Hate!

I don't know much about hatred. What a lie! I know a good deal about it from experience at least, and after reading the latest confession (and ensuing comments) on Call the Angels, it seems to me that most people are just as well-acquainted with hatred as I am. That post is an oasis of ill will among friends of mine who are, in almost every other context, generally lovely individuals. We all get together to watch bad movies; we huddle around someone's laptop to look at photographs; we cram for tests and debate socio-political issues--but rarely do we discuss our hatred for certain people (unless they are people whom it is fashionable to dislike). In a way, this is noble, because we learned long ago that badmouthing our friends behind their backs was obnoxious and unwise.

But I noticed a funny trend in the aforementioned post and comments: we all feel guilty about hating people. Talking about it makes us uncomfortable (some more than others, of course). I get ticked off at my friends quite frequently, and for relatively particular reasons; I would never hire a hit man, but an exorcist. For this I feel, as many others apparently do, like a bad person. Hardly ever would I try to justify one of my hate-episodes to someone else. But why am I so disposed to loathe my friends when it makes me feel bad about myself? Why do other people apparently have the same problem?

Well, here goes. We're all complicated individuals who have a lot of crap to deal with--so much, in fact, that it would take ages to explain it all to a friend. There's a lot of stuff in my life (ranging from the petty to the not-so-petty) that most of my friends don't know about, and the longer I go in a friendship without talking about it, the harder it becomes to broach the subject. Why haven't I told you all my super dark secrets (and why haven't you, in all likelihood, told me yours)? Let's be honest: we have stuff to do. There are homework and college apps to finish, and family problems to sort out, and concerts to go to and movies to see. Every once in a while there is free time, a lethargic delirium that we don't know what to do with. So frankly, who has time anymore to listen to a friend's problems and actually give a shit (unless it is one of those really good Spock-Kirk friendships, of which I think almost everybody has one or two)?

I call many people "friends," but most of them I don't know all that well, and neither do they know me. So when I'm in a bad mood, or poopy things are happening in my life, my interactions with those friends are spoiled. I look at them talking and cracking inside jokes and nibbling away at their own goals and I think, "Who the fuck are you, anyway? Why are we sitting at the same table when you don't know the first thing about my life?" This won't necessarily make me start to hate one of my friends, but if the seed of minor annoyance is already there, then this new dimension--the superficiality of our friendship--will cause it to germinate.

Now, this claim that I've been making, that you have to grow up with me or otherwise know all about me in order to be spared my wrath, is a little harsh. An easier substitute: yell at me when I'm obnoxious, which sometimes I am. I know that I'm a bad listener, and that I'm flaky and never get stuff done on time, and that I butt into conversations at random moments saying "What? Who are we talking about?" Call me on it. Sure, I'll be disgruntled with you for the next day or so, but then we will have gained a new level of intimacy and I'll be less disposed to hate you at a later date. Just think of it like Star Trek! Without Spock vs. Kirk, there would have been no Spirk.

Expectations...Crushed

So I know that I haven't posted since January, blah blah nine months blah blah I could've had a baby in that time blah blah blah, but here for you all is a comeback post. Unfortunately, those of you who were hoping for a funny anecdote, or a philosophical rumination, or a book review or an analysis of Abraham Lincoln, must all have your expectations CRUSHED! For this will be that most dreaded of posts--a rant about my personal life. Not about boys or personal identity or my school stress or my general failuritude, but of all things, money.

Because from money, I think, stems the current predicament in which I find myself. As shamelessly as I ramble about my relationships with family members I feel a little uneasy spilling money secrets. But screw it--here's a rundown of my family's financial situation, from somebody who knows absolutely nothing about finance.

1. Together, my mom and dad's incomes amount to quite a tidy sum.
2. Mom and dad make this money going to work every day at high-paying jobs they don't particularly enjoy.
3. They keep at it (you might say heroically) so that my sister and I can get a good education, which they have always stated to be the most important thing.
4. To my discredit, I have no clue where all my parents' money goes, but it must go somewhere, because my sister and I both need financial aid to attend the private schools that we do.
5. In fact, if my parents go on spending this much on our education--even if my sister goes to a public high school next year--they won't be able to retire. That sucks a LOT.
6. You know those charts that colleges put up to give you an estimate of how much aid you will recieve based on your family's income? Well, according to those charts, because my parents earn so gosh darn much, the financial aid that I'm likely to recieve for my college education falls somewhere in the area of $7.

