Turnabout is fair play

Occurred to me that if she is my chattering monkey demon, I am her silent demon. I accept her lesson, and she loses power over me. I sincerely doubt she will ever learn from me.

So, I get to enjoy torturing her by simply being, which provides me with innocent merriment.

Not to mention I hate Peter Jackson

I read The Hobbit, Once. Read the whole LOTR trilogy three times. Then I was done.

Not going back to that part of my life.

It's the multicolored lights and tree

I am entranced with the beauty of our home. All the reds, the wood, the flow, appeal. My eyes are delighted, my soul settles peacefully, my body stretches and luxuriates. I never thought I would live in such a lovely space.

No wonder my nightmare was of moving away, and not wanting to at all.

This did not happen. This I imagine for my own sanity.

I let them in, hiding my surprize. She wept and chattered, he giggled and joked, I watched silently, keeping my mind as free of anything as I could. Not even sign language, only movement. I closed the door, and walked to the kitchen, started the kettle. They followed with increasing bafflement, as I put out mugs, shifted patiently around them, retrieved the large teapot from the mantle in the next room.

They talked, and I can honestly not remember what they were on about, only that there were no real questions. No questions I could answer, even if I would. Comments about my hair, vaguely negative observations about how silly it was to have an inflatable penguin in the dining room, how it looked old, as I liked things - antiques with a negative connotation. The kettle boiled. I used the tea bags, Earl Grey. Not the best tea, accessible tea. I watched the clock. They wondered why I wouldn't say anything, but that seemed rhetorical, not a real question, no way to answer it. Not without prompting them. More tears from her. He seemed to be suppressing anger. I poured the tea, one into the green glass mug, one into the brown and cream one. Added milk without asking. Set them at the table, sat myself without a mug. Waited.

They sat. They sipped, they harangued. How could yous and don't you wants aplenty. Still, and I did specifically listen, not one genuine, answerable question. No acknowledgment of their own specific sins, only generalized chest beating. Mea culpa, without awareness of the nature of the error, nor any curiosity of what they might have failed at. My brother, to his credit, got quieter and quieter. My mother cried harder, wrung her hands. I waited. Right down to my marrow, my smallest cell, my darkest soul shadow, I simply waited.

Somehow, the silence got through. She would never understand, did not want to understand, but she finally stopped. Pulled up her anger, and spat out bile-full words, a shred of dignity for her, and waddled out, limping, old, frail. He followed, looked back at me. And a trace of understanding, a nod. Not enough to ask, not enough. But something, a crumb. Then the tears welled up in my eyes, and I'm sure he saw.

I poured out the tea, washed the pot, emptied and refilled the kettle, and set it to boil. Filled the small daily pot with good tea, sat to wait.

I would have told them, would have answered if they'd asked. But they did have to ask, and they did not. Curious.

On the other hand, winding down perhaps.

Eight days. Bleeding for eight days. Down to a trickle the last half, but not done.

This does remind me of how it all began, which is the opposite of nostalgia.

Shut it

Probably LDLMmP.

I think I have the best job, as well.

Is it? oh, nevermind of course it is, petty of me to find satisfaction in still being the slimmest of the SILs. Since I am also certainly the oldest, I think I can be allowed this as a guilty pleasure. That I got the best of the brothers I take as given.

Luck comes in all shapes and sizes.

On the other hand, he looks ten years older than he is.

D's oldest brother is a complete asshole, but apparently he's gotten better over the years, which makes me shudder in horror. D handled being around him better than I did, but he brought out the bulldog in me. I have nothing good to think about anyone who could be mean to D, and I was reacting to my own father's abuse still lurking in my own head.

What a prick.

Starving the demon

I did it. Did not feed the Demon, all day. Hard work, and I was tired, but not upset, so it is possible.

Surgeon thanked me, only, by name, which is a first, whatever that means.

end of the world

And it started again yesterday. Just two weeks from the last day last time. Dribbling to a close.

