Readers will note at the outset that the personal pronoun is conspicuously missing from the beginning of the title. That’s because this piece and its counterparts are not dedicated just to my set, but also to quite a few other paranoid parents that I have ever had the misfortune to come across. I shall, purely for the sake of reader interest, restrict myself to the immediate instances of paranoia exhibited by choice specimens of the parental category of Homo sapiens.
Charity begins at home, so will criticism, derision and censorship. My parents – well educated, well read pillars of society. But when it comes to making decisions and taking responsibility of their own kids………. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, its CA’s parents making their exit after falling prey to their paranoia of being held responsible for taking a decision!
The latest incident of their paranoia involves, as usual, a phone call. I’ll paraphrase the call to cover more ground as opposed to a blow by blow account. It’s not going to be pretty folks even with the paraphrasing.
The key players this time were Grandpapa and the Pater Familia. The gist of the conversation was that there were “decisions” to be taken and Daddy dear wasn’t ready to take them. (What’s new? When has he ever deigned to take a decision? And decisions? Plural? More than one? I’m surprised he didn’t asphyxiate on the spot.)
Well this time both of them, yes that’s right folks, BOTH of them called up AT THE EXACT SAME TIME and got angrier and angrier because, surprise surprise, they were both getting a busy signal.
When they did get through it was a sorry rehash of past verbal trashings that they dished out. Why can’t the two of them find something new to air during their verbal trashings? I mean it’s like watching the same bloody re-run for the HUNDREDTH time. And where, I ask you, is the punch of the earliest trashings? The startling revelations of ineptitude, the sparkling wit and black humor, the refreshing feeling of knowing that individuals you thought were holier than thou are actually flawed. Oh the horror of those early trashings, where art thou?
Ultimately I was left with the proverbial broken pieces of a clay pot and asked to put it back together again. I did the best I could, a quick dose of verbal superglue and a liberal sprinkling of lies (I accumulated some really bad karma on this one) did the trick.
Daddy dearest was left laboring under the blissful mis-impression that someone else had taken the decisions (he will at some point definitely shift the blame onto Grandpapa hopefully overlooking my mediation) and as usual Grandpapa remarked at the sensibility of the solution. And once again I was forced to bite my tongue hard to keep from blurting out that it was put together by me. I tell you there’s no credit to be had here. But then, do I really need it?
Where, if at all is the justice? When will my dysfunctional family come face to face with the fact that, hellooooo you’re weird. When will that epiphany strike?
In the meantime, I’ll just polish off the last of the cookies, binge eating always helps.
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