Reminiscences of a Dadzilla Past

Momzilla the Ostrich

I come out of my room and make like I'm headed for the hall bathroom. I hear the door and Dadzilla. Is he coming or going? He's going, because I hear the rustle of a garbage bag. I wonder if he's just going to take the garbage out or if he'll stop by the picnic tables and sit down to talk.

I can only hope he'll stay out a few minutes, but it's not looking good because it's hot out today. I'm hungry, so I start my frozen dinner in the microwave.

I hear the rattle of keys and I know Dadzilla is back and the door opens. One thing about him is he's seldom quiet, but then I usually have ear plugs in. I head for my room while my dinner heats up, and I manage to skirt Dadzilla. I was undetected, but I'm sure he'll hear the microwave.

I head out to the kitchen after a few minutes and get my dinner. God almighty, he starts whistling. He just can't be quiet and motionless. It's like dealing with an ADHD child. I start on my way to my room. “I don't understand you, Dad. You want everyone else to be quiet, meanwhile you sit there with the TV on whistling.”

“Well, it doesn't matter about the people upstairs; they make so much noise they deserve it. They probably won't even hear me. I guess you don't like it either, huh?”

I take that as a rhetorical question and just continue on my way to my room. Same old drill. He won't listen anyway, so why waste my breath?

Today is my late mother's birthday. She would have been 75. I get to thinking about how she'd make the same trip to her room behind a closed door because of his behavior. He was younger then, so he'd actually follow her sometimes and yell outside her door. Whatever they were arguing about: “The truth hurts, doesn't it?”, “That's right, go bury your head in the sand.”, “Your friends and neighbors think I'm crazy? I'm crazy like a fox.” , “Goddamn New York! This was your idea and I'm getting the hell outta here!”

These are just the recurrent phrases I can think of off hand that I heard repeated throughout my childhood.

I also remember him telling me almost proudly, “You know, I never hit your mother.” Back then, I didn't understand the full scope of the statement. Today, sarcastically I think, “Gee, what an achievement to never have assaulted and battered your spouse. One day, I might aspire to those heights.”

   <Life to Dadzilla>                                              <cont'd in future post>

Life According to Dadzilla

It's All Chinese to Me

It's another one of those evenings. I'm hungry and don't feel like waiting for Dadzilla to go to bed before I enter the kitchen. I decide on a bowl of cereal because I don't like the frozen dinner situation. It's been almost six frickin' years and he still can't remember which dinners I like. I've been asked what I want before and I know I've told him and written things down, yet some things never appear in the freezer, despite being on sale and economical.

“You can't have cereal for dinner.” Oh, good. More orders, as if I'm some sort of impetulant teenager who doesn't know what's good for themselves. “Why aren't you eating those frozen dinners? And what about the lunch meat? There's that in the drawer in the fridge.”

I'd like to know what kind of evil I've done in a past life to deserve this now. Surely, I was Vlad the Impaler. “As I know I've said before, I don't like those dinners or that lunch meat.” I know I'm kind of picky when it comes to meat. Whether in lunch meat or frozen dinners. I've made suggestions too. If you're in doubt, then get something vegetarian. I can almost guarantee there won't be a problem with that AND vegetarian items tend to be cheaper than meat items. There's also the option to just not get anything, which is WAY more favorable that going over the same crap over and over and over for years.

“Goddamn it! What the hell do you like?” I start gritting my teeth. The same thing every time. “I'm gonna just stop getting dinners. Ta hell with it!”

“And that's fine. I prefer it to this every other time I come out to the kitchen.”

“Don't be stupid. You've gotta eat. You're not Chinese or Vietnamese...”

“What does that have to do with anything.”

“Because you like that kind of food.” You've got to be kidding me. As if that's the only type of food I eat. As if non-Asian people aren't supposed to like Asian food.

I hurry up with the cereal and get the hell out of the kitchen and make a bee-line to my room. Dadzilla says something, but I'm not sure what it is since I wear earplugs an inordinate amount of time. I keep going to my room, because I just don't care anymore.

“Don't you turn your back to me, goddamn it!”

I keep going, trying to flee the one man Gestapo. This is the kind of thing that used to send my mother taking off for her room. Now, that's what I do.



