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| "Stolen" from Post Secret |
Showing posts with label Dave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dave. Show all posts
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day
My parents separated when I was in fourth grade, the result of his night of drinking and wrapping my mom's car around a telephone pole. I only visited him once in the hospital, but once was enough considering he had bolts coming out of his knee and a gory, nasty wound on his forehead.
After the separation, the man who was my father disappeared and was replaced by a cold, sadistic human being. The same person who wanted to take my sister and I with him everywhere we went, suddenly lost interest in his children. We became luggage in his new life of revolving women, alcohol, and drugs. Eventually, he settled with Dawn, a friend from his years of high school. Dawn had three children, Chris, Karen, and Jenn, who became the replacement children. In fact, Jenn and I not only share the same name (though spelled differently), we also share the same age.
Custody was arranged through the court system, Wednesdays after school, every other weekend, and one Sunday a month. In the beginning, it was a strange adjustment but went smoothly. Wednesdays consisted of a trip to the library and dinner, with an occasional trip to his parents house. The more involved in his relationship with Dawn, the more he ignored his children though. Eventually, our Wednesday library trips were replaced with him not picking us up. Then the Sunday visits abruptly ended.
He still wanted us every other weekend, though why I'm not completely sure. Every weekend became the same, Friday nights consisted of buffalo wings or Chinese food, both made my sister extremely sick. I lost track of the number of times I had to call Momma Dukes at three in the morning to ask what I should do for her. Of course, my mom felt trapped seeing that our car was smashed into a telephone pole and she had no money to replace it.
Saturday and Sunday consisted of Diddy and I caring for ourselves, occasionally stealing the change from his truck to walk to Wawa to purchase food for the weekend. There was food in Dawn's house, but it consisted of stale cereal, leftovers from Friday night, flat soda, and chunky milk. We would live off of candy bars and soda during the weekend. We couldn't even shower at his house, since there was a hole in the bathroom door the size of the door and no clean towels. Eventually, it would be Sunday evening and we could finally go home to our loving mother who always had a huge meal cooked for us, clean towels, and our own beds to sleep in. Diddy and I would often make it a race to see who could get to the shower first. Momma Dukes always made sure that everything in the house was perfect for our return, because she knew the horrors we had to endure.
Nobody listened to her complaints about the environment she had to send her children to for the weekend, time after time, judges would favor Dave's side in court. As time passed, I got more and more frustrated and depressed at the thought of going to his house for the weekend. We watched him snort drugs on the side of the house, become annihilated with alcohol to the point where he couldn't even say his own name right, and even practically having sex with Dawn on the couch. Countless times, he would have a beer while driving us to or from his house.
After three years of painful weekends, I was on the verge of a breakdown. Of course, I held all of my emotions in because I was a conflicted, naive teenager who didn't know what to do. Going into seventh grade, he planned a vacation to Maryland with us. It was supposed to be a week of vacation on the beach in Ocean City, Maryland. My mom made sure we had everything we would need, including plenty of food and snacks (just in case). The night before the trip, she realized she had forgotten to purchase sunscreen for us, so she asked me to call Dave to ask him to pick some up for the trip.
What was supposed to be an easy phone call, turned into a four hour screaming match between the two of us. At barely 13 years old, I had to listen to the man who was supposed to be my father scream at me that my mother was a whore, I was unwelcome to come on vacation, he always loved my sister more, I was a mistake, etc. Nobody wants to hear this from their father, especially a teenager.
Instead of going on the trip, we stayed home. It was the best vacation of my life. Momma Dukes made sure that we had the best time at home, making everyday that week as special as the previous day. At that moment, Momma Dukes took on the permanent responsibility of mother and father.
Over the course of the next few years, he came in and out of our lives. The straw that broke the camel's back was my sixteenth birthday. After being separated for almost six years, my mother was not financially at a point to file for divorce. A few days before my birthday, I went to Dave's parents house (they insisted on taking us for his visitation weekends) where the delinquent showed up. He sat down with me for dinner, filled my head with thoughts of fixing our relationship, and asked what I wanted for my birthday. Seeing that the man hadn't bought me a gift in years, I was actually caught off guard. I told him that I didn't know what I wanted, which he told me was okay because he found the perfect gift. He was going to have it mailed to my house, but it would probably arrive a few days after my birthday.
My gift? On my sixteenth birthday, he filed for divorce. What a gift!
I was crushed. Not at the thought that they were finally going through with the divorce, but at the thought that it was so malicious and calculated. Was this his plan all along? How much effort and planning had he put into this "thoughtful" gift?
We stopped speaking for years, which really didn't change anything. It wasn't until I graduated from Rowan, had my own apartment, and began working my fantastic job at my district that I actually began speaking to him. He hadn't changed much, he was still the coward that I always new him to be. Dave talked a big game, how much he missed me, his regrets on losing so much time in my life, missing my graduations from high school and college, how he was so proud of me. The typical stuff you would expect to hear from a man who had vanished from your life for over a decade.
