a regular, but when it comes to tenure and popularity, I take a back seat to a lot of people.  So I'm under no illusion that the owner or the manager or a bouncer -- or a bitch waitress -- will suddenly decide to have me thrown out for being cheap, or just making shit up about touching the dancer or making trouble or something.  That would suck, but that is legal, and very possible.  Hope to God that doesn't happen.

Her allegations are at least unfair, and at most untrue.  I don't understand why she came down on me like that.  Yeah, there are women I don't give money to.  They have their standards, and I have mine, and they don't mesh.  It's not like I'm personally killing their business; all of them manage to get suckers guys to give them five bucks.  Hey, it's their money, they can do what they want.  Just as I can do what I want.  I have not been told otherwise, and I have yet to be told to leave because of it.  I didn't think that was a problem.  Now, it's just one pissed-off girl saying that that is a problem.  But what if she tells the bouncer or the manager or the owner and he agrees with her?  Then they think it's a problem ... and now the problem is mine.

I'm sidetracking myself here.  I don't make it rain every time I go there because it's a special place.  It is a bar, and I can just go there to drink and relax, and that's it.  And sometimes I do get dances -- not all the time, but some of the time, and I'm damn sure she's seem me get a few, so when she said I never get dances, that's an a goddamn lie.  Also, do you know what she's not saying?  Most of the other people there are just going there to drink and to relax, and they don't get dances.  In fact, most of them don't tip at all.  I'll bet 90% of the people at the bar have spent less money on dances -- spent money, period -- than I have.  That should mean something.  That should get me some modicum of respect.  And what makes me furious -- and what hurts me -- is that some bitch has decided I'm not welcome there because of what I think I do.

Look.  Until someone higher than her tells me I'm no longer welcome, throws me out and tells me never to come back, I'll just believe what she accuses me of doing or not doing is simply not true.  And it's not.

Nevertheless, I'm scared enough not to go there for now.  See, I was just going to dink around the north metro, exercise and putting in the daily entry for WAF.  But then I saw that it was #NationalIceCreamDay.  I thought we already had one this year.  Anyway, I did think about going to Dairy Queen before I heard it was #NICD, but for a special holiday like this one I should go to a proprietor that elevates ice cream to an art form.  So I think I'll drive a ways to Uptown and hit one of the ice cream shops there.  But that means that My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Division) is on the way home.  My pride tells me to march back in there, pay two bucks per stripper and watch sports, just to piss her off.  But that might escalate things to a point that I wouldn't be able to control.  So, even though I don't want to, and I really feel that doing so is a sign of emasculation and defeat, I'm just going to drive by.  I might stay away for a week or so.  Maybe that'll cool things off.  Or, it may be their chance to keep me out for good.

Why do I have to fight to come here?  What the fuck did I do?

Oh, Now I Fucking Owe My Father Something

Got the car today.  Work disruption is over.  Everything else is disrupted instead, but being able to drive to work is no longer a problem, and that is what matters.

Now the blowback with my folks.  I'll confess: I'm 39 years old and my parents paid for my car, my new car.  And because of that, even though I am secretly relieved that they took care of this process for me, I am waiting for my parents to use that against me the next time they think I'm not applying myself.  Which is every day of the week, and in fact every time I see them.

Mother crammed that idea down my throat this morning in a bizarre way.  I actually deluded myself into thinking they would be cool with the idea of buying me a new car because for the longest time they thought I should have junked my old car, so finally I got around to that idea.  But when Father asked me which dealership we were going to yesterday (Tuesday) morning, even though I thought we had gone through that the night before, Mother launched into one of these crazy tirades she sometimes does where she warns me that My Fucking Father is acting crazy and it's my responsibility to deal with it.  In this case, My Fucking Mother said that My Fucking Father hates my temp job, the test scoring jobs I'm doing now and the rest of the contract work I do the rest of my days.  "You have to sit down and talk to him, ask him why are you so mad!" she said, like a shrill bitch.

I tried to be nice.  I tried thanking my parents as we both were driving away from the lot, them back home in their minivan and me to work in my brand-new car.  But My Fucking Father looked at me blankly, as if he was doing all he can from saying how disappointed his with me.  That's when My Fucking Mother spewed from her mouth that "You have to sit down and talk with him about why you make him so mad!"  Thank-yous can't be just thank-yous with these people; there are always recriminations hiding behind it.  That's how my folks are different from everybody else's folks, and that's why I find them absolutely impossible to deal with many times.  I should have just left without saying how grateful I was.  Their reaction wasn't going to be any different.