<Walls No Ears>                                                                                <cont'd in future post>

Make Some Noise for the Upstairs Boys (and Girls)

Like a Good Neighbor, Dadzilla Is...Yelling, Banging, Cussing, Giving Me a Headache

The neighbors upstairs turn out to be no picnic either, but then again, Dadzilla tends to exacerbate any problem ten-fold. They are exceptionally noisy; he's right. The way he goes about his protests though, leave a lot to be desired. He sits on the couch and watches TV for several hours throughout the day. Inevitably, the people upstairs make some clank, crash, or boom Dadzilla doesn't appreciate. I'm not sure why, since the TV is always at maximum volume and you can barely hear the sound of police helicopter rotor blades directly overhead.

I'm telling you, these people have no sense, and certainly no common courtesy. Who lets their toddler jump on and off their furniture and run in the house, not even occasionally, but constantly? I don't know. Maybe it's me. At 40 years old, am I that out of touch? If either my brother or I ever jumped on and off the couch as kids, I can assure you, I'd have a hand print on my butt that would make me remember to not do it again. I don't even believe in corporal punishment, but there are still such things as rules and discipline. Don't mention corporal punishment to Dadzilla though; he'd be happy to see the little girl upstairs shuttled off to a nunnery up north, never to be heard from again.

Personally, I like solutions. Dadzilla likes to moan and groan and yell. Which is what he does everyday as soon as any noise begins. “Can't you smack that little girl across the ass? Don't be afraid of her!” directed toward the grandfather upstairs. Sometimes, it sounds like a herd of elephants just got home. “Pick up your feet, goddamnit!” He will sit there for hours yelling. Why would someone sit there and yell like a lunatic for hours, day after day for months, when obviously that strategy isn't working?

Oh, he says he's talked to the apartment manager, and he says “we all have to get along.”

He can't be bothered to say anything directly to the people up there though. Once, I left a note that was worded very politely on their door. I asked them to please be more courteous. Specifically, I asked if they could get their daughter to refrain from furniture-jumping and running in the house, not just to be polite, but because it's dangerous. The only response I heard about was the grandfather came down here and Dadzilla got the door. “I think we have a problem,” he says, showing the note I left. “I ain't got a problem,” he says. I didn't even know about this since I was in my room with my ear plugs in like I have to do for most of the day. He doesn't have a problem?! The man who spontaneously combusts at any noise whatsoever, nevermind the noisy people upstairs? He said they argued and he stormed up back to his apartment. I think there were idle threats bandied about, but that's about it. It did absolutely nothing to abate the noise.

So, there we are, a round of hostilities later and nothing to show for it. I'm at a loss for what to do. There is one more step above the apartment manager, and that is the owner. I've only heard of one conversation he and Dadzilla have had and it sounded positive. He's not around that often, and that would involve action from an unapologetic dreamer, who would rather use his cane to bang against the wall and yell, rather than make any real attempt at rectifying the situation.

Meanwhile, my ears get sore now and then from having in ear plugs twenty of twenty-four hours per day. I don't care. If I lose my hearing, it could be a real blessing. That blessing wouldn't even be in disguise; it would be twerking around naked.

<The Nose Knows>                                                          <cont'd in future post>

Dadzilla Threatens to Strike

China Bitch...and Bitch and Bitch

One day, Dadzilla suggests we go out to get Chinese for dinner. We both like Chinese, but I'm apprehensive about going anywhere with him, whether he's driving or a passenger. Who needs the aggravation of a screaming old man at the slightest provocation? Yearning for something different for dinner, I acquiesce, and off we go the couple miles to get Chinese at a chain place.

I avoid as much as possible making left turns with no light in the middle of the day anyway, now I'm extra careful. One false move and there could be an explosion. Driving on egg shells doesn't matter; there's ALWAYS something to complain and yell about. I think back on the rare occasions my mother was in the same vehicle as him, and why they were so infrequent. I repent for being a stupid kid, encouraging her to get in the same vehicle as he was. I guess all kids want their parents together, even as they argue bitterly and they lack any wisdom to see it's much better off that they separate. I wonder what kind of insecure, micromanager I would have become had Dadzilla actually lived in the same house as me past the age of 6.

Uh oh. It's one of those yellow lights you have to brake kind of suddenly for, as there isn't enough time to make it through before it turns red. Three “what the hells”, a “goddamnit”, and a sexist epithet later, and we're back on our way. Is all this worth it for Chinese? He's not shutting up.

Finally, we pull in, place our order, get our order and get out. The second we pull out and get stopped at a light, he continues his spiel about how the lights in Arizona are rigged to the detriment of the drivers. “Wah wah, wah wah wah wah, wah,” on and on and, apparently, on. We get home and he gives me an order. I don't even remember what it was, but I guess it didn't sit right that particular day, already hearing him rambling on almost the entire time driving.