After almost two years of building on a relationship, putting in all of the effort and getting nothing in return, I had enough. I would call him only to get his voicemail with no return call from him. I would show up at his house occasionally when I was in the neighborhood and he wouldn't answer the door, even though I could hear him in the other room. We would go to his parents house and he wouldn't show up, even after his parents and siblings would call to tell him that we were around.
This past April, I had enough. I wrote a very long, nasty letter expressing everything to him, I even had the Bermanator edit the letter for me. At the very last moment, I decided to not send it. Instead, my sister called him and laid into him about how I was feeling. It resulted in him calling moments after their phone call, once again with his typical reaction of how much he loved and missed me. The phone call resulted on a positive note, we made plans for lunch and arrangements for phone calls in which we would take turns calling each other. He reaffirmed for me that he would call me later in the week with plans for lunch.
The phone call never came. There was no lunch later that week. Dave has not called me once since our conversation. Instead, I would call him every couple of days, for a five minute conversation. He would spend most of the conversation talking about Dawn, "their" children, and his grandchildren. I haven't called him in over a month, since his birthday. I'm waiting to see how long it takes for him to actually pick up the phone to call.
So here I am, once again, in the same exact predicament as I was for countless years, spending Father's Day with no "father." Though this year is a little different, at least I have not one but two future father-in-laws who actually treat me like family. Instead of spending the day with my own father, I will be having dinner with Rachel's father, who adores me...which definitely makes me smile.
After the separation, the man who was my father disappeared and was replaced by a cold, sadistic human being. The same person who wanted to take my sister and I with him everywhere we went, suddenly lost interest in his children. We became luggage in his new life of revolving women, alcohol, and drugs. Eventually, he settled with Dawn, a friend from his years of high school. Dawn had three children, Chris, Karen, and Jenn, who became the replacement children. In fact, Jenn and I not only share the same name (though spelled differently), we also share the same age.
Custody was arranged through the court system, Wednesdays after school, every other weekend, and one Sunday a month. In the beginning, it was a strange adjustment but went smoothly. Wednesdays consisted of a trip to the library and dinner, with an occasional trip to his parents house. The more involved in his relationship with Dawn, the more he ignored his children though. Eventually, our Wednesday library trips were replaced with him not picking us up. Then the Sunday visits abruptly ended.
He still wanted us every other weekend, though why I'm not completely sure. Every weekend became the same, Friday nights consisted of buffalo wings or Chinese food, both made my sister extremely sick. I lost track of the number of times I had to call Momma Dukes at three in the morning to ask what I should do for her. Of course, my mom felt trapped seeing that our car was smashed into a telephone pole and she had no money to replace it.
Saturday and Sunday consisted of Diddy and I caring for ourselves, occasionally stealing the change from his truck to walk to Wawa to purchase food for the weekend. There was food in Dawn's house, but it consisted of stale cereal, leftovers from Friday night, flat soda, and chunky milk. We would live off of candy bars and soda during the weekend. We couldn't even shower at his house, since there was a hole in the bathroom door the size of the door and no clean towels. Eventually, it would be Sunday evening and we could finally go home to our loving mother who always had a huge meal cooked for us, clean towels, and our own beds to sleep in. Diddy and I would often make it a race to see who could get to the shower first. Momma Dukes always made sure that everything in the house was perfect for our return, because she knew the horrors we had to endure.
Nobody listened to her complaints about the environment she had to send her children to for the weekend, time after time, judges would favor Dave's side in court. As time passed, I got more and more frustrated and depressed at the thought of going to his house for the weekend. We watched him snort drugs on the side of the house, become annihilated with alcohol to the point where he couldn't even say his own name right, and even practically having sex with Dawn on the couch. Countless times, he would have a beer while driving us to or from his house.
After three years of painful weekends, I was on the verge of a breakdown. Of course, I held all of my emotions in because I was a conflicted, naive teenager who didn't know what to do. Going into seventh grade, he planned a vacation to Maryland with us. It was supposed to be a week of vacation on the beach in Ocean City, Maryland. My mom made sure we had everything we would need, including plenty of food and snacks (just in case). The night before the trip, she realized she had forgotten to purchase sunscreen for us, so she asked me to call Dave to ask him to pick some up for the trip.
What was supposed to be an easy phone call, turned into a four hour screaming match between the two of us. At barely 13 years old, I had to listen to the man who was supposed to be my father scream at me that my mother was a whore, I was unwelcome to come on vacation, he always loved my sister more, I was a mistake, etc. Nobody wants to hear this from their father, especially a teenager.
Instead of going on the trip, we stayed home. It was the best vacation of my life. Momma Dukes made sure that we had the best time at home, making everyday that week as special as the previous day. At that moment, Momma Dukes took on the permanent responsibility of mother and father.
