At the top of my lungs and the end of my nerves!

On TV it was funny. You knew it was a sitcom, so the fights, the racism, the ignorance, the irascibility...they were all just part of the Archie Bunker All in the Family act.

In real life, it is not funny at all. Not when you have to live it day in, day out.

In the book Archie & Edith, Mike & Gloria: The Tumultuous History of All in the Family, author Donna McCrohan describes producer Norman Lear's upbringing in the Depression. The family lived, according to Lear, "at the top of its lungs and the end of its nerves." I cannot think of a better description of the past few days with my father. Usually I can count on a flare-up of some sort every day, but not like these.

I'm actually rather frightened of myself right now; the ugly things coming out of my mouth, spewing like poisonous venom. I'm not going to lie. I want them to hurt. I want them to sting. I want them to snap him out of this cycle of bitching and complaining about EVERYTHING. As I just told him a few minutes ago, "the only thing standing between you and a nursing home is me, so you'd better be careful. The bitching has to STOP."

I hate being so ugly. This is not me. Well, not usually me. I have my moments. But these moments are scary moments and I don't know where to turn. Thank God I have a quiet home in which I take refuge.

As I said, the other day the incindiary incident was a large tree branch. Yesterday it was a table saw. He insisted on going back over to the house to get this circular table saw from the basement. Mind you, we both live in condos. There is no room, nor a call to use a table saw. It was not hurting anything in the basement at the house and, as I told my father, "the chances of a burglar stealing that huge table saw are slim." "The hell they are!"

Fine, fine, fine. Take the damned saw. I went outside to wash off the car. I wasn't out there five minutes before the bitching started. He couldn't find a proper screwdriver and shopping bag for the saw bolts...and he blamed me for not keeping the house adequately stocked. He was pissed because he'd have to wait to get his saw. I snapped back, "THE HOUSE IS VACANT. NOBODY LIVES HERE. WHY DO WE NEED SHOPPING BAGS?" And so, the war of the words began. With any fight, the line of verbal assault is never linear. It is always circular, like an auger digging deeper and deeper, trying to strike a nerve. Well, we both hit our target.

I was so shaken up I took him home and got back in my truck and just drove. One thing I've started doing to relax myself is to take my digital camera out with me and snap quirky pictures of landmarks, architectural oddities and novelties in and around St. Louis. It just relaxes me. Everything I photograph is an object. Objects are never objectionable. They neither talk, nor bitch.

Last night I ended up in Florissant, taking pictures of a neon sign depicting an evergreen tree.

I've even set up a Flickr page under the name HighwayFarty. You can judge my mental health by the number of strange photos I keep adding.

Last night I slept fitfully, even after the evening drive, and today I woke up spent. I had tickets to the Cardinals game this afternoon and I always look forward to spending those three hours of comparative peace and quiet with 40,000 screaming fans. Even with the rain delay, I enjoyed the time away. I enjoyed it so much I didn't want to go home. I walked around the city for several hours taking pictures. It's as if my mind and body had united in a pact to tell me.."No. No. Don't do this to us. Don't go back there."

But go back, I did. Sure enough he started in on me. The TV listings I bring over to him were incorrect and it was my fault. The TV listings are a constant thorn in the paw. He can no longer figure out what's on TV. The newspaper insert in the Post Dispatch confuses him. So each night, I go online to the STLToday website and I tailor a custom grid just for him. I take out all the extraneous channels so that each daypart comes on one page. He gets a morning grid printed out, an afternoon grid and a night grid. The hours midnight until 6AM, he is on his own. But occasionally the TV listings do not correspond to what is actually on. As hard as this is to believe, tonight's blow-up started because Rockford Files was on Channel 13 instead of I Spy, as the grid indicated.



Those grids are hot buttons for me. He has pushed that button in the past and provoked the same hostile reaction from me. Yeah, yeah I know it's wrong. I should just let it go. But my point is this: If you cannot navigate the most simple TV listings. If you can't operate a microwave oven to prepare hot food. If you can't properly run the clothes washer and dryer. If you can't figure out how the bathtub drain and shower mechanism works; well then, you really need to go into assisted living. It is as clear cut as a Simplicity dress pattern. Clear cut to everybody but him.

Just the mere MENTION of assisted living sets him off and you can count on things getting VERY ugly because my ego gets on its hind legs and says "This is the thanks I get!"

It used to be that I'd keep all this "nursing home" talk hush-hush. But now, no. I throw it right in his face like hot bacon grease from a skillet. Not to hurt him, but to dramatically make him see the problem here: What will happen if I have to leave town? Who will print out those listings and change the channels? Who will put food in the microwave? Who will start the clothes washer? Who will drain the tub?

THAT is where I feel the pressure...to think I can't even go away for a few hours!

So, I have no wisdom to share today. Maybe Norman Lear found a source of humor in HIS difficult, bigoted father...but I'm just not there. Not yet. Not tonight anyway.

Tomorrow we have a golf lesson. I hate golf, but I'm taking lessons. More on that tomorrow. My refrigerator is bare tonight, bereft of wisdom AND food.