Oh, please let this be the beginning of the end.

Getting the evil gits out of my thoughts

There are people around me that I don't want in my head. They don't belong there, and I can't let myself entertain them there any more than in my home. Shoo.

This is going to take some practice.

Parental Oath

First, do no harm
Not to the heart, spirit, mind nor body of your child.
Do not neglect them in any of these parts, either.
Feed them, treat any ills or hurts with calm kindness, let them question, guide them in discipline and self restraint, encourage their curiosity and intellect, give them social experience, let them grow in trust and experience and courage.
As they grow, see them more and more as the adult they are becoming, while still giving guidance and support.
Guard against your own sins, pour not your negativity and prejudices on young fertile minds.
Do not force, manipulate, bully or abuse any child to your own satisfaction.
Forgive yourself your mistakes, let them learn by them. Be kind to yourself when exhaustion and frustration push you to lash out at those you love, but learn from it, and never hesitate to ask forgiveness and a chance to do better. Keep learning, grow in wisdom, never assume, remember mind reading is a myth.

Your children want to love you. They want to forgive you. If they abandon you, there are decades of reasons why.

If wishes were horses, my father would have been trampled into dust

And it's still going on. Bugger, bugger, bugger. The Chattering Monkey is very ill, before I knew this I rather hoped she'd died.

I have a living experiment that proves that just wishing cannot actually kill anyone, no matter how hard one wishes.

When it all falls apart

This one is weird. Very weird. A change in the pattern.

I can but hope.

Tension builds

The past, the present and the future walked into a bar. It was tense. This is not original.

This is comedy.

Ashes to ashes

Remember now, that thou art dust. And unto dust, thou shalt return. Thou shalt walk that last stretch alone.

No matter who you are.

Well, that does explain why he likes her.

Obnoxious cow-orker going on about new BF. Explaining that he has brain damage from an accident as a teen. And I have to walk away before making the obvious joke.

It ain't funny when you really, really mean it.

Enough already

Again? 24 days? Fuckingshit.

There has to be an end to it.

Feel like I'm chokin', everything is broken.

Blech toxic smoky not-at-all-air. Nauseated and aching, although the last could be from response to flu vaccine. Normal inflammatory reactions, feel mildly dreadful.

Not fair to be ill on my day off, dammit.

Karma will come calling

Idiot needs to leave me the fuck alone. Not putting up with her shit, not going to be the one to throw her into it though. I am certain she will do that to herself in her own good time, and walk wide eyed into her own destruction.

That is not my job, and cleaner to let natural consequences handle the details.

Weird thing about abused children and anxiety.

Oh, you know, give me a crisis and I'm good.  Give me time to think too much, and I'll make a mess of it all.  Instinctive, to kill the mouse, in my hand, because it was there, needed doing, can't let it go, then fill a glass with water, drop it in, cover with saucer, let drown, strip bed and remake, take drowned mouse to garbage bin, take melatonin, stay up 20 minutes to allow adrenaline to decrease, return to bed.


To get me really freaked, make me live without a fridge for a week, then bring the fridge, I'll get groceries, stock fridge, then lose my shit.

The joys of ice

So annoying to be living out of a cooler. It's like all the worst bits of a vacation, with none of the fun. Including being a more expensive week than normal.

Annoying, not tragic, but still quite annoying.

Really gotta watch that content

Listening to the DNC, enthused, but with a lingering despair that the idiots will win. They so often do, and I'm getting wound up. Had a beer, drank it all since there is no refrigeration.

Didn't realize it was 9.7%, which is not helping.

I don't want to hear about your plans for next year

I hate weddings. Oh, marriage is fine, with two good people. It's weddings, the more extravagant the worse, a nightmare.

We will never attend another, we've promised.

Like a stuck pig

Ok, one night woken by bleeding through - normal. Two nights? The second it happens twice?

Shit, menopause please come.

Not blood of your blood

Your God was never my god. Your Husband was never my father. Your thoughts were never my thoughts.

