Morning After the Night Full of Trouble, aka Happy Thanksgiving, Asshole

I'm sure it's pretty clear that I had a rough night. I have yet to sleep a solid hour. I may have fucked up the turkey. I am very, very fragile. I just needed a walk to clear my head and prepare myself for the fakeness I must put on to deal with the Grandmonster. I just don't know if I have it in me today.

So I smoked. I took the dogs for a walk and had a cigarette. Smoking is a huge sin in my family because of the fact that it can kill you so I walked a few houses down to a corner that was shaded by trees and no one was around. I stood there and smoked my cigarette while watching Ginny play with Katie. When I was done, I turned around and began walking home.

A truck whipped around the corner so I shortend the dogs' leashes so they wouldn't get run over. The guy pulled up right next to me and started yelling at me. "Get your dogs off my lawn! This is private property! How dare you let your dogs shit on my lawn!" (In a raised, but not screaming, voice.)

I remained calm and responded. I told him first and foremost that I was sorry. I didn't realize that he didn't want the dogs on his lawn. He didn't give a shit. He hated me because I let my dogs on his lawn and it didn't matter that I hadn't let them shit there and that I was clearly carrying a big bright yellow recyclable shit bag, which one would only carry with the intention of picking up their dog's shit. You know, because they had no intention of leaving shit on someone's lawn.

He didn't want to hear it. He kept yelling, if anything getting only more agitated by the fact that I wasn't being the asshole he wanted me to be so his hate would be justified. "This is private property! Keep your dogs off my lawn!"

"Look, I don't live around here. I'm sorry; I didn't know. You can see I've shortened my dogs' leashes. I promise I won't let it happen again. Just please stop yelling at me."

"I have every right to yell!" (And then some more of the same blah blah . . . private property! . . . blah blah . . . dogs shit on my lawn! . . .blah blah . . . )

At this point, I realized that he would not be placated and I just wanted the yelling to stop. So I said, with no trace of any emotion but earnestness, "Did you know that my mother just died? I just wanted to take a peaceful walk. I'm sorry I upset you. Thank you for being so polite." By now, tears were streaming down my face. I was just so tired and so sick of people hating strangers. When did everyone become so hateful?

Now clearly, the "Thank you for being so polite" was meant to be ironic and he knew it. He was a smart man. He finally shut up and said, "Well alright then." He may have even felt a tiny bit remorseful. I didn't know anymore. I didn't care.

I did what I very rarely do and I let my anger out on a perfect stranger, just as he had done to me. As I walked away, I said, "Have a happy Thanksgiving." Then I raised my voice to make sure he heard me as he started pulling away: "Asshole."

He stopped and threw the truck in reverse. He backed up next to me and screeched to a halt. He said, "That was uncalled for."

I said, in my normal voice, though I was still crying, "It was uncalled for for you to speak to me the way you did. I was nothing but polite and I apologized and said it wouldn't happen again. But you didn't care."

He did what I did not expect and said, for the first time speaking to me like someone with feelings, "You're right. Let's start over. I'm sorry. Don't let your dogs walk on my lawn."

I said, "I won't."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

"Thank you," I said. "Happy Thanksgiving."

And he drove away and I walked away. I felt actually almost peaceful for a moment. I could almost forget the hurt.

I really needed another cigarette. I sat in my car with the door open and lit up while I waited to see if Ginny would finally shit. Still feeling almost peaceful. It lasted nearly a full two minutes until the Grandmonster pulled up.

The Grandmonster does not get showing your feelings. The Grandmonster would never be described as caring, compassionate, or understanding. You always put on your best face for her. And I just couldn't do it. The peacefulness was gone and I didn't know how I was going to sit near her right then when I was so raw.

I got the dogs in the car and drove to Dunkin' Donuts to get some coffee. It was purely an excuse to buy myself some time to get a grip. I thought maybe I was better when I got back. I just kept thinking, I only have to hold it together for six or seven more hours before I can go home and lose it if I need to.

I came in with Ginny and Katie and the Grandmonster reared its ugly head and pretended to fear for its life because of Ginny. The day my mom died, Ginny--a tiny puppy at the time, with tiny, sharp puppy nails and eager puppy love--jumped up to greet the Grandmonster as a new friend. Her nail scratched the Grandmonster's scaly skin and drew a tiny bit of blood. The Grandmonster got very angry at me as I pulled Ginny away and scolded her. We got her a band-aid. I put Ginny in my parents' room as my mother's one-hour-old corpse lay cooling in the guest room next door.

The Grandmonster assumed center court as it loves so much to do, putting a chair in the middle of my mother's grieving sisters and my mother's grieving mother. The Grandmonster bled through one band-aid and needed it replaced because the Grandmonster has old people tissue-thin skin. The bleeding stopped with the second band-aid. But the Grandmonster has never forgiven my dog, and I have never forgiven her not just for that time but for all the times she felt the need to treat my mother like shit. She had no right even being in that house at that moment if she couldn't respect the grief of others and stop being selfish for just one moment.

But the Grandmonster is named the Grandmonster for a reason.

And when I got back into the house this morning and the Grandmonster reared its ugly head to spout hate, I just pulled Ginny into the sun room and locked her in. Then I went and poured out a third of my coffee and filled the cup again with Bailey's.

Ah, the holidays with the family. A bunch of White Anglo-Saxon Protestants hiding their various vices from each other so they can use said vices to deal enough to get through a day spent together. Maybe I can get a few minutes' sleep before the meal starts and I need to sit at the same table with the Grandmonster and try to get through a few hours of conversation while apologizing profusely for not saying hello immediately despite the fact that I was crying and visibly shaken at the moment.

As I write, I hide in the sun room with Ginny drinking my coffee and Bailey's trying to figure out whether it will be hours, days, or months before I feel peace in my soul again for long enough to maybe even be happy.

I ponder whether to get drunk or sleep.