So no.  No, no, no, no, no, I am not falling into that trap of opening the lines of communication with My Fucking Father.  It's not as if I don't feel like I owe them anything.  But this cycle of dependence never fails: When I ask something of them, they take over the whole thing, then as my guard is down, they ask impossible things of me in return, like finding a permanent job, going back to school, or moving out.  That is what My Fucking Father will come at me for if I do "sit down to talk with him," therefore there ain't no goddamn chance in hell I'll do it if I can avoid them.  Which I really can't; I have to come back home for dinner at a regular hour tomorrow, but I won't bring it up, and I hope to Buddha he won't fucking bring it up either.  Probably not, but if that's the case I'll do my usual routine, whereby I stammer non-committal answers, look down, and lie.

See, that's why I should have just struck out on my own and found a new car by myself.  No, I didn't have the money to pay it all.  Maybe I would have had to finance it, or go buy that cheap car down the street for four grand.  But doing it myself means I don't owe them anything, and therefore I wouldn't be knuckled under this situation that My Fucking Mother said I had to mediate because, somehow, my car breaking down is my fucking fault.

And by the way, why the hell do I have to calm My Fucking Father down ?  Why can't he calm himself the fuck down?  And what is he mad about?  Bitch, that ain't my problem.  But it is, because these guys paid for my car, and such a deed will cost me.  Like all deeds done by my parents seem to always come with a price when it comes to me.

Whatever.  Bring it.  I'll just wear them down with my immovable silence, again.

Another Big Fight With My Fucking Father

I never know how my parents are going to behave when I come home.  Never.  At least not for a long time.  And that was affirmed Wednesday when they came home without telling me.

The house was in a, say, disheveled state, so I knew My Fucking Father was going to rip me a new one for it.  That came tonight, after I came home from working out and avoiding them as much as possible.  I was preparing myself for the possibility that he was going to clean my room, and sure enough, as soon as I saw my old antenna missing from where I put it, I knew he did.

As usual, I heard his goddamn footsteps trundle up the stairs as I was looking around Grandmother's bedroom (into which I was thrown into by both my folks) while I was wondering where the hell did he fucking put my stuff.  Oh yes, here it comes, the motherfucking "clean your room and throw all your old stuff away" speech again.  Only this time he added all the things he didn't like about the shape the house was in when my parents blindsided me.  He peppered his insults with a fair share of lies, also a part of the act.  In particular he showed me a towel with a hole in it and said the towel ripped apart after I left it underneath an overwatered plant.  It's become more apparent that My Fucking Father and My Fucking Mother are crazy in their own individual ways, but accusing me of shit I didn't do appears to be a trait they both share.

I was given a deadline to recycle all the papers tomorrow.  I bluffed and said I work tomorrow, but My Fucking Father's on one of his rampages, so I had to sift through them.  This is what storage is for.  But ah, there is another surprise, although I guess I should have seen this coming the first time Mother got the mail and saw the bill from the storage facility.

I decided to leave because I couldn't fucking stand being at home with My Fucking Father, but also to put the bags I will send to storage tomorrow morning.  My Father, hearing that I started the car outside, sat down on the stoops -- one of the ways to show how I'm really, really hurting him -- and reveals that he knows my secret about the storage facility, and then berates about why I pay money to throw papers into it.  It's not just papers.  It's Entertainment Weekly, it's programs, it's stuff that I resent My Fucking Father for wanting to throw away.  He says I need to see a shrink.  I think that's still a secret.

I just stared at him until he complained himself to exhaustion.  I then asked to leave, and he shooed me out.  Right now, I don't know if he's throwing all my stuff outside, or planning to throw me out of the house, or crying on My Fucking Mother's shoulder, or planning to kill me.  I'm just really, really scared of what awaits me when I have to come back to the house again -- and it has to be fairly soon, because I know he'll be pissed if I stay out too late.

I truly hate my parents.  My Fucking Mother the past two days, My Fucking Father now.  I truly, truly, truly hate them -- for yelling at me now, for all the abuse they've heaped on me all my life, for turning me into the trembling, uncertain, negative son-of-a-bitch I am now.