In other words, the rant that you hear time and again from private school students--"I'm too poor to pay for college but too rich to get financial aid!"--is my rant too, only I'm not kidding. But let's put that aside for later. I should add one more to the list above:

7. Currently, my parents pay for my existence.

As you may have gathered from the 1,000 or so whiny posts I have published about my family, I consider my home to be dysfunctional enough that I want to leave. And if my parents' behavior towards me in recent memory is any indicator, they wouldn't be all that sad if I did leave. I only suggest this because it seems that I, like their jobs or their motor vehicles, am taken care of by my parents as an obligation--at best an investment and at worst a chore--not as an object of any interest. Now, I know from Fox movies and the Ramona Quimby series that I'm probably wrong. But what else can I conclude when my father comes home every day and, instead of saying "Hi," glares and says something like "Why is the cat in the basement? Go put her upstairs."--When my mom asks "How was your day?" but, as soon as I start talking, redirects the conversation to a stressed-out "Why haven't you done ______ yet?"--When, in spite of constantly nagging me to do one school-or-college-related thing or another, neither mom nor dad cares to know what classes I'm taking or what I'm learning, or for that matter, what's happening in my life at all?

My parents lead busy, highly stressful lives. Between work and taxes and aging mothers and oil changes, they can't always stop and smell the roses: I get it. But my point is, if we can't make time to see each other as anything more than chores to be completed, why the hell should I bother to go to college close to home?

Here's where this all becomes relevant. Of late, my parents have insinuated a few things about my college education. The first is that they would prefer that I went to college in-state, or at least in some state close to Washington, because otherwise they won't see me very often and it will "really change things." This strikes me as a little bitchy. Maybe it's too much to ask, but I would think that if they wanted me to stick around, they might have given me some sign in the past few years that my presence was a pleasure rather than an inconvenience. But to insist that I go to college out-of-state, I would be saying: "Even though you two have provided for me and kept me alive since forever, I don't really like being around you, so I'm going to leave. By the way, I need some thousands of dollars." And this strikes me as really bitchy.

Let's go back to the financial rundown I threw out before, for therein lies another of my college woes. My parents, as I said, have always stressed education as being the top priority in my life. Because of this I've been in expensive private schools since the 1st grade, and for this I'm very grateful. But frankly, I would rather go to community college than doom my parents to working until their dying day at jobs they hate. And unless I magically score tens of thousands of aid bucks (see #6), there's a good chance that that will happen. What hits me now is that this education-centered life I've been leading, which by all rights should lead up to the exotic college experience of my dreams, will probably now be cut short by the salary game. That by itself strikes me as incredibly and unforseeably bitchy.

In fact, looking back on all the years that my poor parents spent toiling away in cubicles to pay for my schooling, I wonder if they wouldn't have been better off quitting their high-paying jobs, doing work that they enjoyed, and raking in the financial aid now that it counts. And if they really would have been better off...well, that strikes me as the bitchiest of all.

So who's to blame in this situation? Everybody, really. My parents, the Seattle School District, college, Abraham Lincoln, and I. There's not much that can be done about it. And so--as in so many other whiny soliloquies of mine--I must end with a confession: this post wasn't actually for you. It was just me ranting to the World Wide Web, which seems right now to be the least touchy of audiences.

I Iz All Up On Ur Couch, Hoggin Ur Blanket

I am writing this from my sister's bedroom, a place where I would never dare to venture were there not a cat in it.

Yes, folks. You may not be as mindblowingly excited about this as I am, but as Mr. Bennett would say, I have reason to expect an addition to our family party! After a bleak parade of inconveniences--the cat got sick, the cat had to be fixed, the cat was in Lynnwood--yesterday we were FINALLY able to pick her up from PAWS, stick her in a crate, and listen to her bleat every five seconds as we embarked on the long ride home. When we dumped her out in Ursula's room, it was quickly established that anything that might otherwise occupy our minds was pushed to the margins by the small beast. Alas, my kingdom for a cat.

It was also quickly established that by the grace of fortune, we had adopted the best cat in existence. Over the next 24 hours this was reconfirmed many times, mostly because

1. This cat will jump on/climb over/claim as property anything over a foot high, and still leave everything perfectly in place. Example: she climbed into one of my bookshelves--which is filled not with books but with Egyptian knickknacks and an encyclopedia about gnomes (which you may think counts as a book until you read it)--and managed to weave her way through the bookshelf without knocking over any of the gubbins. The one thing she has accidentally stepped in was my dad's Sunday breakfast, for which she deserves a hug.

2. Apparently, most cats really love using their claws to tear up furniture and blankets and their owners' thighs. Our cat defies them all. In the day we've had her (although it's probably little indication), she's been all over the couch, Ursula's bed, and all of our legs, and hasn't clawed a single thing.

3. She frequently goes into Slab Mode (as shown in the above photo) and, when she turns her head to the side, looks like a fur log. Or a weasel.