Over the course of the next few years, he came in and out of our lives. The straw that broke the camel's back was my sixteenth birthday. After being separated for almost six years, my mother was not financially at a point to file for divorce. A few days before my birthday, I went to Dave's parents house (they insisted on taking us for his visitation weekends) where the delinquent showed up. He sat down with me for dinner, filled my head with thoughts of fixing our relationship, and asked what I wanted for my birthday. Seeing that the man hadn't bought me a gift in years, I was actually caught off guard. I told him that I didn't know what I wanted, which he told me was okay because he found the perfect gift. He was going to have it mailed to my house, but it would probably arrive a few days after my birthday.
My gift? On my sixteenth birthday, he filed for divorce. What a gift!
I was crushed. Not at the thought that they were finally going through with the divorce, but at the thought that it was so malicious and calculated. Was this his plan all along? How much effort and planning had he put into this "thoughtful" gift?
We stopped speaking for years, which really didn't change anything. It wasn't until I graduated from Rowan, had my own apartment, and began working my fantastic job at my district that I actually began speaking to him. He hadn't changed much, he was still the coward that I always new him to be. Dave talked a big game, how much he missed me, his regrets on losing so much time in my life, missing my graduations from high school and college, how he was so proud of me. The typical stuff you would expect to hear from a man who had vanished from your life for over a decade.
After almost two years of building on a relationship, putting in all of the effort and getting nothing in return, I had enough. I would call him only to get his voicemail with no return call from him. I would show up at his house occasionally when I was in the neighborhood and he wouldn't answer the door, even though I could hear him in the other room. We would go to his parents house and he wouldn't show up, even after his parents and siblings would call to tell him that we were around.
This past April, I had enough. I wrote a very long, nasty letter expressing everything to him, I even had the Bermanator edit the letter for me. At the very last moment, I decided to not send it. Instead, my sister called him and laid into him about how I was feeling. It resulted in him calling moments after their phone call, once again with his typical reaction of how much he loved and missed me. The phone call resulted on a positive note, we made plans for lunch and arrangements for phone calls in which we would take turns calling each other. He reaffirmed for me that he would call me later in the week with plans for lunch.
The phone call never came. There was no lunch later that week. Dave has not called me once since our conversation. Instead, I would call him every couple of days, for a five minute conversation. He would spend most of the conversation talking about Dawn, "their" children, and his grandchildren. I haven't called him in over a month, since his birthday. I'm waiting to see how long it takes for him to actually pick up the phone to call.
So here I am, once again, in the same exact predicament as I was for countless years, spending Father's Day with no "father." Though this year is a little different, at least I have not one but two future father-in-laws who actually treat me like family. Instead of spending the day with my own father, I will be having dinner with Rachel's father, who adores me...which definitely makes me smile.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Noob
When my parents were going through their nasty fighting prior to the divorce of the century, I coped by playing video games. They would be fighting in the other room while I was trying to save the princess. It was a great way to detoxify myself from the stress of the parental arguments. Over the years, I used video games as my way of coping with all configurations of stress.
Of course, Sperm Donor tried to use this to his advantage by giving me a Sega for Christmas the same year Momma Dukes gave me a Super Nintendo for the same holiday. Momma Dukes made sure that I had plenty of amazing Super Nintendo games to accompany my new system, such as Super Mario World, Zelda: Link to the Past, Donkey Kong Country, and Tecmo Super Bowl III. Sperm Donor only got me one game, which came with the system, Sonic the Hedgehog, which I had already beaten countless times at his house during our lame-ass visitation adventures.
The first system that I actually purchased with my own money was the PlayStation 2, during my junior year at Rowan University. After battling another mysterious allergic reaction (which I later found out was being caused by Old Navy clothes) and purchasing a lemon car from a former family friend, I used my college refund money to purchase a PlayStation 2 and Kingdom Hearts. Kingdom Hearts was the first game that really exposed me to the idea of "difficulty levels."
The current generation of video games released have difficulty levels, which obviously make the game more difficult as the levels increase. Depending on the game, difficulty levels can change how much experience you gain for defeating an enemy to how hard it is to actually defeat the enemy.
I have always preferred to play games on the easiest level possible, not because I don't want the challenge of beating difficult enemies, but more on the lines that I want to play through the game for the story. Additionally, if I'm trying to relax and destress myself, why the hell would I want to become more stressed out from being attacked by a gazillion enemies at once? Personally, it defeats the purpose of relaxing.
There are two major problems with playing a game on easy. The first major problem is the developer's perception of what is considered easy. Recently, I started playing The Darksiders, in which you adopt the role of War, a warrior who is supposed to protect the world from impending war between Heaven and Hell. Of course war breaks out between the two sides, the human race is wiped out, and the entire war is blamed on War. After playing through the first three quarters of the game on easy, I encountered a portion of the game which can only be defined as Apocalyptic Hell. After defeating wave after wave of enemies, with no energy refills, you are then thrust into a ridiculous puzzle of moving two stone statues onto three platforms, causing the platforms to raise and lower. In order to get to the very top of the room where the door is located, you have to raise/lower the platforms in a specific order while timing your jumps so that you can land on the top of a platform as it is raising. Confused yet? Don't worry, it gets better.
