Rhymer family drama, obviously, though nothing major. Mostly I’m just venting. Here’s the basics:
Yesterday I got home from work to find a passive-aggressive message from my father on the answering machine saying that he was praying for my soul; an aggressive-aggressive message from my insane sister* on my answering machine, saying she wasn’t talking to me† because I am not only a bad son but a self-hating nigger; and a bemused wife, in person, saying “Hey, you know when I said you should be nicer to your family? I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, and I’m sorry.”‡
Why did these three things happen, you ask? Because I wouldn’t let my father come up to my apartment Saturday when he asked.
Why did I do that, you ask? Well, that’s the story.
On Saturday, my wife & were planning a sit-down dinner party. Our purpose was threefold. We wanted to celebrate my recent promotion; my wife wanted to get drunk as a skunk in a safe environment; and we were arranging for a single, available, lesbian friend of mine who’s been looking for a setup to meet a single, available, lesbian friend of hers in the same boat. We invited six guests: the two aforementioned friends plus two couples. I did the cooking, my wife did the cleaning and decorating, and with the aid of one of the married couple chose the wines.** Her mother had the baby for the weekend, something she (my wife’s mother) has been wanting to do for quite a while.
Dinner was planned for seven. At five I was cooking when the buzzer rang. My dad was downstairs and wanted me to let him in. He had not, incidentally, called to say he was coming over, or to ask if he MIGHT come over.
“Dad, I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Is it an emergency?”
“What are you doing?” Dad replied.
“Cooking dinner. So is this an emergency? I’m busy.”
“Stop cooking. I’m here to take you and your wife and the baby to dinner!” he said. “You and your wife and the baby and My Female Friend Whom I Refuse To Call My Girlfriend Though She Obviously is, I mean.”††
“Sorry, Dad, no can do,” I said. “The baby’s with her grandmother, the wife’s out, and we’re having a dinner party.”
“Okay, fine,” Dad said. “Okay. I’ll just call MFFWIRTCMGTSOI, and we’ll join you.”
Did I consider this? No. Not for a second. For one thing, there’ll be drinking and Dad is an absolute teetotaler who feels obliged to tell my wife that if she drinks she’s imperiling her immortal soul. For another thing, one of his favorite dinner topics is how the advent of gay rights & gay marriage is a portent of America’s damnation, a topic which will not be helpful in the aforementioned setup. Lastly, I have this silly notion that my wife and I should have absolute veto on who comes to our parties.
“Um, That’s a problem, Dad,” I said. “See, it’s a sit-down dinner, and there’s only room for eight at the table, and all the guests have confirmed, so there won’t be any place for you and Your Female Friend Whom You Refuse To Call Your Girlfriend Though She Obviously Is to sit.”
“Somebody can just sit in the kitchen,” Dad said.
“Dad, I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’d really care for it. We’ll be drinking and I know you don’t approve–”
“Why not? And why are you allowing liquor in your house? Haven’t I taught you better?”
“Dad, I’m busy. I don’t have time for a long conversation. I’m happy to come see you tomorrow for our standard Sunday afternoon visit. Talk to you later, okay?”
“So you’re not going to let me up? Boy, what is wrong with you? I am your FATHER!”
A thought occurs to me. Dad’s already pissed. If I continue this conversation, I will become pissed and Dad will become more pissed. If I hang up now, Dad will still become more pissed. If I let him come to the party, he will become pissed and at least two of my guests will be pissed. Since every course of action results in Dad becoming pissed, I might as well hang up.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Dad,” I said.
And hang up.
Results thus far? Dad didn’t answer the phone when I called Sunday. I called a few times and he never answered, and as I hate showing up unannounced I didn’t go over as I usually do. This, of course, was a trap, as it gave him the chance to call me unappreciative and ungrateful and a couple other things on the phone because I didn’t come over, not to mention criticizing me for “allowing” my wife to drink. He also complained to the aforementioned crazy sister, who insists that, since she and our sisters always show up at Dad’s without calling and he never complains, and he shows up at their houses without calling and they never complain, I should get with the program and let Dad show up unannounced and not complain. The fact that I don’t is, like the fact that I like to have sit-down dinners and married a woman pale of flesh, proof that I am arrogant and saditty and a self-hating nigger. The non-crazy sisters and brother, though apprised of the latest drama, all wisely choose to stay the fuck out of it.
That’s the irritating part. The good part is that my wife has been thoroughly disabused of the notion that I should be nicer to certain members of my family. Oh, and she tastes very nice when kissing me with red wine on her breath.
That is all.
*I have five sisters. Only one is batshit.
† In addition to being insane, she is also confused as to how to best go about not talking to someone.
‡ Just as all lists require at least four entries, footnootes should always come in groups of at least three.
** Because we wanted **good **wines, of course, and thus needed the assistance of someone who knew about booze, which ain’t me.
†† Okay, those weren’t his *exact *words.
