What exactly does it say about me that I found myself so identifying with the web excerpt of Tori Spelling's new book, "sTORI TELLING," that I not only want to read it immediately but I want to buy another copy and throw it at my dad's head? (it is hardcover...)
I didn't grow up in a 10,000 sq ft house, or have artificial snow in my Los Angeles back yard, or have personal visits from Santa ... but I did grow up in a house where my dad - one that operates as if money = love - most definitely dominated. I'm not so sure that he dominated out of force or if it was for the reason that my mom was just more meek back then. It didn't really dawn on me as a child that objects and material items were the expressions of love that I received. I had that realization many years later.
In fact, that realization was the epicenter of the emotional melt down I had with my father less than two years ago. Unfortunately, he still doesn't get it. I cried on the phone, I sobbed in person, and begged for him to have an emotional relationship with me instead of being a bank. He didn't get it. Every time I try to explain how uncomfortable it is to be around my father for long periods of time and how painful it is to hear the words "I love you" from my father, I cry all over again. (Imagine how quickly that works as a buzzkill at happy hour ...)
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the monetary assistance. But how good does it feel to live in a house your dad made happen when you know that at the end of a bad day, you don't have a friend to talk to in your dad? And how much worse does that feel when he comes to your house and has rarely a positive thing to say about the way you've chosen to furnish and decorate it?
I'm thinking a swift hardcover to the head might make a new kind of impact ...
The past month of so has left me feeling very overwhelmed by ... stuff ...
I can't even say it is because I am a terrible packrat (although, I admittedly am and really should join some kind of group therapy...).
I have ... things ... to the point that I want to just move and leave my entire house behind. Yet, when I get on a cleaning binge and get committed to "throwing all this crap away" ... I realize its not really just "crap" cluttering up my life. There are ... things ...
Everything is useful and should have a home ... somewhere... But I feel like my life is slowly being swallowed by some kind of weird consignment shop of other people's things.
And did I mention I am in dire need of both a haircut and a pedicure? Its been over a year since I've had either. No, I'm not exaggerating ... May of 2007 ... how is any chick supposed to feel chicky with such negligent pampering?