After finally reaching the top of the room, you enter the next door, still needing an energy refill, only to find behind the door is boss level, in which you have to fight the second Guardian in the game. After dieing one too many times against him, I finally beat him through sheer luck. The defeat of the Guardian releases a stream of magical light back to the room with the stupid ass platforms. Each of the platforms in the room has a mirror on the bottom of the platform, which are needed to reflect the beam of light onto the opposite wall at the top to open another door. Do you know how fucking impossible it was to reposition the three platforms to reflect the light?
Instead of lowering my stress level, the game caused my stress to go out the roof, resulting in my brain exploding as I was on the verge of throwing my controller across the room and kicking the television. I think I even gave the platforms the finger several times in complete frustration. After wasting several hours of my life playing a game that was supposed to be relaxing, I threw in the towel out of sheer fear that Rachel was going to take my Xbox away.
The concept of difficulty levels also causes a second problem, a profound cockiness between gamers. Once someone realizes that you play games on easy level, they turn into ass munchers and have to start throwing the word "noob" around. A noob is a term derived from the video game world meaning someone who is new at a game and is horrible at it but is not willing to learn and does not acknowledge the fact.
I am not a noob. Unlike many gamers, I have a life outside of video games and I know that if I don't get through a level it's not the end of the world. I play to relax, not to boast about my achievements. I enjoy earning achievements on Xbox 360, but it's not my sole purpose in life. More importantly, I take achievements as a personal accomplishment. More like a reminder that I accomplished a certain goal in a game, such as defeating a secret boss or collecting all of the unlockable characters in a game.
I also have no problem accepting defeat when a game is ridiculously hard, such as The Darksiders level that I just ranted about. When I realize that I can't get through a level or find the perfect strategy to defeating a boss, I have no problem turning to the internet. During the Apocalyptic Hell level, Rachel thought it was humorous that I had a Youtube video and a strategy guide up on my computer in a last ditch attempt to get through the level.
Moral of the story - I'm not a noob.
Of course, Sperm Donor tried to use this to his advantage by giving me a Sega for Christmas the same year Momma Dukes gave me a Super Nintendo for the same holiday. Momma Dukes made sure that I had plenty of amazing Super Nintendo games to accompany my new system, such as Super Mario World, Zelda: Link to the Past, Donkey Kong Country, and Tecmo Super Bowl III. Sperm Donor only got me one game, which came with the system, Sonic the Hedgehog, which I had already beaten countless times at his house during our lame-ass visitation adventures.
The first system that I actually purchased with my own money was the PlayStation 2, during my junior year at Rowan University. After battling another mysterious allergic reaction (which I later found out was being caused by Old Navy clothes) and purchasing a lemon car from a former family friend, I used my college refund money to purchase a PlayStation 2 and Kingdom Hearts. Kingdom Hearts was the first game that really exposed me to the idea of "difficulty levels."
The current generation of video games released have difficulty levels, which obviously make the game more difficult as the levels increase. Depending on the game, difficulty levels can change how much experience you gain for defeating an enemy to how hard it is to actually defeat the enemy.
I have always preferred to play games on the easiest level possible, not because I don't want the challenge of beating difficult enemies, but more on the lines that I want to play through the game for the story. Additionally, if I'm trying to relax and destress myself, why the hell would I want to become more stressed out from being attacked by a gazillion enemies at once? Personally, it defeats the purpose of relaxing.
There are two major problems with playing a game on easy. The first major problem is the developer's perception of what is considered easy. Recently, I started playing The Darksiders, in which you adopt the role of War, a warrior who is supposed to protect the world from impending war between Heaven and Hell. Of course war breaks out between the two sides, the human race is wiped out, and the entire war is blamed on War. After playing through the first three quarters of the game on easy, I encountered a portion of the game which can only be defined as Apocalyptic Hell. After defeating wave after wave of enemies, with no energy refills, you are then thrust into a ridiculous puzzle of moving two stone statues onto three platforms, causing the platforms to raise and lower. In order to get to the very top of the room where the door is located, you have to raise/lower the platforms in a specific order while timing your jumps so that you can land on the top of a platform as it is raising. Confused yet? Don't worry, it gets better.
After finally reaching the top of the room, you enter the next door, still needing an energy refill, only to find behind the door is boss level, in which you have to fight the second Guardian in the game. After dieing one too many times against him, I finally beat him through sheer luck. The defeat of the Guardian releases a stream of magical light back to the room with the stupid ass platforms. Each of the platforms in the room has a mirror on the bottom of the platform, which are needed to reflect the beam of light onto the opposite wall at the top to open another door. Do you know how fucking impossible it was to reposition the three platforms to reflect the light?
