About a year ago, my father called me, and was talking about Rose's cats. He was complaining that they were skittish and shy and wanted nothing to do with him. Glad to find a safe topic, I gave him some tips on bonding with shy cats. He went on to complain that it was hard to give them their flea drops. I agreed, that if you couldn't surprise them and get it done within a few seconds, you just had to give up and try again later. He said he would continue to chase them and hold them down, because "no
cat was going to get the better of
me."
At which point there was nothing to do but bang my head, slowly and softly, into the wall.
"It's ....... it's a
cat, Dad."
Sometimes I think that phrase sums up my relationship with my father. This is the same man who, when he drifted into my line of sight just as I was giggling to myself over something that was funny in my 8 year old imagination, spanked me for about a half an hour until I would tell him what I had been laughing about. (Ironically, what I had been thinking about was a way to surprise him and make him smile.)
And so what I wanted to say that day on the phone, "It's a
cat, Dad. Who on earth is it going to impress when you win?" I've wanted to say many times in my life to people, to whom I am usually the cat,
metaphorically speaking. (But occasionally even to myself, because when it comes to my faults I am my father's daughter in many ways. I'm not immune to getting caught up making my point in conflicts with people who matter very little to me.)
Lately I seem to be the cat in a few people's lives. Situations where they feel they have to "win" in some way that matters to them, even thought I play a very small, and frankly powerless, role in their lives. Who cares what I think anyway? If you think I'll oppose you in some why, you've over estimated my power. Not that many people listen to me. I don't even listen to half of what I say. If you want a sympathetic listener to your bullshit, the world is REALLY BIG, with LOTS of OTHER PEOPLE. If you want a friend, remember, friends don't have to agree with each other. I don't demand that of anyone.
And it's sad, but also annoying, to be pounced on, and have
some one's bitter false reality shoved down my throat, when I was just minding my own business, sitting in the sun, not hurting anybody.
You can't treat me like the cat, and then wonder why I'm skittish and have claws.
Dad, I don't think you were Father of the Year, and I won't revise that statement no matter how hard you try to charm/lean/bully me. I don't want to go to lunch with someone who tries to rewrite my memory, who pretends he has no idea why I don't like him. Even if it's a free lunch. And who the hell cares what I think, anyway. I'm not your boss. I'm not the President of the United States. I'm not even your neighbor. I'm just little ole me, minding my own business. You might say it matters because I'm your daughter, but believe me, if that fact had mattered more to you when I was young, the fact that you're my father would matter more to me now. I'm not unforgiving, but I won't rewrite. I won't play anyone but myself in the
pageant of your memory.
Dufel, yeah, your technical voodoo is stronger than my technical voodoo. I can't block you from contacting me. I'm the cat of the technical world. Dear god man, find something else to do besides contacting me. Take on a bigger challenge. I found better things to do than contact you, and I'm telling ya, I'm having a great time. Seriously, why the
persistence? Do you really think that winning the battle of Don't Contact Me will win you the war of Let's Be Friends Again? You cannot be that delusional. Besides, I'm not that pretty, or that witty or that fun. I have my charms, sure, but you know what? SO DO A LOT OF OTHER WOMEN, AND FRANKLY, IT'S THEIR TURN.
The rest of you, and you know who you are, leave me alone or I'll call you on it. And if you're that concerned about what opinions I carry in the privacy of my own mind, I'm sure it worries you to think about what pretty unpleasant noises I can yowl on this backyard fence of a blog.
Labels: autobio, cry, email, engineers love me, ew, rant