New Low

People at work the past couple days how quiet I've been.  That's because of the fight I had at home with My Fucking Father.

All day Wednesday I was thinking about how to move out of the house.  All the times I've sat across from him at the dinner table while not looking directly at him ... my refusal from now on to wash clothes whenever he's around ... bracing for the next time he starts cleaning around the house, or when I go out at night.

I have no idea how I would move out.  I just know that I could not live with a permanent silent treatment we'd be giving each other.  I would have no choice but to accept his offer of offering money to pay for school, but in doing so I would probably take a mile and move out and make him pay for that, too.

Have I ever said this?  I have abandonment issues (I even checked out a website on it at work Tuesday), but I'm also very vindictive.  That's why I've been so resentful and reluctant to leave: If I leave this house, the only house I've ever known, and I do so unwillingly, man, I ain't never comin' back.  I love this place, and if My Fucking Father ever drove me out, I would never forgive him.  Mother too, for that matter.

But maybe I should leave on my own.  Sister told me once that my parents might resent me for still living at home, and I can see that.  Also, my birthday is coming up soon, and I am squarely in middle age -- probably not a time you should still be living with your folks.  Maybe I should get a move on, as hard as it is being out in my own in this cruel world.  At some point, especially if my parents want me to leave, my fear of Real Life doesn't really matter.

---

Thinking about my uncertain future based on my crappy relationship with My Fucking Father compelled me to listen to this song and video when I was completing the Weekly Minnesota Sports Survey at the library after work Wednesday.  It's by a duo calling themselves Middle Class Rut.  They were playing at a club called the Triple Rock either in the summer or autumn, and I wanted to go, but I couldn't because I couldn't find free parking around the Cedar-Riverside area.

This is the most depressing song about being stuck in life I've heard in a long, long time.  At my most depressed, "New Low" speaks to me in a way no song ever has:



I'll be honest: Even though I was in a public place, while listening to this twice I had the urge to really, really hurt myself.

---

But after I got home Mother needed me to look for hotels close to the Mayo Clinic and My Father and I started to talk to each other and I feel a lot better and now everything's all right.

Should Have Brought Up My Laundry

This is kind of an addendum to the previous post.  I'm giving it its own title because yesterday's laundry led to My Fucking Father's latest threat to throw me out.

So while I was writing said previous blog post I had a thought.  You know, if I'm going to just wash the bedspread, I should bring up the rest of the clothes because it's possible My Father would put them in himself, and I would hate that.  But then I just forgot, because I do.

So it was time for me to leave for lunch with my aunt and uncle and cousin and I was going to bring up the laundry when, as I approached it, I heard the washer.  Goddamn it, he just meddled again.

My Fucking Father was wringing out the mop when I looked into the washer.  He put in all the clothes that were in the hamper (sans the red towel he told me to put aside).  I also checked the dryer which was spinning the bedspread.

Normally, I would be OK with that.  But, once again, My Fucking Father butted in on something that I could have done -- wanted to do -- all by myself.  So I muttered, while he stopped to look at me, almost as if he wanted me to, "You shouldn't have done that."

So My Fucking Father said something while I left the laundry room.  Don't know what; I have to go.  But what I said obviously was the spark that lit the powder keg he created.  He started outright yelling at me that I didn't appreciate him.  After I stopped to calm him down -- I trotted out the lie that I had other clothes I needed to put in -- he only got further enraged, talking about how "I'm in my own world," comparing me to friends I don't bring to the house for this very reason, and ... well, he kept blabbing about something.  I didn't really understand it, he was just lost his temper when he accused me of losing my temper.

I don't appreciate you, dad?  OK, I appreciate you.  I appreciate you for dumping my clothes in the washer without telling me.  I appreciate you telling me to remove a perfectly good towel.  I appreciate you barging into my bedroom with a mop to clean the dust in the corner.  I appreciate you cleaning every day, every fucking day, for no other reason than you're retired.  I appreciate you for taking all of my shit, including my passport, into Grandmother's room without my permission.

