If you've downed half a pint of Vodka and you're 74 years old, and you're taking the trash out and you fall and almost bust your head open, who you gonna call?
FAT DAUGHTER! (same # of syllables as GHOSTBUSTERS) Get the rhythm.
Now let's see if we can construct a rhyme from this to the tune of one of Phrecklette's favorite volumes, Monkeys on the Bed.
Half a pint of vodka... (5 little monkeys)
Swishin' in your head... (jumpin on the bed)
Dad fell down... (one fell off)
And bumped his head (and bumped his head)
Daddy called my mama...(momma called the doctor)
And my mama said...(and the doctor said)
No more vodka swishin in your head! (no more monkeys jumpin on the bed!)
Anyway, he called me around 10:30 and scared the bejesus out of me. I immediately knew there was no way I was going to avoid sleep deprivation and leaving my nice warm apartment and going down there to deal with my train wreck of a family. After I hung up, I told Boyfriend, "I gotta go," and he didn't argue...
...until I decided I wanted to take my car instead of the truck with no radio and a missing window. Said truck is also noisy as hell, probably due to the missing window behind the driver's head. I'm trying really hard not to be materialistic and selfish, and to view myself in a partnership where resources are shared equally and divided logically...where the right resource is applied to the right problem...but pardon me if I am tired of driving the ugly duckling all the time. For one thing, I like listening to the radio while I am driving. Secondly, I like having a window behind my head.
Although Bessie is no prize with her broken hatchback, broken driver's seat, and disintegrated front and rear bumpers, she still has a working radio and all windows are intact (well, expect for that Plexiglass one...but hey, it's still there and it's not made of cardboard...it's made of a glass-like substance) and I paid for that car. Pardon me if I'm selfish enough to have some pride in my little car that is the first car that has ever been solely mine.
If one were to compare the two vehicles side by side and then be asked which one you'd prefer to drive, you'd probably opt for Bessie. The truck is quite obviously considered a work truck, and as such, not much has been done to improve it. There are paint splashes in the gas-sucking truck's sunken, heavily dented bed and it's very obvious that only the most rudimentary level of care has been taken to preserve the interior. A better way to put that might be to say that the truck's interior has been maintained just enough to keep it from being intolerable. The seat upholstery is ripped and no vacuum has ever penetrated that inner sanctum also known as the truck's cab. There are ropes and jugs of antifreeze, pop cans, cigarette packs, all kinds of crap in the passenger seat well. Boyfriend doesn't give a rat's ass about how dirty the truck is, as long as it can be driven and a passenger, if necessary, can manage to get into the passenger seat while resting his or her feet on all the junk that makes its home there. And as long as he doesn't have to spend too much time in it.
Why doesn't Boyfriend give a rat's ass about how dirty the truck is? Because it's a work truck, it's a dump, and it's a vehicle that has one thing going for it: it runs. Oh and that one other thing...Boyfriend hardly ever drives the truck, and if he does, it's only because he couldn't think of a good enough reason to avoid it.
Admittedly, there are good logical reasons why Boyfriend drives Bessie so much and I am relegated to the Ugly Duckling. For one thing, the truck sucks gas and I live close to my work, while my apartment is located fairly far from Boyfriend's work. On the days that he has gNat, he needs a vehicle with a backseat. Supposedly. Never mind that you can put a carseat in the front seat and furthermore, that the front seat was deemed just fine for Phrecklette.
And of course there's all that driving that he simply must do to show off the little cherub on the days that he has her (remember that comment about sleep deprivation embuing me with the personality of a serpent?). Hey, he only gets to see her 32 hours out of the damn week (which is ironic, considering that BAD parents get to see their children far more...just ask my sister, who thought socks and duct tape were good babysitters for her 2 year old. Or, hey, just ask that witch that Boyfriend fathered a child with...she gets tons of time to screw up the kid each week and actually gets paid for the privilege.) so there's a lot of crap you gotta squeeze into that time in order for people to know they have a granddaughter and a niece and a stepdaughter.
We mustn't forget that there's only place where one can acquire that demi-god, Cigarettes, at a reasonable price -- Council Bluffs, a full 12 miles or so from our domicile of love. And there's only one decent restaurant in town, and that's Jim's Florence Bar and Grill, a greasy spoon located where? In North O, which is even farther away from Council Bluffs. So, of course, Boyfriend must drive all over God's green earth to acquire sundry items and dine in happiness. I can actually give him the Jim's thing, as West O is made of plastic and has no character.
Boyfriend wanted to take the car to work last night, ostensibly because it saves gas. But we both know, although he won't admit it, that gas ain't the only reason. All the reasons above sort of amalgamate into this one: the car uses less gas, an undebatable fact.
Usually, driving the truck doesn't bother me so much. But when my Dad, who stroked out right in front of me last year and transformed into a ravaged old man overnight, falls and could very likely have cracked his head open and needs me to take him to the hospital, I expect that Boyfriend will be sensitive enough to shut the hell up about using the damn car instead of the truck, let me do what I want so I can take comfort from where I will, and then deal with the rest after the damn crisis is over.
I just wanted to get out the damn door and see how badly my dad was injured while that tool sat there and argued with me about my attitude, my supposed selfishness, etc. I found it absolutely astounding that someone who knew intimately what I went through with my dad, who knew intimately how hard that hit me, would be so insensitive and petty in the face of something that he knew or should have known was bothering me down to my very core. I keep waiting for Boyfriend to wake up one day, be sensitive to what's important to me, and act like a human being in situations such as these, but it ain't happened yet. As I write this, my blood is boiling.
I know today that I am carrying some serious resentment and anger from that last night. Until that sort of washes away, it will be hard to put up with all the usual stuff that I overlook on a daily basis...like the fact that Boyfriend is starting to smoke in my apartment wherever he damn well pleases rather than actually being considerate of the fact that I hate his stinking cigarettes and I don't want my apartment or clothes to smell like cigarette smoke. Judging by this sweater's scent, it may be too late for that. Oh I could go on and on about that, but I've already written the book of Genesis, so I'll just stop here.
I'm glad I have somewhere to vent this stuff. I feel like I could take someone's head off right now.
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