[Part 1 of a 3-part series.]
Important Question: When driving an unsafe car, how much would you pay to NOT kill yourself or someone else due to a traffic accident?
My answer: As much as it takes.
My Dad’s answer: Nothing.
Here’s the story.
Background: Last week I spent four days with an 88-year-old stubborn know-it-all misogynistic curmudgeon. Let’s call him “my Dad.”
He’s 95% negative, socially challenged, and a world-class kvetcher. He is also a part-time pimp, a three-quarters-time critic, and full-time racist. Lately I have to add prevaricator manipulator to that list. With the exception of the last characteristic (a new development), I doubt anyone would quibble with my description.
I dread visiting my Dad. Heck, I can’t stand calling him every Sunday. But I do—to be nice. When in doubt, be kind. Even when listening to almost the exact same stuff month after month, year after year.
I also send gifts—the last two years I’ve sent mini-trees, bushes, roses, plants, supplements, ointments, liqueur, champagne, sunflower butter, lawn ornaments, gardening tools and gloves, motion-activated scarecrow, portable hot house, critter deterant, sweaters, belts, sportscoat, shoes, pants, a USC jacket, etc. I used to send DVDs, CDs, and books, but he won’t watch/listen/read them, so I stopped). I handle his paperwork and spends hours a week cutting out articles from newspapers and printing articles from the Internet that I think he might enjoy. I put them in a big envelope, decorate it, and mail it to him every Wednesday.
At this point, you must be thinking to yourself, “OMG this woman needs therapy stat!” Dr. Phil would ask: “How’s this working for you?” My answer: Not well.
I feel sorry for my Dad because he’s bored and boring and he alienates people with his unpleasantness. But that isn’t my problem. My problem is that I’m a chump.
But I learn from my Dad—never to end up like him as an old person. I made a pact with a girlfriend (who has the same kind of emotionally-distant self-centered father):
1. We WILL wear hearing aids when the time comes.
2. We WILL bathe daily and try not to look like a swamp creature.
3. We WILL stay interested in life and engaged with other people.
OR we will bash each other over the head and say, “Shape up!”
I also get blog material out of the whole ordeal. (There are several other blogs about my Dad on this site.) The lengths I go to foster my writing career!
During our phone conversations—in between expressing negativity about everything on the face of the planet—my Dad always says, “When are you coming down?” “When are you coming down?”
It’s not like my Dad enjoys my company. He’d rather sit and gawk at Spanish TV dating shows—even though he speaks no Spanish—than chat with me. (He likes the provocatively-dressed women.) Not that that’s a bad thing, because to converse with my Dad you have to YELL so he can hear you. (It’s exhausting!)
It’s not like he wants to do anything once I’m there. Not that that’s a bad thing as he dresses so sloppy and is so ungroomed (not to mention the inappropriate shouting of rude things in public) that I’m embarrassed to be seen with him. I asked him if he wanted to go tour the Queen Mary with me. You would have thought I had asked him to go to a Ralph Nader Rally. (It was a beautiful sunny day. I went and he stayed home and watched TV.)
It’s not like he cleans the house or buys groceries. And that IS a bad thing. You have to bring your own cleanser to use the toilet and buy your own groceries if you want to eat anything besides eggs or Costco’s three-bean salad, both of which I wouldn’t eat even if I were trapped in a mine for 60 days.
I avoid visiting as often as possible. It’s major-league stressful for me—not just due to his old-age behavior, but due to a lifetime of never getting along with him all that well—starting with his infidelity, my parents divorce, the evil-stepmother, etc. (My sister can verify our less-than-ideal relationship with him. She grins and bears it. My forehead breaks out in a rash.)
Does your childhood EVER STOP affecting the rest of your life??
BUT, the Maria Shriver California Women’s Conference was coming up—to be held in Long Beach, 22 miles from my Dad’s house in Corona del Mar. I decided to stay with him and borrow his car to drive to the convention. BIG mistake!
To be continued in Parts 2 and 3. Stay tuned…
The Queen Mary is one fancy ship! Fascinating history. Lots to see -- in my "Glee" t-shirt!