4. When not in Slab Mode she is incurably energetic, and flies around the house sliding on the wooden floors and crashing into walls. I think she likes it. Just a moment ago she was chasing a strip of fleece that my mom was holding, and did a somersault. Good Lord.

5. When I said "listen to her bleat every five seconds," the word "bleat" was not simply chosen as a saltier verb. She actually makes a noise that is less like a cat, and more like a sheep...or a duck.

However, as you may have noticed, the cat remains nameless. This is largely because my sister wants to call her Birdie and I will have none of it. Until a name is decided, my mom has resorted to calling the cat Bunny, a name last used for Ursula during her first six months of life, when she too was nameless.

Goodness. Birdie and Bunny. This cat is going to have an identity crisis.

What Does This Say About Me as a Person?

For a couple years during middle school I was—somewhat unhealthily—obsessed with astrology (so if your Mercury is in retrograde I can totally sympathize), and one of the reasons why I put so much stock in it was because it described human relationships so well. And not in the “If your sign is ____, take my word for it that you are compatible with a ____ or a ____” kind of way. Once you read books on the subject, they start explaining why two particular types of people are likely to get along well (or not) when in close proximity. One of the relationships they covered was Scorpio-on-Scorpio. While Scorpios are the royal pains of the zodiac and are bad enough on their own, two Scorpios living together is a bad mix.

You’ll just have to trust me that in this claim, astrology is spot on. It’s exemplified particularly well in my father and I, who are both Scorpios. In fact, the doctors said I would be born on my father’s birthday (although I wasn’t), which is an ugly sort of reminder of how similar we are.

That said, I don’t have the patience to beat myself up in this post, but once I get on to ranting about my father, just know that after an hour passes I'll calm down, read it through, and realize that I’m just talking about myself anyway.

The anger on which this post is fueled is rooted in something I said over dinner tonight, while my family and I were having some political discussion or another. (As a side note, never EVER get into political arguments with me face to face. At a certain point if we can’t come round to a compromise, I have to fight not to say something cutting and personal about you. I feel no healthier emerging from debates than I do from three-mile runs, although both may be healthy things.) Anyway, my dad seemingly had an honest misunderstanding about the issue, and stubbornly kept holding to his argument; meanwhile my mother, sister, and I all tried to reason with him, but he kept going as if he was completely deaf. So I, as is my bad habit, made a personal remark: “Maybe you’re right and everyone else is wrong, as usual.” My mom gave me the “you’re-not-being-constructive” look, so I stood up, took a deep breath, and left her to lose the argument on her own.

Of course, I could be certain that this was not the end. By saying something negative about my dad to his face, I had sealed my fate and he would surely approach me later in the evening, declaring that my statement about him was entirely wrong and that I should stop always thinking of him as a bad person.

My father did not fail me. As soon as I dared to step outside my bedroom, he called out “Wanda!” and the conversation progressed as follows:

ME: Yes?

FATHER: What were you saying tonight about me being always wrong and everyone else always right?

ME: Yes, I said that. It was a personal comment and I shouldn’t have said it in the middle of an argument. I’m sorry I said it.

FATHER: Well, that’s not the end of it. Are you supposed to be able to make a statement about me as a person, at the dinner table, and then say that you’re sorry you said it, and I’m just supposed to take that?

ME: Well…this time, yes. If you can.

FATHER: Why did you have to say that about me?

ME: Well…I was a little…miffed.

FATHER: Why?

ME: I was just commenting on a pattern of yours that tends to annoy me, where you’ll hold your position in an argument in spite of all odds, and you make it impossible for anyone to reason with you.

FATHER: I do not.

ME: Well, see, there you go. It’s so hard to explain anything to you because you refuse to listen.

FATHER: No one was trying to explain anything tonight.

ME: Yes they were, because it seemed like you were under a misunderstanding, so we were all trying to explain it.

FATHER: Nothing was being explained because there was nothing to explain. And it’s not “we all.” There were people taking my side.

ME: …no.

FATHER: Yes there were.

(etc etc etc, for a while)

FATHER: Hey! Let’s say that this statement you made about me, your feelings about me, have no grounds—they’re completely ungrounded—so what does that say about you as a person?

ME: I don’t think that applies, to any situation, to anyone. I think someone’s feelings about somebody else always have some grounds.

FATHER: Well, I’m saying it does apply! What if I’m right? What does that say about you?

ME: That I’m…wrong?

FATHER: No, what does it say about you as a person?

ME: …I don’t know, dad.

FATHER: See, who’s stubborn now? I think you do know, and you don’t want to admit it because you don’t want to confront that part of yourself! You’re scared, because that would be unflattering to you, but you should take some time—I don’t mean necessarily now—to think about that, what that says about you as a person.