Instead of lowering my stress level, the game caused my stress to go out the roof, resulting in my brain exploding as I was on the verge of throwing my controller across the room and kicking the television. I think I even gave the platforms the finger several times in complete frustration. After wasting several hours of my life playing a game that was supposed to be relaxing, I threw in the towel out of sheer fear that Rachel was going to take my Xbox away.
The concept of difficulty levels also causes a second problem, a profound cockiness between gamers. Once someone realizes that you play games on easy level, they turn into ass munchers and have to start throwing the word "noob" around. A noob is a term derived from the video game world meaning someone who is new at a game and is horrible at it but is not willing to learn and does not acknowledge the fact.
I am not a noob. Unlike many gamers, I have a life outside of video games and I know that if I don't get through a level it's not the end of the world. I play to relax, not to boast about my achievements. I enjoy earning achievements on Xbox 360, but it's not my sole purpose in life. More importantly, I take achievements as a personal accomplishment. More like a reminder that I accomplished a certain goal in a game, such as defeating a secret boss or collecting all of the unlockable characters in a game.
I also have no problem accepting defeat when a game is ridiculously hard, such as The Darksiders level that I just ranted about. When I realize that I can't get through a level or find the perfect strategy to defeating a boss, I have no problem turning to the internet. During the Apocalyptic Hell level, Rachel thought it was humorous that I had a Youtube video and a strategy guide up on my computer in a last ditch attempt to get through the level.
Moral of the story - I'm not a noob.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Dave and Company
After two days of playing Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker for the last 36 hours, I have finally given Rachel some much needed television time. I don't want to gloat too much, but I have found an amazing woman who doesn't complain (too much) when I become obsessed with video games for multiple hours. Though I do wonder when would be a good time to ask when I can start playing again.
On Friday, Diddy and I visited the grandparents on my father's side, which was amusing to say the least. Though, the word "amusing" refers to a day of what the fuckness. To begin with, moments after walking into their house, Pops tells me that I reek of cigarettes. Unbeknown to him, I quit smoking on Christmas, therefore was cigarette free for a week (minus the one I had on my way there). I'm pretty sure confident that he has been waiting to say that for weeks when he realized for the first time that I smoked.
Conversation between the Grans and I consisted mainly of them asking how school was (fine), how is Rachel (fine), how Momma Dukes was (fine), how was my Christmas (fine)...are you sensing a theme yet. I'm a fan of giving the one word answers with them. I have concluded that when I give them too much information, they find things to judge me on.
In a rare moment of retardness, during a conversation about weddings I mentioned my wedding. If you remember from a prior entry, I called the entire family to announce my engagement, so this wasn't giving too much information. However, my grandmother looked at me and in a dead serious tone of voice, asked me who was getting married. This is not a woman who has dementia, therefore asking me who was getting married was a tiny bit fucking irritating.
The environment improved after Patrick and Aunt Dorie showed up (the only other sane people in the family...well Chris is sane too, but he wasn't there). Patrick and I went on multiple tangents for the remainder of the visit, which included:
- Recent laws against driving while talking/texting/sexting on the phone. Perhaps new laws should be created against people who eat while driving. These laws would need to be specific, it is one thing to eat a sandwich or some French fries while driving, but if the food involves utensils, such as spaghetti and meatballs or using nut crackers to eat snow crabs, then it would be illegal.
- Is it possible to purchase a car adapter for the George Foreman Grill? It would be an interesting Facebook status, to be grilling a delectable steak while driving down the highway.
- Pops mentioned being locked into many contracts with his cable, electric, gas, and water companies for the 2011 year. I am quite concerned that his key chain is not big enough for all the keys he will be receiving for all these locked contracts.
- The way Dave's hair has turned white is in a rather unusual and peculiar pattern. I believe 7/8 of his hair is white, while Patrick believes that 9/11 of his hair has turned white. What makes his hair so odd, is the fact that he has a tiny patch of black hair at the base of his skull and a small circular patch at the back of his head. The rest is white. It's actually quite sad looking. I think for Christmas next year I shall buy him a bottle of hair dye to fix this strange hair pattern.
 |
| Dave...ew |
- Dave apparently got a hernia from digging his
housebarn out from the snow. During the three hours of conversation, he sat on the floor the entire time. Towards the end of the three hour melee conversation, he finally got up and started to stretch his legs. Let me rephrase that, he got up and appeared to be preparing for a very long jog. If I didn't know any better, I would have put money on the fact that he was planning on leaving Colonel Mustard at his parent's house and sprint home in his new Eagles sweatshirt.
Memo to self, bypass the Lakes and head straight to my aunt's house next time I go visiting.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Flashback: The Pajama Pants
Since this blog was started in May of 2010, there are countless stories that would have made great blog posts, but would have never seen the light of day since the occurred prior to May 2010. Therefore, I've created a new segment: Flashback. Similar to what I have done with Seven, I'm going to try to post a new Flashback about once a week (perhaps more if I run out of things to write about).
Without further ado, I would like to present the first Flashback installment: Christmas 2009.
