Package

My father has this magical way of killing me just a tiny bit every day. He does the same thing to my husband. I suspect that the same thing happens when my brother comes to visit or vice versa. I have a perfect example from today.

Setting the scene:

Imagine a quiet suburban post office. Cloudy skies and birds chirping.
A disheveled woman with a crazed desperate look in her eye stumbles out the front door slides along the side of a silver Honda, fumbles open the door and collapses into the drivers seat. She picks up her cell phone and dials.

C: Hey, it's me, do you have 3 minutes to spare?
B(at work): Yeah I guess so, what's up.
C: I need to yell for the next 3 minutes
B:OK
C: So, remember fucking last week I had to take Horst to the motherfucking store to get the gift for H? Remember as we were ALMOST AT THE FUCKING STORE he turns to me and says, "Oh, do you have the address for M?" And I say, "No, I don't have the address for M because I wasn't going to fucking buy anything and ship it from the store." So he goes to the fucking store and buys the bulkiest items imaginable and when we get home from the store he is like a goddamn deer in the headlights and says to me,"Uh, what should I do with the bag?" (of purchased, unwrapped gifts). I say, just put it in the basement closet, I'll take care of it. The following week, I get my stuff together to send, t-shirts and A FLAT BOOK. I go to the motherfucking store and purchase a card, wrapping paper and wrap everything up in the motherfucking car and bring it to the motherfucking post office. Do you know what I discover? I have to send everything in 2 packages because his things are fucking bulky, Horst says in the store, "I gotta get something for the little one, can't send a present for one and not the little one. He says this OVER and OVER for the entire ride to and from the store. So this present for the little one (being my niece, P) is a fucking cube. Who sends a fucking cube in the mail!! I'm standing in line after figuring everything out and stuffing the packages all the while getting more and more pissed off, seriously B, smoke was coming out of my motherfucking ears. I was hugging the freaking packages, rocking and muttering curse words to myself. I don't know if the post mistress knew whether to ring me up or call the men in the fucking white coats. And you know what the worst thing of all is?
B:What.
C:I can't fucking say anything to him about it because he will obsess on it for the next 4 days and keep bringing it up, (imitating my Dad's voice)"Just wanted to let you know.."He kills you a little bit each day.
B: (laughing)I know, right!
C: Honestly, Horst is destroying my brain cells, I'll be dead by 50. They should house him at Guantanimo or whatever, have the terrorist live with him. They won't last 3 days, they will be screaming, "I confess, I'll tell you where the fucking bomb is just take him away. I can win the war on terror. Horst and Kids Bop CD's. Screw water boarding. I have to do all the thinking and planning for him. I'm going to put the address book in the car and do you know what's going to happen? Do you? He's going to turn to me as we are driving to the goddamn store next time and he'll show me that look he brought the fucking address this time. (I scream quietly into the phone) Ok I'm done, I feel better now.
B:Ok Love you
C:Love you too.

Because of his schedule change I've been spending way too much time with Horst. I think I will start to add vodka to my stress relief regimen in conjunction with the Bach Rescue Remedy.