This is one of those memories that rattles around in my head and makes me feel a little bit like a sociopath, because Of all the guilt I live with, I can not bring myself to feel guilty about this one, and it's a new year... So I am letting it go.
The Hippies divorced when I was about 10 or 11.
I could fill a blog with the crap that this among many things, havevburdened me with, in fact I have, have you read it?
But really, the actual divorce itself....rated about 8 on the couldn't care less scale for me.
I don't know why?
I think we were all sick of the fighting, not that it stopped, and even as a kid I could see the self destructive, lies, justifications and petty bullshit that was divorce. I wanted no part of it.
That or I am selfish. Probably both.
Hippy one, shortly remarried a police man, pleasant enough at first, not that I really cared much, Mum was happy, and busy. Teenage dream.
Turns out though, he was the biggest Cock head to walk the land, and I don't mean it in a "Your not my dad!" kind of cock head, but the guy was a violent alcoholic pig.
He would get around in an old school football cap from when he was a hero, and it was far too small for his oversized head, and the peak would lay flat and the seams were stretched with the strain of it all, it was so old that the inner seams were a deep red colour, but the rest of it was more of a rose pink.
I promise this post gets funnier... Slightly more disturbing, but funnier.......
Dinner was expected on the table at the butt crack of six o'clock pm, lunch at noon, and breakfast whenever he felt like hauling his fat hungover arse out of bed, and every one would walk over egg shells to the dining table, waiting for him to inhale his food, drink another couple of beers and pass out.
A stark contrast to the free love, peace out existence I was used to.
One night, in the middle of winter in the southern highlands of NSW, we had pea and ham soup, I remember watching him eat it, slopping green mess dripping down his chin and spattering on the table, complaining to my mother about it being too salty, or too green, or to hammy, whatever he could.
I remember thinking....How would you know? how the fuck can you taste it? Is any of it landing in your mouth?
I didn't say it, I just filed it away in my brain to be written in blog form one day.
Later that evening, one of us pissed him off with our general being around (probably me) and he flew into a rage about something,
If he wasn't so terrifying he would have been comical, the way he used to carry on, he would stomp his foot and his voice would get high pitched and whiny, the veins in his head would pop out probably because his hat was too small, and spit would gather at the edge of his grotesque food hole.
He picked my elderly cat up and violently launched him outside, an act guaranteed to get a rise out of me, and I bit.
I told him that my cat contributed more to society than his fat Head ever would and if he touched him again I would put water in the petrol tank of his car... Oh and did he know his pink hat was too small?
I was a bitch, admittedly at that age, but what annoyed him more was that an thirteen year old was smarter than he was, I brought this to his attention when he threw into another rage at my cheek and he threatened to run over my cat.
I was smart enough to know he would, (he eventually did) So I shut my mouth and went to the bathroom.
Seething I walked over to the basin.
I took his toothbrush and scrubbed up under the toilet rim with it. I rinsed it a little, and put it back.
The night continued, he eventually passed out.
After staying up and cleaning the aftermath of his latest temper tantrum, my mum went to bed, leaving the pea and ham soup on the stove, you could do that in the winter in the southern highlands.
The next morning we awoke, cock head was snoring soundly so we tip toed out to the kitchen where we found my dear old puss feasting heartily on the pea and ham soup, mum shoo'd the cat away, this was a potentially disastrous situation in our house... It was another reason for the pig to have a tanty.
Mum replaced the lid and went about the futile daily grind of keeping him happy and he rose a few minutes before twelve, right in time for lunch.
Feeling bad or whatever, he decided to be nice, or he was too hungover to argue about his lunch not being ready, I dont know, he decided to fetch himself some soup.
The one the cat ate.
My brother, sister ,mum and I stared at each other wide eyed, waiting for someone to say, don't eat that! The cat did!
No one dared, We all inwardly Smiled at stole knowing glances at each other, even the cat, as he hoovered the soup down.
A few hours later, he was feeling poorly, from the cat soup? The hangover? The fact that he was a fat cock head? Who knew?
He threw up, had a shower, brushed his teeth.
With the toothbrush now covered in arse.
By the following morning, he was indeed ill, very I'll.
I wandered around in a panic that I may have in fact just killed a person. Cause of death, ecolli covered toothbrush.
Such was my panic, that I ran to my mother and confessed to my toothbrush hijinx, and my belief, that I may have as good as killed cock head. The big tough police man in the tiny pink cap.....
Mum assured me that he would be OK, and if there was a need for him to go to the hospital then she would inform them, and we spent the next three weeks, reveling in the peace that the stomach bug and the consequent lack of appetite and basic comprehension it brought to our house.
Mum left him out not long after that.
Judge me if you will, I sleep soundly.
Comments beginning with ...I once...peed in my ex's bath, Sold my step fathers dog, killed nanna's house plant or similar revenge inspired story would be great and make me feel a little less like a freak, which is of course, why I blog.