Date: December 2009
As many of you may know, I have a thing for black and red plaid designs, which does have a specific name, though I can't actually find it. A world of information at my fingertips and I can't seem to find the type of plaid I like. Go figure.
While I was Christmas shopping for the fam, I came across an amazing pair of flannel pajama pants at Old Navy, that I simply fell in love with. It took a lot out of me, but I restrained myself from buying them for myself, knowing full well that Diddy and Momma Dukes have a habit of buying items for me that aren't on the Christmas list but are perfect for me. Plus, a majority of my clothes come from Old Navy, so I knew the probability of one of them buying them for me was pretty high.
On Christmas morning, one of the first gifts I opened was the flannel pajama pants. Like I said, the probability was high and Diddy pulled through. I was quite ecstatic about my new pajama pants and when I got home that night, I had to wash them so that I could immediately wear them. (I have to wash all Old Navy clothes before I wear them. There factory contains something that I am allergic too, and if I fail to wash them I break out in hives all over my body.)
Rachel and I had a lazy day after Christmas, though I did need to do laundry. Since I was feeling productive, I decided that I was finally going to get around to bleaching a stain out of one of my favorite white sweatshirts. While in the laundry facility downstairs, I managed to spill bleach on my black Vans sneakers, which happened to be the first gift that my Sperm Donner of a father actually bought for me in years. I was pretty disappointed, but was relieved that I didn't spill any on my new pants.
I headed upstairs to lament to Rachel, who just stared at me, with a look on her face that read "oh my god, she doesn't know." I sat down on the couch and continued to watch television and noticed a very tiny spot of bleach on my knee. I wanted to cry but kept it together. Leave it to me to ruin something that I just received.
After ten more minutes of lamenting about destroying everything great in my world I finally calmed down. Within moments of calming down, I finally went to take off my sneakers when I realized the huge mistake I made. I not only bleached my somewhat new sneakers, I had also bleached the entire ankle of my pants.
What...the...fuck...
Now I understood the expression on Rachel's face. She had already realized my Epic Fail of a mistake, but didn't have the heart to tell me. I think she was really hoping that I wouldn't realize the huge mistake until the very last moment. After literally having a temper tantrum, Rachel forced me to go shower and get ready for the day. Instead of having a lazy day, she was determined to take me to every Old Navy in New Jersey to find a new pair of pants.
During our all day marathon of Old Navy shopping, we never found the pants. When we got home that night, out of sheer guilt, I called Diddy to tell her about the pants. I thought she would reach through the phone and try to strangle me, but instead she actually started to laugh. First at the fact that I called her and practically scared the pants off of her by starting the conversation with "there's something I need to tell you." Then, she went into hysterics that I had actually cried most of the morning for bleaching my new pants.
To make me feel a little better, she tried to find the pants online but had no luck. For the last year, I've been wearing my bleached pajama pants. Rachel even offered to take black and red Sharpie markers to my pants to fill in the missing spots.
This past Christmas, Diddy made me forget about the whole ordeal by buying me a new pair of flannel, black and red plaid pajama pants. Rachel went all out with the black and red plaid by giving me a new wallet, hat, and shirt with the same pattern. I am now in black and red plaid heaven.
Without further ado, I would like to present the first Flashback installment: Christmas 2009.
Date: December 2009
As many of you may know, I have a thing for black and red plaid designs, which does have a specific name, though I can't actually find it. A world of information at my fingertips and I can't seem to find the type of plaid I like. Go figure.
While I was Christmas shopping for the fam, I came across an amazing pair of flannel pajama pants at Old Navy, that I simply fell in love with. It took a lot out of me, but I restrained myself from buying them for myself, knowing full well that Diddy and Momma Dukes have a habit of buying items for me that aren't on the Christmas list but are perfect for me. Plus, a majority of my clothes come from Old Navy, so I knew the probability of one of them buying them for me was pretty high.
On Christmas morning, one of the first gifts I opened was the flannel pajama pants. Like I said, the probability was high and Diddy pulled through. I was quite ecstatic about my new pajama pants and when I got home that night, I had to wash them so that I could immediately wear them. (I have to wash all Old Navy clothes before I wear them. There factory contains something that I am allergic too, and if I fail to wash them I break out in hives all over my body.)
Rachel and I had a lazy day after Christmas, though I did need to do laundry. Since I was feeling productive, I decided that I was finally going to get around to bleaching a stain out of one of my favorite white sweatshirts. While in the laundry facility downstairs, I managed to spill bleach on my black Vans sneakers, which happened to be the first gift that my Sperm Donner of a father actually bought for me in years. I was pretty disappointed, but was relieved that I didn't spill any on my new pants.
I headed upstairs to lament to Rachel, who just stared at me, with a look on her face that read "oh my god, she doesn't know." I sat down on the couch and continued to watch television and noticed a very tiny spot of bleach on my knee. I wanted to cry but kept it together. Leave it to me to ruin something that I just received.
