oh, ginny

Today was a complicated day, I think. Last night I slept over at Issac's apartment. I can't say that his sofa and lack of air conditioning made for the best night's sleep, but it was easier than driving home - and at one point, a fluffy little kitten jumped onto my chest. When we arrived there, he was buried in a book, and basically ignored us as we ate and talked about our shopping spree at the "porn store" downtown. Brianna and her friend, Skyler, came soon after us. I grow to like Issac more and more each time we meet, as he seems to often be the voice of reason among us, myself being the silent constemplator of reason. Brianna and Allee were talking about some of their craziest, sluttiest, occassionally most disgusting parties, and after awhile threw in music and started to dance around. Issac sat in his chair commenting how he'd never heard this, and then eventually got angry and stalked off to his bedroom. I sat in my chair watching, glad that I hadn't been invited to those nights.

Allee talked with me in the car about wanting to be a "swinger" - it sounded like something from the seventies to me, but apparently it just means having a partner but fooling around with random people at the same time. It occured to me how completely disinterested I am in such a thing. It isn't even that I'm curious but let my morals rule me - I honestly just would never want that. It's strange, to be this person who loves sex, who has four different flavors of lube - cherry, butterscotch, pina colada and peaches and cream, butterscotch is the best - and a bunch of toys and ... all right, you get it! Yet I don't allow anyone to touch me, nor do I touch anyone else, unless I trust them very much and feel the relationship is serious.

Sometimes I wish that I could fast forward to twenty-six or twenty-eight, whatever age it is that it becomes normal to want a commited relationship, a very commited relationship. One with a marriage, I suppose - I don't desire the ceremony and legality so much as the commitment part - and children, and a house with my egg-laying hens, white horses and silk sheets. I'm tired of feeling like a freak because I loathe casual dating.

When I woke up in the morning, I went to Barnes and Noble and bought the new Harry Potter book. I've already paged through the end, revealing some of the major plot twists. I'm not sure why I do that, ruin it for me - somehow it makes the fact that I don't have time to read it straight away more comforting. I bought semi-sexy red pajamas for myself, because I need sometimes to feel good in while I'm up late at night writing. And then I met my mother at Verlo to order my new mattress. This began the worst part of my day.

You must understand - I have a 22º curve in my spine. I have been sleeping, quite literally, on the same mattress since I was four years old. It's hard, unsupportive, old and worn-out. It was probably not the best sort of mattress even in the beginning. Certainly you can understand why I would need a new one, and not just a new one, but a good one.

We bought the mattress, and then went to a furniture store to get a headboard. I had picked a metal canopy frame, which was actually pretty cheap for being a canopy frame. I've always wanted a canopy bed to seal me off from the rest of the world as I sleep. My mother said that we should phone my father (as usual, alone up north at our cabin) to ask his permission to get it, since we'd spent money on the mattress. And I was like, fine, sure.

Naturally it did not go fine. I literally got in one sentence before he freaked out. Why were we buying a mattress?! How much was the mattress? Why did I need a new headboard? Because the mattress was a full instead of a twin? You can't get a full, it will never fit in your bedroom!

I told him that I chose a full-size mattress because I wanted something a bit bigger, and that since we were spending money on a new mattress anyhow, it might as well be something I'm happy owning. After all, I'd be keeping it for years to come, and using it each night. I told him that it was silly, anyhow, to get a mattress sized for my bedroom at home, since I'm leaving home in less than two months, for good.

And then ... I'm sighing as I write this ... he has to launch into this argument that I only want a new bed because I have these outrageous plans to move to Madison and live in a, yes, god-forbidden apartment. He said, "I'm not paying for an apartment in Madison, for that and the utilities, I'm not." I was a little outraged, because we hadn't even been discussing where I would live ... it costs about six hundred dollars a month to live in a dormitory, without food, so why shouldn't I get a studio for the same price and be happier, more comfortable? I would have more room, a place for my pets, more privacy. I wouldn't be living in a puppy mlll for college students.

Then he asked to talk to my mother ... he can never speak to me for more than about forty seconds about something without wanting my mother instead, despite it being my mattress ... and starts arguing with her about how much the mattress costs. Apparently he accused me of wanting the most expensive mattress in the world. In reality the one we chose was just a ltitle bit above the bottom line ... enough to care for my back, and that was all. Good, but far from the best.

