Is That the Home Phone?

This just in:

Our house phone rang. This means all three phones connected to the house line rang. This means the phone in my parents' bedroom rang.

My mom was in her bedroom. As the phone rings, she calls out to me, "Was that the home phone?"

I assume she picked up cuz it didn't go to Voicemail.

Two seconds later, she runs down the hallway and throws open my bedroom door, scaring the bejesus out of me.

"Was that the home phone?" she demands.

"...Yes. Weren't you in your bedroom when it rang?" Still in shock.

"Yeah, but no one was there when I picked it up."

"..."

Turn, leave.


--

So. What I actually came here to type.

Two things.

1. My Dad has decided to guilt trip me into compiling a book of my great grandfather's work for my grandfather to enjoy, since my Dad has been hearing that his health is in decline. My Dad was supposed to do this, but has been procrastinating by writing a book about his vacation to Cape Cod. So instead, he comes into my room, hands me a DV filled to the brim with my Great Grandfather's work (some are duplicates, some are things he sadly tried to clone over mold on, etc.. in whatever imaging program he uses, etc...). "I need you to turn this into a book...by May. Cuz Grandpa could die by then. I mean. He could live longer. But let's say May just to be safe. You'll remember cuz the due date is your birthday."

Me, staring in shock as I take the DVD.

2. My parents have decided that since I suck at doing the dishes (ie: I didn't finish them last night because I was waiting for the dishwasher to run) and they are "sick and tired" of me being "lazy," they are going to charge me $20 a day. And if I do the dishes that day, they will give me back the $20 I owe that day.

My rent just potentially skyrocketed to $600/month.

Anyone know of a place not too far from Pennington, NJ that is $600/month or less that I can move into? kthnx.

Nah, it's cool, I'm just the live-in maid.

So, after coming home at 7pm, first I get harassed about an insurance agent coming to my door (which, btw, had told me, while sitting down with me last Tuesday that he would call to schedule an appt. with me for Monday morning as I had told him I didn't know what my life would be like then, never did call, and just showed up at my house after I had left for work). My Dad had apparently not been awake, nor expecting anyone, and was annoyed that at 9am he'd have to answer the door. Well, I never knew anyone was coming, what could I say? If the guy had called my cell as I had told him to, I would've told him I was at work.

Ugh. Furthermore, I would have told him that I was no longer in need of insurance as my new full time job is covering me. Completely.

Bleh.

So after my parents INTERROGATING me about why I had scheduled anything with an insurance agent (btw, three months ago I was being harangued about why I wasn't looking into insurance), my Dad is like, "Your mom is sick. I'm sleeping downstairs."

Which would have been fine if things ended there.

But instead, he's like, "You need to make the bed down there."

I give him a look that says, "Are you that helpless?" I primarily only give these looks to my Dad for my benefit because he is oblivious to any body language whatsoever. Also, if I ever try to disagree with my Dad about anything, ever, and don't have my Mom to back me up, his response is, "I'm the parent, I make the decisions," at which point it's fruitless to argue further. I might as well argue with a growling Rottweiler (actually, the Rottweilier is likely to be more responsive).

So I go, and make the bed.

Then he goes down to inspect it. Comes back up, tells me I didn't put enough blankets on. This, from the man who always turns the heat off in our house because he's "too hot." Exasperated, I go back downstairs. He follows me. As I throw ten more blankets on, he tells me to tuck all of them under the edge of the mattress. Doing so makes the mattress pop up out of the bedframe, because I'm not kidding when I say I put ten more blankets on. He watches, making sure I smooth out every wrinkle. Then he goes back upstairs to his study.

I am so done right now I don't even care that there are dishes in the sink to do. I don't care that I have a huge "To Do" list that is not getting even one thing checked off it tonight because I'm up here typing this.

I need to move out. ASAP.

Further Ranting...

Okay. So I try to put my life into perspective. I read books like "Sickened" recounting traumatized childhoods in which parents have hospitals perform surgeries on children who are perfectly healthy. I read about documented domestic child abuse. I read about all kinds of things to try and appreciate what I do have.

But time and time again I have to face the facts:
My parents are just crazy. They may love me, but they are fucking psychotic. They enjoy manipulating me. I suspect that they set me up to fail at home time and time again.