There are other things for which I have not been sufficiently grateful.  I appreciate you for telling me I hold my chicken like I'm gay.  I appreciate for telling me I need to get out of the house more.  I also appreciate you for telling me I spend too much time out of the house.  I appreciate you for incessantly asking me when I'm going to find a good job, or when I'm going to go back to school.  I appreciate you nitpicking on every single thing I do or say, even though I never have asked for your opinion.  Finally, I appreciate you for not kicking me out of the house despite me failing to be the good, successful, rich, happy, mentally stable child you expected me to be when you fucked Mother.  How could I have squandered such a head start when I had a paternal unit who was also good, successful, rich, happy, and mentally stable?

Good enough, Father?

Should have brought up my laundry.

---

So I told him I had to leave for work.  I didn't; had lunch then worked out.  Came back to see Mother went to the grocery store.

Came in with some grocery bags just as My Fucking Father was coming down the stairs.  I offered him so bags; instead he bent down to pick the bags Mother put on the floor.

Well, OK, then.  Nothing's gonna change?  Nothing's gonna change.

Parents Are Getting In My Way

Lately -- although this may have been going on for years now and I just haven't noticed -- my parents ask me to do shit for them while eating dinner -- making letters, helping them out with Internet shit, asking me questions about Europe, etc.  This may be because they'll be going on a cruise soon and they have a lot of things to ask me.  It also could be that I have a lot of things I want to do after I come home from work but am not able to start because of them, and I'm keenly aware of that because of all the pieces I want to write but can't, and all of the tasks I need to go online to research and complete but can't, because of them.

It's getting frustrating.  I love my job and I certainly need the money, but if I wasn't working, even if only for a week, I'd be able to do all the things I need to do.  Now, having no energy at the end of work doesn't help, and Daylight Saving Time, and the immediate beginning of night once I hit home, doesn't help either.  But I'm thinking of all the alumni club stuff I should get on top of, all the money reconciling I need to do, the paperwork when it comes to stocks and accounts and health insurance I should look at again ... if I could just be left alone, I'd be able to do that.  Instead, I immediately come home and have to eat, and while eating my fucking folks tell me they need me to do this or to do that, and then I finish up and eat so I can do this or do that, and inevitably it gets complicated and of course they ask me more questions, mostly likely stuff I don't know the answer to but they won't accept that, and, like, it's 9 o'clock.

OK, I exaggerate.  But they ask me shit to do every night.  Often they ask me to do, like, four fucking things, like they did tonight.  The really stupid thing My Fucking Father asked me to do was to type yet another letter to the insurance company demanding -- not asking, demanding -- they they give him money to fix the house.  I've written to them once before, but he didn't like the answer they gave him.  So he wants me to write again, only with sterner wording.  What the fuck?!?!?!

I walked away from the dinner table after that.  I had to.  But because I'm working Thursday night, they think they need me to do this now ... so I guess I will.  Even though it's stupid.  Because I can't get thrown out of the house.

---

In the meantime, I'm up.  Fell asleep after working on some Skype shit with Mother and conked off around 9, only to wake up at a quarter to 3.

The only productive thing I've been able to do is catch up on porn.  I'm currently trekking through Reality Kings, something I haven't done in two weeks -- which I had not done then since mid- to late-August.  In the meantime I have logged back onto VEF for the first time since the evening of October 20, about 16 1/2 days.  Gee, for a guy who likes porn, I haven't seen it in a long time.

My Fucking Father's in the kitchen now.  Have to finish catching up on RK and masturbating to VEF without getting caught.  See ya.

Addendum To: My Fucking Father And His Goddamn "Lessons"

And I just lost it tonight.  First shoveling, and tonight, of all the fucking things, fish bones.  Fucking fish bones.

We had fried fish for dinner tonight.  Both of my parents told me to watch out for bones.  I cut into my filet while watching out for bones, like they said.  And then GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!!!! My Fucking Father gives me his old wince like he's embarrassed and starts in with that goddamn condescending tone I've heard all my life, "Agghhh, son. ..."

That's when I lost it, although I didn't scream or throw anything, although I should have.  I kind of just shut down when that asshole started in on me like that.  I put my head down, looking up only when My Fucking Father was trying to stare me down, and ate.  I fucking hate being treated like I'm some infant.

My Fucking Father -- and My Fucking Mother, for that matter -- sensed me not caring anymore, and the tone in the dining room changed, as it should have.  After I finished up and went to the bathroom, I could overhear My Fucking Father twist what he said to me yesterday morning when I was shoveling and he was lecturing.  What a prissy dick.

