The Rents: Part 3 - The Exciting Conclusion

I slept on the couch despite the fact they had departed that evening. I just couldn't bring myself to crawl in to the sheets that they had just been in. I felt I might cross contaminate myself with their insufferable behavior and ludicrous thinking.

As my parents age, especially my father, I've noticed a general lack of concern for what comes out of their mouths. I believe that this is a general philosophy that can be applied to anyone approaching the end of their days.

"I'm about to die, what the fuck do I care what anyone thinks!"

And so the cork comes out of the bottle. The stopper of decency, tact, and good sense is removed and a flood of vulgarity, uncouthness, and general inappropriateness comes rushing out. My mother is most cunning about it. She's always faking you out. Distracting you with one hand up high to your left, as she comes across your face hard with the right for the smack down. You never see it coming. With my father it's always staring you in the face. You hunch over, roll your eyes, and sit and wait for the hose.

My father is curious to a fault. This annoys me to no end because he's always digging me for information on things I know will mean absolutely nothing to him, other than ammunition for his decrepitly bad humor.

He's always asking about people I know. People I know that he doesn't know, but he likes to act like he's heard of or met them before.

Especially girls.

My father loves the ladies. I had always heard snippets of this idea from my sisters over the years, but in the past 7 years, since I've managed to have a string of ladies come and go from my life, I have begun to see this first hand. Probably the first most blunt and shocking evidence I had rammed down my throat happen about five years ago. I was in between relationships, and it was a rare time when I found myself alone in my apartment with my father, and out of complete no where he turns to me and says:

"Just fuck'em!"

Excuse me?

"Get yourself a couple of good lookin' girls, and just fuck'em!"

I'd never wished I'd had the power to crawl inside my own skin more than that moment.

Every time I mention a girls name my father's ears perk up:

"Who's _______?"

No matter what I say next:

"She's just a friend."
"She's my boss."
"She's the Mayor of Kalamazoo."

Three things happen:

1. "Is she good lookin'?"
2. "I recognize that name."
3. "Do you have a picture of her?"

This was exactly the case the other day when I was explaining my weekend visiting Crystal in Birmingham. He starts drilling me for information, details.

"Where's she from?"
"How'd you meet her?"
"What do her parents do?"
"What's her social security number?"

What the hell is he going to do with all this information? When I refuse to answer certain questions he acts like I'm the one being entirely unreasonable. So he gets to the portion where he wants to see a picture of her. Fine, I oblige. He takes one look, points to a near by drinking vessel and says:

"That Crystal is a sweet piece of glass…huh, huh, huh, huh!!!"

I'm absolutely certain that I was adopted.

Moments like these are tolerable. It's my dad and his dumb sense of humor. But there are times when his thinking like this infuriates me. Case in point, my Psychologist appointment yesterday.

My father and I had an errand to run that was time sensitive, so there was no other choice, he would have to accompany me to my therapist. As soon as we get there he's drilling me for information about her.

"Where's she from?"
"Where'd she go to school?"

I've been seeing my therapist since January. She's heard a lot about my father. So as soon as she comes out to greet me and I introduce her to him, her face lights up. She wants to talk to him. I decide it best if he wait outside. We spent about 15 minutes chatting going over what's been going on since last we spoke, but she just can't get over it.

"What would your dad say about this right now?"

I cave. I call him in. We spend the first bit of the conversation on general things. My father consistently says things that trigger glances to me from my therapist. I've explained him well. But then the conversation turns. He starts talking about her…the EX…Katherine.

My father has never hidden the fact that he absolutely loves Katherine. And apparently this is entirely at my expense. It never seems to matter to him what amount of hurt she put on me over the years.

"She's absolutely beautiful, extraordinarily smart, would make one heck of a wife, and would produce the most beautiful grand children"

The key here is beautiful. My father found his dream girl 50 years too late. And to please himself, he wants me to take on the brunt of abuse that that imbecilic child would inflict on me. But he just can't see past her tits.

I'm not kidding either.

He once said to her face:

"How are you, big tits?"

WHAT!?!

My 73 year old father said to my (I guess she was 18 at the time) girl friend's face:

"How are you, big tits?"

It would be one thing if he didn't care what others thought of him, but he doesn't realize that his behavior has adverse affects on those around him.

They have finally gone.

Left me to my peace. Left me to live my own life for a little bit longer. And I suppose, in the end, left me with ammunition of my own. Material for my never ending wandering mind and need to express myself in some form or fashion.

It is this gift, my creativity, that I can never thank them enough for. My father especially, over the years has fostered it. So I suppose in the end, putting up with their insufferable behavior isn't so bad after all.

I love you Mom & Dad.

Next time you come and visit…











…I know a great hotel.

And thanks for the toaster!


-D