Take today, for instance. I did all the dishes. Wiped all the counters. Tidied things up a bit.

My mom makes applesauce. She throws the rinds in the sink, effectively clogging it. Then dumps the pot, the applesauce maker (including the detached razor-sharp blades), some bowls, a pot with salsa that has been burnt onto it (do not ask me why my mom cooked salsa I don't know why), and some other odds and ends - silverware, plates, etc...into the sink. In the process of burning the salsa, it overflowed the pot and crusted onto the stovetop. Then she proceeded to drink and misplace about 3 cups of various beverages throughout the house.

I am at my computer through all this, typing up a contract for work, when my mom bursts in without knocking. After she enters, she says, "Knock knock!" like a three year old, jumps onto my bed and says, "I'm sick."

"Great mom. Now you got sick germs all over my bed."

She looks at me and smiles like a little kid. "Whadya doin?"

"Work." I say, a bit short. Trying to give her the hint.

"What KIND of work?"

"Work for the gallery."

At which she exclaims how proud she is that I'm working there full time, starting tomorrow.

"Okay, mom," is all I say, as I am trying to finish the contract before I go to work tomorrow.

"You have dishes," she says. "And I'm stealing your humidifier."

She then proceeds to take HALF of my humidifier, rendering it inoperable for both of us. "You take the other half to my room," she says. I am ready to argue with her. She is right there, in my room, taking a PART of it. She could easily have taken the whole thing, which weighs MAYBE five pounds as it is currently empty of water. I don't. I carry the rest to her room, dump it, and go into the kitchen, ignoring her calls to come talk with her. I am tired. I am done.

I look at the sink, which is half-way full with murky water. I know that somewhere in there are two sharp apple-slicing blades. I take a breath, and carefully find them first, then dig around further, having to unclog the sink several times before it can drain completely. I wash everything except the salsa pot, which I fill with water and soap to soak. I know that in the morning, this will be reprimanded. I don't care.

I have to use a razorblade to scrape off the cook-top. I leave all the pots and pans in the strainer. I am not putting anything else away tonight. I am done. Kaput. No more. I am overwhlemed by my schedule for the next 48 hours which reads something like:
7am wake up, shower, dress
8am leave for work
8:30am-4:30pm work at the gallery
5-6pm possibly eat dinner, possibly make a house-call to a client.
6-7:30pm meet with the family I tutor for to go over dog-sitting arrangements
7:45 get home, if I didn't already, eat dinner now. Do dishes. Try to get laundry done. Answer all work-related emails.
10pm pretend that I am going to sleep
Midnight - get reprimanded by my boyfriend for not going to sleep yet
2am out like a light
6am - force self out of bed
6:30-1pm work at the cafe
1:30-5pm work at the gallery
5:30 come home, eat dinner, do dishes
6:30-8:30 work on some graphic design
8:30-10pm keep telling myself I need to go to sleep while becoming distracted. Try to get more laundry done.

...well. You get the idea. The next two weeks are going to be like that, with the exception of the weekends, which I'm sure will be equally as busy.

SO not looking forward to this...

Well, it's not for a lack of employment...

So. Earlier this week I get a full time job, with benefits, at a rate that makes it possible for me to finally look at moving out.

My mom is all excited, saying things like, "You'll finally be able to get out of here!" As though they need to be said.

We discuss how I'm going to stick around for a bit to try to pay off my credit cards and get a savings going in case of an emergency. Because even on full time wages, I'm barely making enough to live in a single and I still have yet to find someone I can split rent with.

But does this stop my parents from charging me rent?

Of course not. And, in fact, they have added on a $20 surcharge because I did not finish the dishes one night. After having come home after working a double, and then having to wake up at 6:00 the next morning again. Doesn't matter that I took off of work a whole day (worth at least $40 if I took a short shift) to monitor the repair man who we needed to fix out fridge. Doesn't matter that I was the one who cleaned the fridge so it didn't stink to high heavens. Doesn't matter that I had to pay the repair man with my credit card because my parents had forgotten to leave payment for him in the event that he did his job (I did, at least, get reimbursed for this despite it pushing my credit to its limits).

Nope. I just got a job, haven't even gotten my first paycheck, and my rent has gone up already. And they're talking about how I should be able to afford to pay them more now. Despite my need to pay off my credit cards and other bills and collect savings so I -CAN- move out.

