In the summer of 2008, my family moved from our home of 10+ years to a new house in a more …secluded area (read: Middle of Effin’ Nowhere).
Aside from having an extra room and a lake view, our new home featured what everyone came to affectionately refer to as “the Harry Potter closet.” True to its namesake, the little space is pretty much a hole in the wall underneath our stairs, with a 5 foot ceiling that I don’t even reach when I walk into it. Over the last two and a half years, my dad has taken to making the small space his own personal “office” of sorts.
…He’s not that tall either. (But at least he has to duck when he goes in)
At around 3 am this morning, I walked through the door of said home after a night of nerdy-ass “debauchery” involving chicken wings and playing Uno, Rock Band, and Lumines with Ricky and Gio (who is a very sweet and slightly hairy friend for driving out to BFE after I sweet-talked/guilted him into coming to pick me up). The light in Daddy’s room was off as he slept, and I could hear the little Sister clicking away on her Mac so I tucked into bed with my knitting and watched The Nanny (yes, spinsterhood here I come). Less than 2 hours later, I heard my Dad stirring, getting ready to leave for work. Around the same time, the Sister seemed to wake up and I heard her “elephantine” footsteps run downstairs.
And then hell broke loose.
I’m not sure what happened, but when the footsteps sounded just as angry and loud as the words Dad and the Sister were yelling, I ventured outside of my room. A lifetime of experience in this home with these people has demonstrated that it’s best to stay out of a Family disagreement; you’re likely to make things worse instead of better.
As I approached the “warzone”, I was aware of three things:
- · Both were yelling threats I knew they would actually follow-through. Which was bad because…
- · Judging from the thickening of his accent, Dad’s blood pressure was likely going through the roof.
- · And they both smelled like Vicks Vaporub.
I diffused the situation as best I could and went to take clean up the casualty of whatever started their fight in the first place: the Harry Potter closet.
I still don’t know what spurned this fight or disagreement in the first place, but apparently, the Sister had clearly done some damage to Dad’s personal space. Several of his folders, along with some of his ink cartridges and even his lancets to check his blood sugar were strewn on the floor, all of them soaking in the herbal oil that spilled from its bottle when it hit the ground. Dad was agitated still, the Sister was locked up in her room defending the TV Dad had threatened to take down if she didn’t clean up her mess, and I was (and still am) running on zero sleep and on a throat that clearly wants me dead. I urged the patriarch to get ready for work and maybe pop a nitro pill, and then I grabbed a few paper towels and got to work.
Now, it’s pretty common for a fight to break out in our house. Just the other day, Mom and I had a tiff over (of all things) a Spanish for Dummies book I had left in the car that lead to very grating argument. Not the same situation, I know, but same principle: we have fights. In our house, with our personalities, it’s expected. In my opinion, the worst ones are between me and Dad: now that is mental and emotional warfare at its ugliest.
Actually, it’s rare for Dad and the Sister to fight; more often than not, when I’m fighting with the old coot, she defends him, tells me to shut up, and even threatens to punch me (not like it’d do any damage) when I make very un-daughter-like comments. So this must have been something either really frustrating or extremely retarded-ly stupid thing that they fight over. (My bet’s on something that’s somewhere in the middle).
As I wiped away the oil from the folders, boxes, Dad’s medication box, and even the walls, I was acutely aware that, even if this fight resolved itself before the end of the week (which it likely would), the smell would likely be around for much longer as a pungent reminder of whatever the hell they were fighting about in the first place. It occurred to me that this isn’t the first time a Parent vs. Sister fight ended with some form of leftover casualty: a family portrait taken about 13 years ago is currently hanging on the second floor without a glass frame when the Sister stormed upstairs and slammed it to the ground in a fit of rage. I remember leaving my fuzzy blue slippers outside her room so she wouldn’t step on the broken glass…
Having fought with them both on numerous occasions, I can’t really get behind either of them on the matter. Dad can be a bit of an overly uptight control-freak who has the mentality of an ancient feudal lord lording over his territory. And the Sister, well, she has this amazing delusion that she’s a good daughter but in reality is pretty much a brat in denial over how entitled she thinks she is.
So…it’s pretty much a lose/lose-your-voice/sanity situation.
I love my family. I just don’t really like them all the time.
Especially when I’m cleaning up glass shards at 5 am. Although, inhaling the excess camphor and menthol might help my death-cough in the long-term…
