Sunday marks 17 months since the news story first appeared about my lawsuit against my employer. It also marks 22 months since I first took action on the suit. The process is laboriously slow and there’s a part of me that wishes I’d never started it. I realize that it has to be done and that it can well carve a new path for the GLBT community in New York State, but I’m tired of it.
With all of this stuff going on with my father, it’s worn me out completely. My emotions are constantly in conflict where he is concerned, and where Le is concerned as well. I hate what my father did and he deserves to be punished for it. But, he’s my father, too. Hate the sin, love the sinner. The only way to do that is to compartmentalize, and often those “compartments” overflow into each other.
He made me his designated health care proxy, and has given me power of attorney to conduct his financial and personal affairs while he’s incarcerated. The other day, I got a copy of his will naming me as sole beneficiary. That made my heart feel heavy, for some reason.
I’m the only person in his family who is speaking to him nowadays. I chat with him on Yahoo! Messenger almost daily. And, while I try to keep conversations with him upbeat and positive, he often regresses to his bitterness about Le and his situation — a situation of his own making, of course. He recently lamented that “…the only way I’ll return to Bath from prison is in a body bag.” I told him “I won’t let that happen. I’ll insist on the finest pine box they’ve got!” It was good for a chuckle for him (and Lord knows he needs some chuckles these days) but underneath the humor, we both know that he’s merely trying to face reality, as am I.
I also didn’t realize just how much the house rennovations would affect me mentally. I’m tired of the place looking like a wreck. I’m tired of waking up every Saturday morning with “Today I have to….” on my mind. The only thing left now is to paint the stairs. I primed them Sunday and may have to prime them a second time, but then once they’re painted, that should finish up the entryway. While it’s been a task, I sat this morning on the steps and looked around and thought about how good it looks and how much I love it. And how bad other things look now and how I/we should continue on into another room from the entryway because we’ve got more than enough ceiling paint and wall color paint to do the family room now, too.
In between all of our own rennovations, Mary decided that she wanted new sinks in each of her two bathrooms, and a new toilet in her master bathroom. And, of course, she wanted it done now, while we’re in the middle of our own mess. And, of course, she wanted Lisa to help (read: do) with the installation of shut-off valves and the new fixtures, sinks and commode. So, our stuff comes to a halt while Lisa goes next door to do Mary’s — against my bitter protestations. “I want to get this shit done in our OWN house!”
I’ve been on Joe for about 6 weeks now to get his room cleaned up and cleared out so I can get his new(er) queen sized waterbed in there. I’m sick of looking at the damn thing in the family room so last night I told him that, if his room isn’t ready to rock and roll by Saturday, *I* will clean it. He knows he doesn’t want that because when I clean a kids’ room, there’s nothing left but the bed and the floor. I’m just sick of nagging him about it.
And, every day I see that goddam motorcycle sitting in the garage, reminding me that my son is hell-bent on killing himself at a high rate of speed.
Now that the nice weather has arrived, our part-time job kicks in, too. We do grounds maintenance where Lisa works. The money is good, but it’s just one more thing I have to do right now that I really don’t want to do.
I got sold down the river by the director of our department. He wanted a typist/receptionist in his electronic learning center, but couldn’t get the new position funding. So, he convinced the VP that *I* didn’t need to fill the vacant position in my department by showing him convoluted statistics, and got the funds diverted from my offices to his own. I now staff two offices with just three people. He told me he has put funding in my budget for a part-time hire at $9.25 an hour — far below the going rate for our counterparts in industry who do the same jobs. I told him yesterday I’d rather work alone than have to hold someone’s hand through each and every job, only to have them realize that they’re getting way underpaid and leave, leaving me to have to hire and train another person.
I hate my job.
The past three mornings in a row, there have been “multiple car crashes” on the expressway on the way to work. This morning, there were three multi-car crashes. Two within a half-mile of each other. Traffic gets all fucked up and then there’s always the arrogant prick who’s time is clearly more valuable than everyone else’s on the road, and he feels compelled to drive down the shoulder, slaloming in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and making you wish that he’d collide with a bridge abutment.
Last night, I hankered for something violent to watch on television. Violent! I think it was a manifestation of a subconscious desire to just punch someone out myself. And wouldn’t you know, there were no Steven Segal, Bruce Willis, or Jean-Claude Van Damme programs on? I had to settle for American Idol and pretend that Simon’s nasty and rude comments were punches.
I just want to run away. I want to go someplace where the weather is warm and dry. No television, no radio, no alarm clocks, no newspapers, no people, no traffic, no responsibilities. I want to go to a secluded beach and boogie-board all day long. Live like Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins did in The Blue Lagoon, collecting shells, fishing, making jewelry out of coral. Bathe in a fresh water spring.
Or to a mountain top where the air is thin and cool and we can camp and hike and go horseback riding. Maybe build a small house out of rough timber that we cut ourselves. Cook over an open fire, gaze up at the stars and moon at night. Farm, grow our own vegetables, have a milking cow.
Hell, even a convent sounds appealing today, and I’m still scared as hell of nuns!