Try and throw me out.  You'd better goddamn kill me, asshole.

Nightmare About Getting Thrown Out

So I was going to leave this morning and I told Mother such.  She then launched into a diatribe of, "When are you going to leave for good?  Are you really working?  Do you really have money, or are you just sponging off of us?  You know, I'm tired of this.  Maybe you should leave, if you seem to have money to go out every single night and do things."

And I was so stunned by this attack I ... woke up.  Yeah, it was a nightmare, and frankly, a nightmare worse than any one I've had in recent history.

My Fucking Mother Flipped Out

All I wanted to do was get a Coke from downstairs.  With My Father taking a shower, I could smuggle up a Coke to my room without him admonishing me.

Too goddamn bad for me that I was ensnared -- ambushed even -- by My Fucking Mother.

"Come here, I want to talk to you," she said, innocently enough.  She's been good lately, not batty like Father.  She showed me a letter from my parents' accountant about renewing their limited-liability company's license in Minnesota, and he billed them $300.

Then, here comes the boom: After we went back-and-forth about how long the license was renewed, a silly questions since it didn't matter and, more importantly, she didn't look at the date correctly and saw it was for two years instead of one, she finally came around to what she wanted to do, which was yell at me.  She was angry at me for not being on top of renewing the license.  And then she really started to insult me: "Talking to you is like talking to a baby!"

Usually after such a gutless comment like that I would just let her have it.  Unlike My Fucking Father, who seems to have his spats every other day, My Fucking Mother usually holds it in until it comes bursting out in an avalanche of threats and shit-talking, and I try to match her intensity, especially since she holds a grunge even worse than My Fucking Father.  But given the poor situation I am in, I just had to shrug and stumble away to Father, who also wanted me to do something.  I guess she ain't talking to me for the next month.

I felt my blood boiling only once when My Fucking Mother was berating me, when she called me a baby.  The rest of the time I was stunned, maybe even confused.  As I was laying upstairs trying to catch the first episode of Scandal I've ever seen (and to see what the hubbub was all about -- OK, I can see the show has potential), I was thinking.  I told My Fucking Mother that the fee was going to be the same whichever state they incorporated in, a point she seems to be angry with me for.  I have no idea about that, but I was worried about something else when I looked up Minnesota license fees online: Turns out that the reinstatement fee is a lot more expensive than a renewal fee.  However, assuming that you can renew for two years, and that the license lapsed all the way back to 2008, and that the renewal rate is ... wait a second ... oh, fucking Christ, never mind, it's a hell of a lot less than $300.

I wasn't aware.  OK?  I was not aware that the Minnesota license had to be renewed.  Some day several years ago My Father and I just went to some place to set up a corporation, and that's it.  Yes, I have done the same thing to corporations that have established in Nevada, and I was always aware that they had to pay money to renew there every year.  Should I have thought the same thing had to happen here?  I guess so.  But I didn't.  Why?  I'll trot out the excuse that real estate ain't my fucking business, and it's wholly goddamn unfair that My Fucking Mother thinks I should be on top of it.

On the other hand ... I feel a little guilty for not being on top of it.  My Fucking Mother says it was one thing she entrusted me to do.  And because I "forgot" about renewing for about four years, my folks now have to pay $300.  I didn't mean to make her pay $300.  This is all foreign to me, this corporation stuff.  And I don't think they were using this license until the thing with The Store.

There are a lot of things my parents tell me that I forget.  With this flap I reminded of another: Instructions My Fucking Father told me to write down regarding ... something about another corporation.  I wasn't told to do anything right away; if so, I would've bitched and complained and then I would've done it.  But it has been sitting in my hip pocket since I wrote it down.  Actually, I don't really know where it is now, but since last night I guess it's important.  Hell, it might have something to do with what My Fucking Mother was talking about.  And if so, that was, for lack of a better word, a warning sign that I missed.

When My Fucking Mother gets into these bad moods, she can get so angry that she can actually plan something -- in this case, because I'm "useless" to her, she probably is thinking up ways to get me to leave the house for good.  I've been up for a half-hour now completing this blog post with my parents working just outside the bedroom door.  I have no idea what's in store for me once I walk out.  No fucking idea.