Not your clone, but a changeling.

Ralph Lauren Paint? Really? Douchebags.

House, we are sorry about the humans who used to own you. We will always use good, solid paint for you, and never showy "Ralph Loren" paint just for the style. We will take care of plumbing and electricity and vermin and foundations before silly cosmetics. We will love you for the grand old girl you are, and never fill you with silly Ikea shit. I'll take care of your gardens and yard, and not let the trees threaten your roof. No more fires in your fireplace, but at least you won't fill with smoke and ashes again. And no more undermining your foundations with a hack fix for a laundry drain.

We love you, dear house. Be patient with us, we will keep attentive and work on your problems every month of every year. We love you, as does your household god - Moby.

We'll paint that back room next week.

Throwing forgiveness

I believe in forgiveness, it relieves me of the sins of others. But if they want to be forgiven, the transaction completed, they have to confess, accept responsibility and at least try to atone. I can throw forgiveness on them all day long, but if they keep dodging it, there ain't nothing for me to do more, let it rot on the ground - at least it's not my problem anymore.

No damn priest can help with that.

Childless by intention.

Something




about this I find deeply frightening. But, then, I know the inevitable will overwhelm me. At least I know I have not given into instinct, in the face of familial and genetic malignance.

I'll take honorable loneliness.

Everything is a damn trade-off

When Gut is unhappy, ain't nobody happy. Symptom of hormone elevation. Within a week, the period starts.

Well, hormones protect bones and arteries, must endure.

Waking up

Listening to the women at work talk about toddlers they know, whose mothers let them wear whatever outlandish thing they want, because well why not. And I think, yes, why not, why did my mother take it all so damn seriously - how what I wore reflected on her and not just on my age and personal eccentricity? And my long held imaginary relationship fades several more shades, and I let go of a bit more I didn't even realize I was holding on to.

Like letting go of imaginary friends, now that I have real ones.

The joy of ten to twelves

Long shifts are long. Long shifts hurt. Can't complain because the rest of the month looks slim.

Still, ow.

Beyond the myth, the clear blue

The very best part of the continued estrangement from my genetic kin is how much better each cut cord feels. First I left the religion of my childhood, which took a while to completely clean away. Then radio silence for a decade, and finally the last try, and the clearing out my head of all the old, false, attachments.

I just keep feeling happier and freer with each fallen illusion.

Not like I'm all that great.

My closest genetic kin are not good people. I have to keep this in mind, lest I regret the estrangement. Even in comparison with me, just not good.

Oh, I got to be decent, but that is because of D, nothing they did.

If god does exist, there's some 'splainin' to do.

There is one reason I do not love god. God never loved me. Probably because god does not exist.

Which is forgivable.

One of the drawbacks

Three cases, and it took all damn day. Not all good surgeons are fast, but all fast surgeons are good. Today, one room, me in it, and a surgeon who is neither.

Ok, maybe not bad, but I wouldn't go to him, or send anyone to him.

Pessimism run amok

It just doesn't get better, and I always forget how crappy it is, every damn month. Only smoke to breathe. Everything hurts.

It's all terrible.

But it's more fun out there...

So difficult to do the cleaning inside, where it's most needed. When the outside beacons so enticingly, despite the heat, the living things growing for my efforts. Nothing like sweeping away tree litter to create a tidy place.

But, the kitchen is mostly clean, now.

Hypochondria expressed in medical folks.

A scratch on my arm, but a good one, a bit swollen because it's on the soft of my wrist. After a few days of little or no progress, part of me leaps to necrotizing fasciitis, not out of genuine worry so much as not wanting to be dumb and not even suspect the worst. Bandaged it last night with ointment and such, cleaned up a treat this morning.

Just a matter of placement, rubs on everything.

Boston at 80 is sweltering, so.

Nothing like a few hot days to make me want to live much further north. Not that heat further north can't be worse, more humid, houses less well designed for heat. So, really, I can't go far enough north for satisfaction.