After ten more minutes of lamenting about destroying everything great in my world I finally calmed down. Within moments of calming down, I finally went to take off my sneakers when I realized the huge mistake I made. I not only bleached my somewhat new sneakers, I had also bleached the entire ankle of my pants.
What...the...fuck...
Now I understood the expression on Rachel's face. She had already realized my Epic Fail of a mistake, but didn't have the heart to tell me. I think she was really hoping that I wouldn't realize the huge mistake until the very last moment. After literally having a temper tantrum, Rachel forced me to go shower and get ready for the day. Instead of having a lazy day, she was determined to take me to every Old Navy in New Jersey to find a new pair of pants.
During our all day marathon of Old Navy shopping, we never found the pants. When we got home that night, out of sheer guilt, I called Diddy to tell her about the pants. I thought she would reach through the phone and try to strangle me, but instead she actually started to laugh. First at the fact that I called her and practically scared the pants off of her by starting the conversation with "there's something I need to tell you." Then, she went into hysterics that I had actually cried most of the morning for bleaching my new pants.
To make me feel a little better, she tried to find the pants online but had no luck. For the last year, I've been wearing my bleached pajama pants. Rachel even offered to take black and red Sharpie markers to my pants to fill in the missing spots.
This past Christmas, Diddy made me forget about the whole ordeal by buying me a new pair of flannel, black and red plaid pajama pants. Rachel went all out with the black and red plaid by giving me a new wallet, hat, and shirt with the same pattern. I am now in black and red plaid heaven.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wedding Dilemma
I seem to have found myself in a pickle. Obviously, I'm not fond of my father, especially after our last conversation when I called him to tell him that I was engaged. It didn't go exactly as planned.
Me: Hey dad. I was just calling to give you some good news.
Dave: Yea.
Me: I got engaged last week.
Dave: Really. Did you hear your grandparents have my truck?
My dilemma is whether or not to invite the man to our wedding. If he's invited to the wedding, then chances are he'll bring his three-headed beast of a girlfriend Dawn with him, which could cause tension/fighting between Devil-Beast and my mom. Additionally, if he is invited, then I have to deal with the awkward moments, such as the slim possibility that he may want to do the whole "father-daughter dance" (which will occur over my dead body) or having to deal with awkward hugs from him after he has way too much to drink.
On the other hand, if he doesn't get invited, chances are he'll crash the wedding and just show up uninvited. He actually showed up to my college graduation in 2004, after my grandparents told him the date (and I believe even drove him to the ceremony). Of course, I got the last laugh by not inviting them to my graduation in 2005, when I received my Master's Degree (definitely didn't want a repeat of the previous graduation). What the hell am I going to do if he does show up? The last thing I want to do is get pissed off on my wedding day.
Obviously, I'll run into a whole separate problem by not inviting him: how do I get around not inviting him while inviting his siblings/parents to the wedding? I'm sure that conversation would go over well: hey Pops, I'm not inviting your son because he's a deadbeat. I'm sure they would really love that.
As wrong as it sounds, if I do invite him to the wedding, he may feel obligated to help pay for the wedding and may just make the whole situation easier by not speaking to me until after the wedding is planned, payed for, and perhaps even over.
Here's the almighty question: Do I invite him or do I not invite him?
Me: Hey dad. I was just calling to give you some good news.
Dave: Yea.
Me: I got engaged last week.
Dave: Really. Did you hear your grandparents have my truck?
My dilemma is whether or not to invite the man to our wedding. If he's invited to the wedding, then chances are he'll bring his three-headed beast of a girlfriend Dawn with him, which could cause tension/fighting between Devil-Beast and my mom. Additionally, if he is invited, then I have to deal with the awkward moments, such as the slim possibility that he may want to do the whole "father-daughter dance" (which will occur over my dead body) or having to deal with awkward hugs from him after he has way too much to drink.
On the other hand, if he doesn't get invited, chances are he'll crash the wedding and just show up uninvited. He actually showed up to my college graduation in 2004, after my grandparents told him the date (and I believe even drove him to the ceremony). Of course, I got the last laugh by not inviting them to my graduation in 2005, when I received my Master's Degree (definitely didn't want a repeat of the previous graduation). What the hell am I going to do if he does show up? The last thing I want to do is get pissed off on my wedding day.
Obviously, I'll run into a whole separate problem by not inviting him: how do I get around not inviting him while inviting his siblings/parents to the wedding? I'm sure that conversation would go over well: hey Pops, I'm not inviting your son because he's a deadbeat. I'm sure they would really love that.
As wrong as it sounds, if I do invite him to the wedding, he may feel obligated to help pay for the wedding and may just make the whole situation easier by not speaking to me until after the wedding is planned, payed for, and perhaps even over.
Here's the almighty question: Do I invite him or do I not invite him?
Monday, July 19, 2010
Father of the Year
My father and I have never had the best of relationships. For almost ten years we didn't even speak to each other until I had the encouragement to call him on my birthday two years ago.