ME: So what you’re saying is—I should take a little time to assume that everything I think about you is wrong, and to reevaluate myself in the worst way based on that fact?

FATHER: I didn’t say think about yourself that way. You should be thinking about why you said what you said, because you’ve obviously got this huge store of dislike for me piled up that you can’t control, so it comes out in times like tonight! Why do you always have to think of me as the bad person? Why do you have to do that, knowing what it does to not only you, but to me, and to our relationship!

ME: Oh, get over yourself. Just because I said something about you doesn’t mean I’m always thinking of you as the enemy and the bad person.

FATHER: I didn’t say you’re always thinking of me as the enemy, or the bad person.

ME: Yes you did.

FATHER: No, I didn't.

ME: ...Nevertheless, if this says something about me as a person, I don't know what it is.

FATHER: I'll tell you what it is: it’s you. So you should think about that. But for now— (gestures to the internet cable connected to my computer; I disconnect it before he can order me off the Internet) —yeah.

ME: (packing up, going back inside my room) Okay, okay. I'll go to bed now, and as soon as I think badly enough of myself I'll get to use the Internet again.

FATHER: What did you say?

ME: Because that’s how it works. (Coming back outside) I mean—

FATHER: Just—stop. Stop. Do you really want to argue more?

ME: Whenever—

FATHER: Do you or don’t you? Haven’t you done enough arguing for one night?

ME: Yes, but all I’m saying is—

FATHER: Just answer me. Because I don’t want to argue about this anymore.

ME: Why was that not a good enough excuse when I made it, but—

FATHER: Hey, you were the one who started this. So I’m asking you, do you want to keep fighting or do you want to stop?

ME: Well—yes, I do want to fight about one more thing—

FATHER: If you say one thing, then you’re back in.

ME: I just want to say that if there is any pent-up—not dislike, but anger—then it’s because of situations like this, where you get to come in and say your bit to me, and as soon as I try to say anything, you immediately tell me to stop—

FATHER: Hey, you said plenty!—

ME: You know what? Stop. Let’s stop.

(bedroom door slams)

If I could bear to go back and reread that argument, I’d put an asterisk next to each thing that I wish I hadn’t said, or had phrased differently—but that would take far too long. I’m worse at arguing than my dad than with anyone else, because I fluctuate between two mindsets:

1. Just let this pass. Stay silent as he rants, and don’t say anything even remotely passionate, because you’ll end up saying things you’ll regret. As long as you keep clam, he’ll keep making a fool of himself, and will hopefully feel like an idiot later.
2. Good God, defend yourself. He’s just proven himself to be so insane that keeping quiet won’t be any more effective than anything else will, and you don’t want to bottle up more anger.

Mindset 1, while it practically guarantees that I won’t say anything of value, is an excellent plan when dealing with my dad. As long as he’s the only one talking, he’ll actually remember what was said, which means that I get off Scot-free and he hopefully reviews his monologues and realizes that he needs help. Hypothetically speaking, of course—because I revert to Mindset 2 eventually every time. Mindset 2 is just plain stupid. I bottle up anger anyway, and saying angry things during an argument tends to make me more angry instead of releasing anything.

The point that I originally intended to make in this post was that my dad is impossible. If any negative accusation is directed at him, he responds in the way I just illustrated—to reprimand the accuser as much as possible for even suggesting that he could be less than perfect. Any statement against his character is not only unfair, it is absolutely ridiculous, and for this the unfortunate complainant should meditate and then repent for their sin.

The most significant time this has happened recently is when my mom told him that he tends to bully people during arguments. She said that she wasn’t alone in thinking so. My father responded by calling a family conference, in which he stated the accusation that he was a bully, and asked for our justifications for it. Being met with a hesitant (but constant) stream of grievances from all three of us, he nevertheless battled his way towards the conclusion that he was not a bully and that we were all absurd.

I agree with at least one thing that my father said tonight—random outbursts of anger are no good for a relationship. But this system that he seems to want, where if you can’t say something nice about him don’t say anything at all, seems no healthier.

Dad, you’re almost right. I do have a huge pent-up store of anger. But you wouldn’t have it any other way. If I wanted to handle my problems with you in a rational way, I’d have to come clean with you about them, in which case my complaints would inevitably be interrupted, twisted, and shot down. The argument would end with my walking away and thinking, as always, “How did he persuade me that I was wrong?”

I’m sorry this was such a long post, guys. But this way, if I ever mention in passing that my dad and I argued, you can imagine it went something like what you’ve read, so I won’t have to explain why I’m feeling shitty about him and even shittier about myself. And this way, you all know that astrology was right and two temperaments such as my dad’s and mine shouldn’t be brought together.

If any of you are acquainted with a Pisces, let me know.