Good to live in a bungalow.

Not anti social, tired of society.

Weeks without Wednesdays off leave me wobbly. I'm accustomed to the break, and without it, I get weary and antsy. Getting more agoraphobic - albeit very mildly so - as I get older.

Happy in the smallest of groups, or alone.

On the other hand, how much space do tomatoes take up?

Why does the argumentative dialogue continue inside my head? Or maybe I need to ring the changes a while yet, get it all worked out, so it won't come back? Tired of thinking about people I want nothing to do with.

Surely, I have better ideas to have in my head?

Who *tells* a spouse what not to do?

Twice in the recent past I have had my mother and a woman at work say their husbands "wouldn't let them" do something. With my 87 year old mother, with a bully of a husband, there is some sense - even though I think that in a couple adhering to traditional roles - a husband would not interfere with anything to do with a kitchen - banning canisters on counters, use of bleach - as with my mother, is just out of bounds. With the woman at work a mere decade older than me, and I can't remember what her husband forbad, it just seems like a child blaming a parent for not being able to do something they didn't want to do anyway in front of the other children who think whatever it is is cool.

I can't imagine Dylan trying to tell me not to do anything, since we are equals and adults, not parent and child.

Next year is soon enough

The urge is to make everything as we want it, right now. We need to pace ourselves, which is not as satisfying as, "ok, let's!" Cannot do everything, cannot, cannot, cannot.

So much work, so much joy.

Irascible irritation and distraction

It's not like I didn't get a lot done, but none of it is the right work. Distracted by Outside, when so much needed to be done inside. No idea how this all came about.

Brain not working.

The semi-Persistence of Memory

When I knew we would have this house, and was in contact with my mother, I worried what she would think of it. Knew the kinds of comments she would make. Now I comfort myself by saying, "She'll never be here."

She never will, the thoughts fade nicely.

Nobody does, I'm the wind baby.

Unless you know me from the other blog, and even then, please add comments on the real blog.

Inflammatory responses

Ears ache, whole head irritated, sore throat. Cayenne helping the latter, not the general ick. Gotta be allergies, grass pollen on it's way up.

Can't wait until the mass of it really hits, whoo-boy.

Not quite the same as the ugly duckling.

I grew up trying to be the good one, the smart one, at least the one who didn't shun the parents. Kept it up for two decades after I left home, until I found out it wasn't even noticed. Now, I come to realize that there is something below the black sheep of the family.

I'm the goat, and it's kind of a relief.

Wintergreen candies

My mother tells me the story of when she and my father were courting. Not just once, but repeatedly. She'd made him wintergreen candies, and they walked along, him gobbling them up, until she told him there was wintergreen in them. At which he shouted at her, "What are you trying to do, poison me!?" and threw all of the rest of them in the ditch.

To me this is the story of regret, that she didn't run away then and there. That she was trapped.

She also tells of their wedding, the day before his sister's birthday (she would have been 27), and they had to have a cake for her at the reception, his idea, his insistence. A bitterness creeps into her voice every time she mentions it. Like the unspoken of, much referred to, wedding of the sister.

Now, 1950 or not, to marry someone knowing this? She was not a child, but 25, had a job. Well, I expect for many of the same reasons I married the ex, I finally had some parental approval, acceptance of my adulthood, to walk away from the marriage would have reduced me to a half-childhood again. Mid 20s is a hard age not to just let life push one along, even in the wrong direction.

She wanted me to hate him when she hated him, and still love my father. Something like that. Not an admirable position, not inspiring my respect, nor affection. Pity, compassion, yeah, I know what it is to feel trapped, to feel like I'm drowning and would have thrown anything, anyone, between me and my tormentor, just for the sake of a little respite. So, yes, she now denies it, and prefers the gloss, the fantasy.

I get it. I just can't like her.

How wide is your uncanny valley?