About two years ago, I decided to call him on my birthday and of course he was drunk. It was the most difficult decision of my life, because I was still so angry at him, yet I didn't want to live my entire life being angry. I thought by calling him, I would be able to let go of some of the anger and resentment that had been building up to him.
We talked about once a month, with me doing all of the phone calls. We would see each other at his parents house, and I even went to the hell-hole that is his house for a brief visit. Our talks and visits were brief and extremely awkward.
Then last week, I called him to announce my engagement and to see how he was doing after his knee surgery. I called him in the late afternoon, so that I knew I would get him on the phone pre-drunken mess. I was so excited about telling him about my engagement, however, in typical Dave style, he busted my bubble.
Me: Guess what! I got engaged!
Dave: Yea...did you hear that your grandparents have my truck?
Are you kidding me? What kind of response is that? Where is the congratulations or I'm happy for you. All I got was a fucking Yea!
Not only is the man not walking me down the aisle, he will not be receiving an invitation to our amazing wedding. He will have no part in our children's lives, I even plan on giving any birthday/holiday presents from the man for my children, to Good Will...still wrapped. I'm even thinking of having all of his parental rights taken away.
I know that I'm an adult, but I want no part in the man.
- After my parents separated, the court gave him a visitation schedule. We were supposed to see him on Wednesdays after school, every other weekend, and once a month he would have us on Sundays. After several months, he stopped showing up on Wednesdays and then stopped showing up on Sundays. He wouldn't even call to say he wasn't coming to pick us up, he just wouldn't show.
- During the summer going into eighth grade, Dave was supposed to take Diddy and I on a vacation to Maryland. I called him the night before to ask him if he could pick up sunblock and he got furious, accusing my mother of squandering our child support. He refused to take me on the trip, but still wanted my sister to go with him to Maryland, but she refused to go.
- On visitation weekends, he neglected to take care of us. There was never any food in the house (and the food that was there was either stale or spoiled). Instead he would get drunk and watch football. On more than one occasion, he drank beer while driving my sister and I somewhere (usually to get more beer). In order to eat, Diddy and I would often steal the spare change from his car and walk to Wawa to buy edible food.
- When I was about thirteen, my sister was really ill (I think with pneumonia) and didn't go to his house for the weekend. Instead, I had to go on my own. Over the weekend, he dropped me off at the movies to see Super Mario Bros, but forgot to pick me up from the theater. The employees gave me free popcorn and a hot dog, and let me watch Made in America for free. He finally showed up later that night (I was at the theater for a good 8 hours after the movie ended), smelling like beer.
- After the sun screen fight, we refused to go to his house for the weekend. Instead, we spent our visitation weekends with his parent, who lived within walking distance of him. Dave never came to visit us when we were there, even when he still had his license and could drive there.
- About a month before my sixteenth birthday, we were visiting his parents for the weekend. Dave actually showed up for a change and asked me what I wanted for my birthday, which was very surprising since he hadn't bothered to buy either one of us a birthday gift since I was thirteen. He told me that he had already bought something "special" for me, but it would come in the mail. A few days after my birthday, my mother got a package in the mail. He filed for divorce on my sixteenth birthday.
- He never showed up to my high school graduation. Instead, he went his girlfriend's daughter's graduation. Dave never even called to congratulate me that I had graduated.
- In college, his parents gave him my dorm room phone number. He called one night to tell me that he had lymph node cancer. An hour later, my mother called me to tell me that Dave had called her to brag that he talked to me. In fact he didn't have cancer at all, he just wanted to prove to her that he could have me back in his life at any moment.
- He refused to help pay for any of my college education. In fact, he was actually angry at my mother for not buying me a "brand new" car and giving me my Nana's old car when I got my license.
About two years ago, I decided to call him on my birthday and of course he was drunk. It was the most difficult decision of my life, because I was still so angry at him, yet I didn't want to live my entire life being angry. I thought by calling him, I would be able to let go of some of the anger and resentment that had been building up to him.
We talked about once a month, with me doing all of the phone calls. We would see each other at his parents house, and I even went to the hell-hole that is his house for a brief visit. Our talks and visits were brief and extremely awkward.
Then last week, I called him to announce my engagement and to see how he was doing after his knee surgery. I called him in the late afternoon, so that I knew I would get him on the phone pre-drunken mess. I was so excited about telling him about my engagement, however, in typical Dave style, he busted my bubble.
Me: Guess what! I got engaged!
Dave: Yea...did you hear that your grandparents have my truck?
Are you kidding me? What kind of response is that? Where is the congratulations or I'm happy for you. All I got was a fucking Yea!
Not only is the man not walking me down the aisle, he will not be receiving an invitation to our amazing wedding. He will have no part in our children's lives, I even plan on giving any birthday/holiday presents from the man for my children, to Good Will...still wrapped. I'm even thinking of having all of his parental rights taken away.
I know that I'm an adult, but I want no part in the man.
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