*And I really, REALLY fucking hate celery.
So, the power of Bob the Pink Deer came in handy yesterday when I had to battle the dark forces raging around my beloved grandmother’s memorial service. I had already sent off several incriminating text messages to close friends and family – and when I say incriminating, I mean I confessed to premeditated homicide – but, at the last minute, I decided to let everybody live. It was for the sake of the children who might have witnessed me stabbing Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) to death in the middle of an overpriced restaurant. Yes, only for the children. Because that shit would totally have been justified.
While my poor grandmother was resting peacefully in a crematorium, Cancer Dad and the wifey were plotting ways to make me extremely uncomfortable. Yes, on the day we were celebrating my grandmother’s life, they were scheming evilly. I’m pretty sure such activities deserve some kind of corporeal (and spiritual? Are you listening, God?!) punishment. ‘Cause, bitch, thas a mistake!
I got through the actual memorial service portion of the program okay, mostly because no sane person would dare be an asshole during a ceremony for a dead loved one. I would hope. Although, I was starting to think the whole thing was some kind of veiled message intended for me – Cancer Dad gave a very heartfelt speech about parenting, and some crazy preacher lady read a poem about forgiveness written by my grandmother. Okay, God, are you telling me to forgive Cancer Dad and his concubine? And embrace my crazed parents for what they are?
Well, if that’s what God wanted, I’d be totally in. But apparently, I missed the that’s-never-gonna-happen portion of God’s divine message during Grandma’s ten minute memorial. It was a godly taunt or something. And apparently, Depeche Mode’s been right all along – God does have a sick sense of humor. He particularly enjoys fucking with me.*
*Yes, thank you, I’m aware that God probably isn’t sending me veiled messages via eulogy. I’m just being a sacrilegious asswipe. It’s what I do.
Well, anyway, I was all like thanks grandma, for that lovely poem about forgiveness because I can totally put all these fears of persecution aside and have a nice meal with my family. And grandma was all haha, that wasn’t intended for you (but I couldn’t hear that ‘cause she’s dead.)
So Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) pulled a nice little trick on the way to the after-funeral meal. As in, Wife Number Four (or Five) walks a million yards in front of me and sprints into the nearest bookstore to avoid having to make eye contact or speak to me. I start to feel my confidence waning. Why is she going book shopping when we’re supposed to be eating?
Well, I promptly discovered that it doesn’t matter how polite I am – because the Dynamic Duo of Lameness had been plotting to unsettle me the whole time.
Cancer Dad sat down at the head of our reserved Mafia-sized table, my brother to his right, and me next to my brother. In an obvious fashion. Then, the following ludicrous conversation ensued:
CANCER DAD: Brittany, are you sure you want to sit there?
ME: Ummm…hhhhuh?? Wha? (Where is this going, you crazy dirtbag?!)
CANCER DAD: You know, [Wife Number Four (or Five)] is going to sit next to me.
ME: Yes….I know…I don’t care….
CANCER DAD: Well, we have unresolved issues with you.
ME: Oh. Well, Dad, I don’t hate her. I’m not planning on murdering her with my steak knife or anything.
CANCER DAD: You shouldn’t sit there.
ME: But – Dad – Grandma’s service was today. I’m sure we can be mature about it and polite to each other…we’re all adults…
CANCER DAD: No.
ME: Dad, what are you saying? Do you really want me to move to the end of the table?
CANCER DAD: Yes. YES I DO. MOVE.
[In my completely shocked, shamed, and disoriented state, I get up and move to the other end of the Mafia sized table. My brother, Topher, follows me.]
CANCER DAD: Topher, where are you going?
[Topher looks confused. Is he really supposed to leave me alone at the other side of this Texas-sized table? Looking completely ostracized?]
TOPHER: Uh, over there…?
CANCER DAD: Fine. (He seems legitimately confused and upset that his son doesn’t want to leave his sister alone at the other side of the table. What the fuck.)
Well, I’m not going to fucking lie. I was completely caught off guard and very near angry tears. And very pissed that Cancer Dad didn’t have the balls to make such a nasty, childish request in front of the entire family. It is at this point I start plotting evil murderous plots. And texting anyone that will listen – to warn them that I might be in prison soon.
Luckily, Tasha Dee saved my ass with this tweet: “@brittwrit resist.urge.to.murder. think of BOB the pink deer!”
Okay, so I start cracking up. And get that watery tears shit under control. Because I’m (always) the bigger person in these stupid situations and there is no way I’m going to let Cancer Dad see that he really, really gets to me. Like more than anyone.
Whew. I get through the rest of meal, and listen to my clueless, nice family members gush about how nice it is to all be together again. If only they knew that they never see me because I’m basically not wanted or invited by my own father.
I’m hoping nobody else dies anytime soon, because this shit is exhausting!
I definitely learned from this experience though. You want to know what I learned? This really, really, REALLY isn’t about me – AT ALL.
Cancer Dad and Wife Number Four (or Five) probably get some kind of high out of being miserable. They probably keep their connection alive by banding together against me – yep, that’s correct, I am solely responsible for their kick-ass love. Me.
You want to know what the unresolved issue that they have with me is? I told Cancer Dad I wanted a polite and distant relationship with Wife Number Four (or Five) and I wasn’t going to put myself through a stressful situation to have a close relationship with her. Because it wasn’t going to happen. Because I live on my own, make my own money, and love my father dearly, but don’t need to be BFFs with his spouse to have a decent relationship with him. AND THEN HE TOLD ME I WASN’T PART OF HIS FAMILY ANYMORE.
So, yeah bitch, this is all on you. I don’t care. I can be in the same room with anyone. But if I’m just too damn intimidating, and your wife can’t stomach being near me – well, shit, I’m going to show up to all the fucking family parties. And then maybe she’ll stay home.
Because, let’s be serious. You made me upset at my own grandmother’s funeral. And the truth of the matter is, your wife HATED my grandmother (I know, she told me) – and my grandmother couldn’t even be bothered to remember your wife’s fucking name.
And this, sir, is why I like funerals and celery more than you.
P.S. That was my grandma. So I’ve got dibs on being at her memorial service. Next time, tell the wifey to stay at the office and council some step families or some shit. Because we all know that she’s so good at that.
P.S.S. Bitch couldn’t say she didn’t want to sit next to me to my face?!! Really??! She had to hide in the bookstore while you told me she didn’t want to be near me? You know, I’m really not that scary. She weighs, like, a hundred more pounds than me. She could crush my skull with that giant ostrich ass of hers.
P.S.S.S. Okay, I’m done now. Bigger person here. YUP.
No comments:
Post a Comment