UGH.

All I can say is WTF.

Okay, So I Lied...

My Dad is just as crazy as my mom is sometimes. All by himself, without her prompting.

So as many of my readers know twas a great blizzard tonight...which is still occurring.

I convinced Casey to drive me home tonight, despite his pleas for me to stay at his house, because I was supposed to meet a woman at the gallery tomorrow morning (although, after I got home, I received an email from her saying she'll reschedule)...so anyway, he drives through the inch and a half of powdered snow (just enough for him to skid on - on purpose so I cringe) and delivers me home at about quarter after midnight.

I sneak in, down the hallways so I don't wake anyone. My Dad (a lighter than light sleeper) hears me, rolls out of bed, greets me at the end of the hallway.

"Did you get the mail today?" He asks.

"No, I was out of the house after 1, I just got home," I say.

"Well you better get it now," he says (If I did not explain earlier - getting the mail every day has become a new chore since my parents got fed up with my "laziness" over the dishes).

I look at him. Sigh. Go outside and grab the mail. I figure he's been waiting for some bill or tax thing but was too lazy to get it himself. Maybe it's urgent and he just thought of it when I came home. Whatever. My made up excuses don't really matter, because when I come back in, he's back in bed, door closed.

I stand for a moment, contemplating why it was so urgent for me to go back out in the snow to get the mail. I think it would have made more sense if he had requested I go back outside and park the cars at the end of the driveway. Or back outside and lay tarps down in the driveway. Or back outside and do any multiple tasks that involve being of immediate urgency and USE.

But no. At quarter after midnight, tonight, I got the mail that no one else bothered with, not because of any need whatsoever, but because my Dad is crazy. FML.

Craziness is contagious...

So last night, I'm working on a project and my mom barges in.

"There's dishes in the sink," she says.

I glance up at her. "Yes?"

"You're supposed to do the dishes," she says.

"I know," I say. "They were done last night. I did them while you and Dad were out. You cooked dinner. Now there's dishes again."

She looks at me like I'm being rude. "You need to do them," she says.

I look at the boxes of super sculpey laying around me. I look at the project I'm in the middle of. "I can't really do them NOW," I say.

"Make sure you do them before you go to bed," she says.

I wait for her to leave, but she continues to stand in my doorway, staring.

I'm about to ask if I can help her with something, when she suddenly leaves.

For about two minutes I have uninterrupted work time. Then, my Dad barges in. His face is red like he's been supressing the urge to yell. He lets loose:
"Why are there two paintbrushes in the sink downstairs?"

I hate it when people phrase things as questions when they clearly know the answers.

"Because I was refinishing my shelves," I say. I've been working to refinish them for about a week now.

"Why didn't you wash them out properly?" He storms into my room.

"I...tried? I couldn't find the turpentine. I used soap and water. I got as much out as I could."

"If you don't know where something is, you can ASK," he says.

I try to stay calm. "Okay....do you know where the turpentine is?" I ask.

He stammers, "Well....no. But SOMEBODY in this house should know where the turpentine is."

I sigh. "I'll ask mom," I offer.

"Well I'm sure SHE doesn't know where it is. SHE never uses it," he says.

I look at him, confused. "Well who else am I supposed to ask? Lauren and I only paint in acrylics."

Now he looks confused. "You don't use oils?" he says, "but oils are a classic medium."

"Umm...you can get the same colors and similar textures from acrylics now," I say, "and they're not as messy. So. I use acrylics."

He stares at me some more. "Did they teach you oils at school?"

"No. We're poor college kids, Dad. We're lucky we weren't confined to crayola watercolors."

He gives me instructions for washing the brushes in turpentine. For when I find out where the turpentine is. I'm about to relax as he turns for the door, but he stops suddenly, swigning around with renewed anger.

"Where did you get those brushes, anyway?" he asks.

"Um?" I stammer, not sure where this is going. "The garage?"

"They're not YOUR brushes, ARE they?" he glowers.

"Nope," I say. But I'm not scared. I haven't done anything wrong. "Mom told me I could use them. She said she didn't know what we had laying around the house, and I could use whatever I found. I found them in the garage."

He stops. Deflates. "Oh."

Turns to leave again. "Well put them back when you're done."