I called my dad tonight. Those of you who've been around long enough know that my dad and I don't have the most sound and deeply rooted relationship. In fact, you might want to go ahead and just call it what it is, totally superficial, usually alcohol-fueled, seldom mutually beneficial, and based solely on the premise that as family members we are often compelled to make appearances at the same family related gatherings. (Which if we're replacing the "family" with "friend" in that description, it would pretty aptly capture most of my interaction with the rest of the male gender through the course of my life so far... It would be really awkward to go trolling for boys at family events... I might have a southern accent, but that just ain't happenin, SICKO!!) So it just goes to show you, your parents really are your models for how you function in society.
Anyway. Moving on.
So while talking to my dad, he asked how work was going. I informed him that it was fine considering that I only had two weeks left, and that knowing that has made me able to tolerate just about anything... Which barely makes everyday functions on my job even remotely bearable.
His response was not what I expected. It was a heavy sigh and a loaded silence... (I HATE THOSE.) He then launched into the question mode... Like I was making this decision on a whim, and not with two years of planning and the ultimate goal of furthering my education by going to GRAD SCHOOL!
I then spent the next twenty minutes explaining that this has been the plan for over two years, and that my working situation has driven me so close to the edge of homicide or suicide that I knew it was time to just take that next step and make it happen. I explained the plan, the safety net I have in place, the logistics of moving, everything he questioned I had a sound and reasoned response in place. And yet, you'd have thought that I had told him that I was selling off all of my worldly possessions to get the financing to get my meth lab up and running. I mean I might as well have said, "Dad, I'm washing my hands of all worldly possessions and backpacking through Europe sustaining myself by doing performance art involving gratuitous nudity, a nail gun, peanut butter, a live chicken, a taxidermied iguana, and a bunch of ping pong balls... Oh, and some Ritz crackers, because peanut butter ain't shit without some motherfucking Ritz crackers!"
Meanwhile my mother knows how unhappy I've been, and knows that this has been the plan all along, (largely because she LISTENS when I talk) and she of course is very supportive. She knows that getting out of my job will make me immensely happy. She knows that getting out of this craphole town will even further heighten my elation, and she also knows that grad school is the ultimate goal. She reasoned that dad was probably pissed off because I was telling dad all of this after the decision was already made, and not consulting him for some pearls if wisdom in advance. I think she's probably right... In which case the last 26 years have taught him ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, because I've always been one of those different drummer, independent, doing it my own way because I like my way better kind of people. ALWAYS.
So after twenty minutes of a conversation which served no purpose other than to royally chap my ass, I bid him farewell, because I wasn't about to stay on the phone with him if he wasn't going to utter the least little bit of support. That's all I really wanted. A little verbal, "Well, go get em kiddo!" It's not like I was asking for money to cover my moving expenses. But apparently being suicidally unhappy for the long term and drawing a paycheck by working at a job which is tantamount to shoving bamboo chutes under my fingernails is better than a short term of job searching in a better job market in the state where I plan to go to graduate school... Yeah, clearly that's rational.
So here's to you dad, thanks for being so sage and rational or if not sage and rational, at least showing a modicum of support and respecting my decisions as an intelligent reasonable adult here... OH WAIT... That wasn't you! SILLY ME! NEVERMIND! Happy motherfucking birthday.
(Do I sound bitter? Because I swear I'm not bitter AT ALL.)