I think some people react to nearly human faces very differently. Which is why some love clowns, or dolls or CGI/Japanese robot-realism, hell someone is MAKING them, while the rest of us run away screaming. Are some of us more or less sensitive to the subtleties of faces, and others are not?

On the other hand, I don't see Jesus in my toast nor the BVM in waterspots.

Not living my life according to some preset, dammit.

Ok, so if my older brother was the conformist, family man, military veteran (ret.) MBA, success, and the second brother was the black sheep/missionary (an interesting combo, I admit) then what role was I supposed to play? Dutiful, long suffering daughter, meek and mild? Wow, did they have me pegged wrong.


Burn all the scripts.

Not sure why I am not believed.

I said it clearly enough, I never said "I love you" to them, never gave them my physical address - which should have been a clue that they were on probation. I had nothing to lose, but if they wanted to have contact, I was willing to give them a chance. One solid, fair chance, that they took for granted and abused or neglected.

It was not a blank check, not carte blanche.

Trusting my gut, and deleting like mad.

Long ago, when I had two trolls, and fed them a while - unwisely, a fellow blogger with a much larger following gave me wonderful advice. If a comment just doesn't feel right, delete it, no question, no need to defend the feeling. Someone has been commenting on the other site, then on this one, and I just don't like what she says, her tone, her attitude, something hard to express, but she's not welcome, but very persistent.

She has finally been marked as spam, and I still think she hasn't gotten that none of her comments are anywhere on this site.

The year of living actually

She wrote, "lightning rod (and sacrificial lamb) who drew the monster's wrath and made their existence more comfortable. Is it any wonder they will not (dare not) acknowledge your pain?" And I sense the rightness, that their words belied, but their lack of questions revealed. No one asked me, "why did this happen? What did you see, were you ever happy, did you feel unsafe, what can we do to make it better?" They don't ask me questions, they don't want to know the answers. Of course they don't.

Any real father would have begged them to reach out to me, at the last, as he lay dying. Of course, he didn't because he hated me, as I hated him. No one could even come up with a lie about him asking for me. What kind of person thinks this is normal, or that it is the full fault of the daughter? I never told them how he would talk about how much they hurt him, hated him, how often he threatened to disown them, and blame me preemptively for how I would do the same in my turn. The year he was laid off was the start of the worst bits, but it all grated away any sense of sanity or safety.

This clear sight of just how bad it really was is a great comfort. Like the last, vital, piece of a puzzle I've been working all my life. It's not pretty, but the truth of it forms a stark beauty. I am not loved for myself, but neither was I hated for who I actually was, or am now. A peace descends, settling on me like deep snow fall, erasing my fears of the dark.

I have doubted my perceptions, examining them for any chance of acquittal, for self deception, personal insanity, even as I knew, knew I had the right end of the stick. Even when I didn't have the words to explain, trying to protect my mother from him. His death has caused me to grieve and mourn, not for him, but that I was given the illusion of a family rather than a real family.

(no response)

When being shouted at, asked insane, unanswerable questions, I was not allowed to not answer. I had to come up with something, that would then be used against me, having no refuge from the interrogation, no recourse. I wanted silence.

Admiring how George Smiley does not respond to provocative questions, wishing I'd known him then.

if the genes don't fit, don't wear 'em.

Two days of misery, bleeding out, and long hours. Waiting for the other shoe to drop with the genetics. Being a bit emotional.

Dylan, as usual, when asked for reassurance, astonishes me with his generosity.

Hey ho the wind and the rain

Wind dumping pollen all over. Poor dear suffering. My own sinuses complaining.

Spring has never been my favorite season.

Complaint and affrontery

I keep thinking about all of the bits of my life, my home, that my mother would dislike. Because she complained to me when others did these things, criticized their tastes, judged their priorities. Which is part of why I held off on giving her the address here, still unconvinced, wary, unwilling to open myself up to judgement direct, even if unspoken. Instead, I have built defensive walls of explanation and rationale. Now that I am letting it all go to voicemail, I am imagining it again, only saying exactly what I have always wanted to say.

