Here I was, all set to write about how ridiculous last night was, meeting Lobster’s baby mamma for the first time, and hanging out with my retarded friend, The Mutation . . .and then something else came to my attention again, after chatting with my brother today.
My father is a social retard. He is like a robot.
Even the Wizard couldn't help my father.
When my parents were up here this past week, Mom informed me she turned in her resignation notice that day. She’s worked at various government offices in my small hometown, since she was 22 in 1977. Her entire career has been spent working with members of the local government. So she got a little choked up when she told me about her pending retirement.
I promptly turned to Dad.
“Are you going to throw a retirement party for her?”
“I didn’t get a retirement party.”
“You don’t have any co-workers. You’re self-employed. And you have no friends.”
My mom looked at him with hope in her eyes.
“Haha, I’m not throwing any party.”
“MOM WANTS A RETIREMENT PARTY, DAD.”
“Haha!” (all awkward)
And my mother’s hopes were dashed.
Now, I hadn’t shared any of this with my brother, but when we started chatting today, it was obvious he had spoken with Mom. I relayed my conversation with Dad with him, and then he got riled up. Which riled me up. Which led to me writing this blog today.
A little time-traveling . . .
Two days before Mom’s due date to give birth to the greatest child who ever lived, her water broke. She was pacing back and forth in the tiny duplex they lived in, huffing and puffing. And Dad sat down to put his boots on to go to work.
I honestly don’t know if he noticed or cared that his wife was going into labor with his child. He’s not good with the whole ‘taking-care-of-people’ thing. He tends to show his love by doing tangible things for people. I presume he thought he was taking care of her, because at this point in time, the day of my birth, he was leaving to go work on the tiny house we would move into when I was 6 months old.
After I was born, he nicknamed me “Peanut” because I was so small. This boggles my mind, that that man could be so affectionate towards me, as to give me a sweet nickname. He actually took care of my brother and I when we were little babies, during the wintertime, when he didn’t have a lot of work to do. Again, boggles my mind.
This promptly changed once we were older. I can count on one hand the times my father has hugged me. Once when my parents dropped me off at college the first time. Other times, oddly enough, after my parents met one of my boyfriends for the first time.
My first recollection of my father hugging my brother and I, was after my mom got in his face and told him we were going to be messed up sexually because he didn’t hug us (read:we’d turn out gay or my brother would be a douchebag man-whore or I’d have daddy issues and be a slut.)
My brother and I were probably 14 and 16 at this point. We were looking in the cereal cupboard for something to eat and Dad came up behind us. He jokingly, awkwardly, grabbed us both in a bear hug. Since this was unprecedented, it was more than my brain could handle. I freaked out and shoved him off of us. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
My brother and I refer to the hugging incident as, "Silly Robot, Trix are for Kids!"
When I was younger, 18 or so, I had lotsa daddy issues. I wasn’t out doing lots of guys, because I was aware of my daddy issues and aware of that stereotype. My hatred for that stereotype overrode my issues, even at that tender age.
My issues were more “My dad’s an asshole,” which equated to, “All men are assholes,” which equated to “Chamuca’s a feminazi bitch who dyed her hair dark purple because she is so angsty.” So I was an entirely different stereotype all together.
After several years, I realized that my father actually does love me, he just has a hard time showing it. Instead, he showed it by providing for our family. He’s shown it by checking my car’s oil and tire pressure, to make sure I’m safe. Or building me random things I might need.
I’ve developed different issues in the years since, however.
When my mom’s first surgery got fucked up, the nurses were incredibly kind and found a cot for one of us to sleep on in my mom’s room. They understood that they had a malpractice situation on their hands, and that my mom was too fucked up on morphine to remember anything.
I sat there and waited and waited for my father to volunteer to stay with his wife of 30 years. And he never did it. He went home to sleep in his own bed, and to get up to go to work the next morning. So I slept on the cot.
(I told you he’s self-employed, right?)
Staying with someone who’s on morphine and fading in and out of consciousness is boring. So I watched TV with the hand-held speaker thingy, set to the lowest possible setting, held to my ear.
When my father finally showed up on his lunchbreak, I went home to shower, and immediately returned to the hospital. When I entered the room, I was barraged with this diatribe:
“You kept your mother up all night by watching TV!!!”
“No, I didn’t! There’s no way she could have heard it!”
“She’s right. I didn’t hear it at all. All I said was she watched TV while I slept.”
“You shouldn’t have been watching TV!! You’re supposed to be taking care of your mother!!”
“EXCUSE ME!?!? I’M HERE DOING YOUR FUCKING JOB!!! THIS ISN’T THE JOB OF THE DAUGHTER!!! THIS IS THE JOB OF THE FUCKING HUSBAND!!!”
“YOU WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE, YOUNG LADY!!!”
“Both of you, please stop fighting!”
Honestly, this situation at the hospital has led me to dump several guys I’ve dated, as soon as I catch a whiff of them acting like my father did in this situation. I believe most women would do this, but I’m so strict about it, I know I have issues.
Going back and reading this incredibly long (SORRY!) post, I’ve also realized I’ve referred to him as “my father” more times than I ever have in real life. Talk about distancing myself as much as possible.
Also, either through nurture or nature, I have inherited from him a defense mechanism of making jokes when I feel vulnerable or uncomfortable. It is evident by the pictures I have chosen for this blog. With that, I’ll leave you with this.
I may be fucked up, but at least I didn't turn out like this whore.