Then he said that he would pay for the mattress out of my college fund ... and I was like, yeah, okay, whatever (you asshole). A mattress isn't some kind of vanity prize, it helps me control my back pain. I need to be able to sleep well when I'm a struggling college student, don't you think? My current mattress was a piece of shit, so if he wanted to play games, I would play games. It would be worth the improvement in my quality of life.

Hearing my mother argue with him was the hardest thing, I think. I was nearly in tears, hearing her repeat over and over again that I needed it because of my back, as though he'd forgotten about what I deal with each day, without medication or anything like that. When he was on the phone with me, he was just pathetic ... he always sounds so confused when he argues with me. Sometimes he does, rather. I'll say something valid, something that makes sense, that you can't disregard without sounding moronic or completely uncaring. I can sense the pause after saying something like that, the hesitation and confusion, before he blurts out his favorite cover-all lines. Today it was I said NO!

Funny how he treats me, his eighteen year old, college-bound daughter, that way. He throws around the same I'm-in-control-because-I'm-your-parent-and-you're-my-child lines. The same lines he would tell me if I wanted a candy bar in a store, and I whined about it. I think it's really rather sad. He just doesn't get it. He's a fool - I disrespect him so much that doing the opposite of what he tells me to do is a thrill. When we bought the headboard, I just felt like yes, yes, I'm getting the canopy bed that "won't fit" in my soon to be abandoned bedroom anyway, you condescending, self-obsessed bastard.

He complains that we do things like buy mattresses behind his back. He just doesn't get it. My father comes home each day to sit outside in the garage, drinking beer and smoking, watching television. When he does venture into the house, it is to eat supper in his own king-size bed, alone, away from us, or to tell my mother to do something he'd perfectly capable of doing. Also, perhaps, to change out of his suits into his grody grey sweatpant outfit.

He is the most disgusting man in the world to me ... a meat-eating, beer-drinking (I even hate beer), smoker, with a huge beer belly and a blotchy, red, bloated face and a twisted smirk ... but anyway, back to being constructive. He disappears to his cabin every week, where he works up there, supposedly, alone. He has shown for years through his actions that what we need is not a priority. The thought of him mattress-shopping with me is absolutely laughable. Of course we do it without him - we'd never get it done otherwise.

It isn't really about the money, to him. We can easily, easily afford a new mattress. What this is about is control, about the fact that he didn't wake up one morning and decide for himself that I needed a new mattress, about the fact that my having a new mattress is in fact not important to him, just a small blow to "his" pocketbook that he can't bear to witness, it not being something he desires (the quotations referring to my disgust in the way that our family's income is presumed to be my father's money, somehow, even though my mother has her own job and works longer hours).

Forgive me ... but to be arguing with this man about my needing a mattress for my twisted spine while he is sitting at his cabin on the lake, surrounded by our two boats that we don't even bloody use ... forgive me if this hardly seems like a "I want the best for you, but we can't afford it, sweetie" situation.

I'm angry that he has so much influence in my life. I'm angry that he has my money for college, and regularly uses it as a threat, as leverage. I'm angry that I share his blood, that I came from his sperm cell, that I will be forever tied to him. I'm angry that somewhere down the line, I may have to invite him to my wedding (though he will not be the ceremony, ha), that I may have to watch him smile in his fake little way at my babies. I'm angry that he did not show me attention, show me love ... I'm angry that he only praised my accomplishments concerning academic achievement and scholarships (money!) ... I'm angry that he told my mother I would weigh over two-hundred pounds by the time I graduated high school, while he meanwhile sits around on his fat ass shoving Hardee's into his mouth ...

I'm angry that he grabbed my wrists that one time and threw me against the wall. I'm angry that my mother is married to him... sometimes I view her as a kind of slave of his, this laundry-doing, supper-cooking, is-it-okay-if-I-buy-this slave. I love my mother. I'm angry that he shows up to Christmas in his ugly sweaters ... that he'll show up after I give birth, ruining the beauty of the day ...

I'm angry that I did not have someone better. I'm angry that in love, I'm submissive and unhealthy, or at least was, willing to tolerate anything to have a man love me ... because I tried so hard as a child to be lovable, to be good enough.

It makes me want to change my name all the more. Jones ... I hardly view it as my last name. It is not a part of my identity in any way ... to me, it doesn't mean family, my mother and father and sister and relatives. It means him ... the fact that he married my mother and dominates her, undervalues her in the same way he undervalues me ... the fact that he has control over me. I do not want to be a part of that.

I will change it, I think. Do you think Kawaii or Alicia for my middle name? I like Alanna too. It's so hard to choose ...