Monday, September 13, 2010

Mondays really do bite the big one.

Hubby spent his weekend at his grandmother’s house, helping the vultures pick through the carrion of her possessions while she wandered the corridors of the assisted living facility unawares. They are claiming their rightful ‘inheritance’ and happily leaving the scraps and flotsam for hubby to deal with I’m sure—that has always been the pattern. Hubby’s biological father (I call him The Sperm Donor (TSD)) only ever really interacts with hubby when he needs something. My calling him and his spouse out on that (among other travesties) ended my relationship with them. They no longer speak to me. No big loss there, since I see first-hand, the hurt and the disappointment my husband has had to live with and still lives with; being treated like a peripheral family member and human fork-lift.

Hubby was the first-born.  TSD produced more children out of another marriage who got a lot more of his time and attention.  Hubby told me a story once of his being in his father's shop, and a good friend of TSD walked in, and asked who he was.  "I'm [TSD]'s son..." hubby replied.  The man replied: "Huh, I didn't know he had another son..."

Since childhood, he has been shoved onto the sideline; enjoying only few and spare moments where he felt like a true son to his father. Otherwise, TSD has pretty much lived to please himself and has no sense of anyone’s needs but his own. He does have a powerful defensive net set up however—which implies he knows he was a terrible father to hubby, but he doesn’t do anything to correct it. Hubby, I think hopes TSD will come to an epiphany one day. He keeps trying to forge a relationship his father is unwilling to share. It’s very sad. TSD just continues ignoring him on the most part, or sending him emails crying about the life his questionable choices created, and hinting at needing trees cleared, roofs fixed, etc. It makes me ill. The real irony of this is that early on, when hubby and I first met, he introduced me to his father. I distinctly remember TSD complaining that *his* Old Man did nothing for him as a father except expect him to toil and labour for him. Funny how the mirror has gotten so grimy he can’t see the reflection there. Hubby still insists on doing stuff for TSD, because it’s his father and he can't help loving him, but he is always hurt and harassed by it afterwards because it's not the relationship he wants to have with him... "Hey, I'm coming to town son... bring your Carharts."  It makes me feel terrible for him and makes me want to slap some sense into TSD, but I suspect even a 2x4 across the noggin wouldn’t do the trick.  It is both sad and poignant a lesson, I guess... because it illustrates how important fathers are to sons; and how crucial it is for them to have some sort of relationship with them.  I suspect my hubby will always hope for that relationship, no matter how many times it's proven that TSD isn't capable of it.

Hubby has an ex-step father (a real father in every aspect)… a really amazing person, who calls him weekly rain or shine, and talks to him. He divorced hubby’s mother years ago, but he never let his connection to hubby fade. He goes to lunch and dinner with him; remembers his birthday, he spends quality time with him, and pretty much never asks for hubby to help him on projects. In essence, when he looks at hubby, he doesn’t see 'your Personal Hyster' written on his forehead. Hubby gladly will volunteer to assist when things come up, but there’s nothing to begrudge there when this person is a credit to his life as opposed to just a financial, temporal and emotional drain as TSD pretty much always ends up being.

So I saw very little of hubby this weekend. He got home late on Saturday but came home earlier on Sunday to enjoy a Lasagna and a couple of hours of time at home with the wife and pooches. I chilled both days. Seriously chilled. I’d had a somewhat hectic (understatement) week at work, and come Friday, I was burnt out in every possible way. Each day on my own at home, I brewed up a pot of tea, and Sunday, I put on All Classical and read an entire book from cover to cover (The Private Diary of Mr. Darcy) and I must say, I give this book five out of five stars. It is a wonderful way to re-enter the world of Pride and Prejudice, but looking in through the male perspective. It is gritty and bawdy at times; because that is the world of the Regency man—and the writer intimated that Mr. Darcy and Lord Byron (yes, THE Lord Byron) were friends. It’s a romance from a man’s view, and I picked it up at 9 AM, and six hours later I closed it and put it down. I haven’t had a page-turner like that in forever. It was kind of heavenly.

On the horse front, poor Tag! I’ve been not-so-chatty about my equine friend, but lots has been going on… since his gross cold, I’ve only been able to ride him a few times this summer. After his cold, the mud was dried up enough that he could be released in the daytime with the other horses; but since Tag is such a marshmallow, he is the lowest horse on the totem pole, and his been getting the bejeezus beaten out of him by smaller horses with Napoleon complexes or something. He got a really nasty cut right on his hip bone a while back, which scabbed over after we treated it as best we could. But apparently, under that scab, stuff was happening, because one day the scab came off and he had a crater the size of the palm of my hand on his hip, and it was half-an-inch deep. Seriously, I nearly passed out when I saw it. Covering it and treating it has been a challenge and he had to take antibiotics, and there was swelling and all sorts of nastiness…

Augh. I miss riding my horse, but just moving at any rate would crack it open again. Boo! No more group releases for my little hooven-milquetoast. ::sigh::

Anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve posted, I know, but as I said before.. HECTIC.

I am going on record saying: Friday the 13th is a date that inspires wariness... but honestly, the idea of MONDAY the 13th... that's just HORRIBLE! A double-whammy of evil!


Jody said...

liked the illustration very much, good tree! TSD is not a rarified species, unfortunately, as my son also has one and we call him, or I call him The Prince of Fu-king Darkness or The Loser, for short. How these men get up every morning and gaze into the mirror and do NOT open a vein is beyond my understanding.
We all get to answer in the End.
Hug hubbie and treat him to something delicious. What else can you do?

An attempt at life... said...

This is one of my favorite drawings I have seen you do. I love it! Hugs to you and Dan! Love you!

the Goodwife said...

I just discovered your blog and my husband also has an absentee father, and there was an instance at a racetrack where a friend of his "dad" came up and didn't know he had a son. It is sad, but in my case, I'm happy to report that my husband has come to terms with the fact that his dad isn't a dad and was merely, as you stated, the sperm donor. He sees his dad at most once a year and sometimes not even that but he is ok with it.

You are a very talented artist!

I'm sorry to hear about your horse, but I do like that you referred to him as milque-toast. He isn't by chance a TB is he? LOL!

Hungarican Chick said...

@The Goodwife -- No, if he was a TB, he'd be neurotic and wired like a Chihuahua... Both off-the-track TBs I've owned were like that. Spazzes. Tag is a Belgian Draft... he is the second largest horse in the stable next to the percheron Katie, who has at least a hand on him... and he gets his ass kicked by teeny mustangs and quarter horses.


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