I went to my dad’s last weekend for Father’s Day.
There’s a few things you need to know about my family. My parents divorced in 1982. I was 13. It was unpleasant, to say the least. I was the one to catch my dad with the woman he was screwing around with, the woman he is now married to. So. Yeah. Fun times.
Fast forward to current day. My dad and his wife bought this huge tract of land – 37 acres – in butt fuck nowhere and built this enormous house at the top of the hill. They lord it up over there, she plays Lady Bountiful and he plays Lord of the Manor. And they drink. Boy, do they drink.
So, Father’s Day. At my dad’s. With his psychotic wife. My kids. My sister and her ex-girlfriend-who’s-now-just-a-roommate-and-also-my-good-friend. My aunt, who is over from Spain and would give Miss Manners a run for her money. And? My mother.
Psychobitch Wife was drinking when I got there. At noon. I think my dad was also drinking but not nearly at her pace. My aunt showed up. My sister and mother showed up. And for a little while, it was fine. Awkward and stilted, but fine.
But as the day wore on, as Psychobitch got progressively more lubricated, as my dad got progressively more lubricated, things got odd. Psychobitch started ranting about everything. Her work. Her son’s soon-to-be-ex-wife. I think she even ranted about the weather. My sister escaped with my kids, taking them for a walk. My sister’s roommate took herself off to lie in the field. And my aunt, my dad, Psychobitch and I were left sitting at the table on the deck as she raved and he raved back and jesus christ on a cracker, I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. My dad finally snapped at Psychobitch to shut up, she folded into sullen, fuming, frizzled mess and my aunt and I tried to pretend nothing out of the ordinary was going on.
And people wonder why I am the way I am.