I declare, almost yelling, “Stop giving me orders! You do it all the time!” Dadzilla's eyes widen, as he erupts. “I wasn't telling you what to do, goddamnit!” and “I oughta hit you a good one!” Violence is always the answer, but I won't tolerate it as an adult. “I wish you would hit me, then the judge can ORDER you to go to anger management. You've needed it for YEARS.” I've disputed the authority of Dadzilla. This will not do. He accuses me of being selfish. I don't understand the connection between wanting him to go to anger management and being selfish, but I've already had enough.

I gather up my Chinese food and head to my room. I have to come back out to the kitchen to get a drink. I'm not the only one who forgot my drink. Dadzilla is again cursing because he left his drink somewhere in the restaurant. “Ta hell with it! I'll just go on without it.” Being the selfish person I am, I drive back down to the restaurant alone and bring back his drink. I place it on the table next to his food. He has nothing to say.

<A Little Coffee Pot>                                                            <cont'd in future post>

A Little Coffee Pot Never Hurt Anyone...Except Me

No Sugar Tonight in My Coffee

I feel bad sometimes that Dadzilla and I don't do many things together. I wish it were different, but someone with anger management issues is not fun to be around. I almost always drive if we're going someplace together. And that would be fine except for all the anger, rage, and hostility that he exhibits. At the most mundane things even. OK, everyone might get mad now and then about certain things on the road, and I'm certainly no angel myself. He's a passenger. He shouldn't be concerned with minor things now, or any other time, really. I often wonder how he's made it to his age without having suffered a fatal heart attack brought on by one of these fits. Red lights, slow drivers, fast drivers, drivers who are in any way a minority, buses, tractor trailers – all a part of life driving, all a part of Dadzilla's righteous crusade against what he perceives is a slight against him. And, because it IS a crusade, it doesn't last just a minute or two. He's been known to go on and on ad nauseum about what most people would consider a fact of life.

The fact is, Dadzilla has always been this way, ever since I've known him. As a kid, I was afraid of him and his outbursts. It's not as if my brother and I were hit much at all. I think maybe the old fashioned coffee pot incident might have made him really think twice, but I don't know for sure. That was when he went to smack my brother across the table and he knocked that coffee pot into my face, causing profuse bleeding. Judging by the noise, his yelling, Mom's yelling, my anguished shrieking as blood poured, you'd think a bomb went off. I was whisked away to the hospital for stitches above my right eye. The doctor asked, “Did your Daddy hit you?” I responded, “No, my brudder was being bad. He tried to hit my brudder, but hit the coffee pot by accident” They had a good laugh at that one for years. But I can't help wondering if it was just coincidence I don't remember anymore physicalities beyond this point or if there was fear of Child Protective Services snooping around when they considered it undue corporal punishment.

<Dadzilla Social Security pt2>                                      <cont'd in future post>

Hi, My Name Is Dadzilla and I have Anger Management Issues

Social Security, Anger Management, Dadzilla, and Me

So, after a year or two at this place, we have our routines down. If it's summer, we stay inside most of the time, I in my room, Dadzilla in the living room. If it's cooler weather, he likes to chat with the neighbors, maybe go for a ride. I stay in my room. I figure I hear everyone's business from Dadzilla. From the way he tells it, I don't want to get to know most of the neighbors anyway. This is fine with me, because I'm so tired all the time. With my meds, I'm not depressed, but I sleep a lot. Any combination of sleep and sleep apnea device doesn't help. Still always tired.

I apply for different forms of Social Security, but after over a year of processing, I'm denied a final time. I can appeal, but it would be before a judge at a hearing. I just drop the case. I'm too young. I'm not sick enough. I can still walk without being in agony. Maybe if I show up in a wheelchair drooling on myself.

Meanwhile, discontent is building in the apartment complex and more people are leaving and are not being replaced quickly enough. Finally, after several months go by with the habitability of the apartments worsening, the place is put up for auction for non-payment and sold. No more John and Joan who Dadzilla was complaining about just about everyday now. One time John made an off-the-cuff remark to Dadzilla, who was sitting down, chatting with a neighbor. He jumped up and threatened to hit John where he stood. Oh, yeah, did I mention Dadzilla has an anger management issue? You probably gathered that already. That is what makes Dadzilla, Dadzilla.

So, John and Joan out, Jeff in. Things are looking up. It seems he actually cares about the complex and addresses many of the problems. He hires one of the neighbors to be kind of a caretaker of the place in exchange for dismissing his rent. The place starts looking nicer than we've ever seen it.

<We Meet in Tucson>                                            <cont'd in future post>