I want to put it down here, so that I can leave it here, from this day forward.

Houses do not all have to be white. Red is a perfectly good color. Walls do not have to be pastel. Painting the house can wait, no matter how bad it looks. Yes it's "antique" in that it's old, we like it. Formal curtains with sheers are not necessary, my nice tablecloth and fabric intended as a spread draped over a rod are just lovely. Eventually blinds will be sufficient. Yes, we did pay more than you think is reasonable, so fucking what. You don't understand the market in this town, at this time. Yes we do have several computers, no children are starving because of it. Our cat lives indoors, it's safer that way, and we really do love him, want him to live a very long time, and yes one of the litter boxes does need to be in the bathroom. Yes he gets the best food we can find for him, if something depends on you for food, you need to provide the best you can manage. Just giving them what you like, and going cheap is not a morally defensible position. Like you did to me. Yes my hair is long, and straight, and I don't perm it. This is the way I have liked it since I was a small child, now I don't have to obey you on this. No, it's not childish to have it in two braids if I like it that way, and so what if it causes damage - my hair, remember? I value having a dishwasher, just because I have to do a bit of scraping and rinsing first doesn't change the savings - I don't have to clean thoroughly, rinse or dry - which is great. My hands are happier, and I don't have a dishrack sitting out.


No we are not going to talk about your sainted husband, although I love the idea of him on a candle, with the flames liking around him. Not that I wish him in hell. I don't believe in life after death. No, he lived in hell all his life, and you sat with him, you've already had your eternal now of torment. I'll pass.

Yes, that does help. Really does. Let the wheel turn.

Jesus christ, people

There is no "of course" in love. No one can speak for another. All I know is what it felt like to me.

Just stop using the sacred word "love" in vain.


(This is not my main blog. Please leave general comments on One Word.)

And it goes both ways.

The longer it goes that the bio-brothers do not email, the more sure I am. Not a loved child, who cares now, I just would prefer honesty. No one will admit it, of course.

I'd respect some honesty, honestly.

Didn't call, ain't gonna call.

I feel so much better today. The burden I picked up, out of a skewed sense of honor and fairness, is laid down. The truth is still true.

The weight can lie there for all eternity.

Failure is always an option

Coming around, after a bit of choppy water. Letting it be, walking away, all consolation lost. There will be no further attempts to persuade into understanding.

She had a chance, and failed both of us.

That's quite enough, thank you so very much.

Somehow, I never had the evil in my heart to imagine they would blame the victim. Such an alien concept, that the adult, the 'father' was the abused party, and the little girl who had no power, was the cruel one. That I somehow made up my fear and suicidal depression all through my childhood.

My father is forgiven, since he's dead, but they pour fresh acid down and create new wounds.

Oh, the child's fault, sorry I didn't get the memo.

Of course, it was my fault for not loving my father from the moment I was born, and not being a sweet, pink, frilly daddy's girl. I was to blame, sitting there crying, saying nothing, while he shouted at me for hours and hours, I apparently wanted him to call me every filthy name, shaming and humiliating me. When he bullied and harassed me, it was to teach me how hard the world was.

When it all took on a sexual tone as I hit puberty, that was obviously my own invention as well.

Old bastard

My mother forgets, my SIL assumes his party manners were his real self, and I am stuck knowing what an abusive bastard he was to me. They think WE "Didn't get along." As though it were a simple personality conflict.

My gratitude to D as witness to the truth is my sanity.

Death comes for us all.

One of our surgeons lost his young child to a viral infection. All the staff worried for him, especially the ones who are parents. It's the ones who rail against the unfairness of it that shock me to my core.

'And he goes around killing people?' said Mort. He shook his head. 'There's no justice.'
Death sighed. NO, he said, THERE'S JUST ME.

Bad for good

Well, at least she got me off Dr. S's shit list, by being incompetent. I scrubbed in to let her go home, organized the mess and got in close. Dr. S. who has treated me like a bad rash for a few years effusive in praise of me.

Gold out of anything, I say.

How many flat answers before I deck her?

One of these days, Noseypants is going to ask me about the house or the garden, and I'm going to pop her in her stupid nose. How the fuck can she not know that I am revolted that she expresses more interest in my house than I ever have or will? How can she not see that I am not going to talk with her about my most personal manifestation of home?


Lazy, deluded, entitled princess.

But sometimes help isn't.

The once-dear friend's birthday was this week. I thought of her. If I'd thought she'd've been pleased, I would've sent her greetings and good wishes.

Not convinced, so I left it alone, which is sad.

Not like I'd've sent a card anyway.

Today would have been my crappy father's 89th birthday. But he's dead, so he doesn't get one. So there.

Such a relief.

But mercifully short

And it's over. Strange. Maybe the start of the real end.

All previous attempts apparently premature.

Why on a slow month, I'm taking a real sick day.

Three weeks? Only 24 days since the last one started. Why is it coming around again?

Really miserable one as well.

Most beautiful place

And I continue to take in the beauty of the space. That is ours. No matter what else happens, I am glad of this moment.

This eternal now.

These things take time

So glad to be home. It's inexpressible, profound, and subtle. I can see that the cat feels it.

Even my dear one is allowing himself to settle in rather than just hunker down.

Hair rinse or foot soak?

Who leaves a broken ikea lamp, fluorescent bulbs still attached next to the garbage bins, for the new owner? Same sort that leaves a cooler with a dozen budweisers as well. Wouldn't have been so bad if we'd known which day the trash gets picked up.

What does one do with beer, if one will not ingest it?

Where and when

And I'm very grateful that my period started right after the last load. Prayers of thanks abounding. One of the ways this could have been much harder.

Not that I know where prayers go, just that they are important.

We are here

Last load from the old place, everything here. Everything aches. Piles as far as the eye can see.

I can't stop smiling.

Are we there yet?

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?






Are we there yet?

Not that bad

Feh. I've signed my name more times in a shift when I worked long term care and did paper charting. All done.

They gave us a pretty book.

On the way to do the signing

Agh! Ahhhhhhh! Whooooaaaaah!


Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

How to piss me off, one easy lesson in three parts.

To tell me that my father is smart and knowledgeable and Aunt Evelyn holds grudges and I am "independent," according to the would-be (as an entitlement) brother.

I know my father could fix cars and was smart with his hands, but I also know he couldn't deal with my schoolwork after I was in 3rd grade, treated people badly, and was willfully ignorant of anything new.

Of course I knew Aunt Evelyn had prejudices - she hated Italians for instance. But also that she and Uncle Ernie were the only people in the family who went to Elizabeth's wedding to Ed, after her divorce - a big thing for a very devout Catholic of her generation. I know she loved me, listened to me when no one else did, and I accepted her as a whole, seeing the flaws quite clearly. To assume I did not is condescension, nothing less.

The word "grudge" takes someone else's judgement of character and turns it into a petty spat. Yes, some people take petty spats and turn them into grudges, but to throw the word around is a dangerous activity.

And I value my sense of independence, beats the hell out of simpering dependence. Gosh, I don't just lean on everyone and don't expect them to take care of my every little desire, what a (harrumph!) In-de-PEN-dent little bitch!" On the other hand, I'm also a spoiled little princess, according to my father the last time we spoke. Huh?


Reality to suit, no waiting.

I have been very wrong

There is no good way to say "you should have known" or "it really is your fault." Especially if it is the truth. I did that, in defensiveness - but not kindly.

Don't make it right.

It's good to be right, really

After the last email, when I called him on every assertion, every sexist, skewed assumption, I knew he would back off. Knew as he really got to know me, he wouldn't like it. From him calling me "independent" like it was a bad thing, to telling me my dear aunt tended to grudges (like I didn't know) and telling me that our father was neither ignorant nor stupid (he was both.)

This gives me such peace, to know, to understand, to be right dammit.