I didn't do a whole lot today. When I finally woke up (late mornings ROCK!), I got up, went online, and default was ever so helpful in aiding me with rewriting my resume. She rocks too! I sent e-mail to my aunt (the one I spent Thanksgiving with, btw) begging for her to call me and she said she would tonight. Phew. I then spent the afternoon updating my weblog, which was fun. I still haven't gotten up off my ass to go buy anything for my cold, which Mom's nagging me to do, or to go take some books back or anything. Maybe tomorrow. If I feel like it.

I got e-mail from Mom today saying that they might not come pick me up (I have too much stuff to haul to take the train home) on Friday night because (a) she has stuff to do, and (b) on Saturday we and Aunt Susie and co. are all going to visit Granddaddy, so she might as well just pick me up then since she's already heading up.

I was not pleased to hear this. And that goes beyond hoping that I'd get a few days before Christmas started to go decorate the tree or something. There's nothing like saying the word "Granddaddy" around me to get me in a bad mood.

To put it bluntly, there is no love lost between my grandfather and his grandchildren. There's never been anything there at all. I've been told by members of the previous generation that he had a traumatic childhood and a horrible father and thus has issues, but I can only go on what I've seen of him, and what I've seen � isn't good. I don't think he really cares about people beyond himself and whoever he's with at the time, and I don't find this endearing.

As a child, my grandmother babysat me at her house. I hardly ever recall seeing my grandfather around, though I know he must have been. The only thing I remember about him from that time is the day I had dance class and he was supposed to pick me up. However, unbeknownst to me, my grandmother wasn't feeling well, and he decided just to not come get me at all. I can understand not wanting to leave her (though I don't think she was sick enough to need to go to the hospital or anything), but why on earth couldn't he have at least called my mother or the studio or something to let someone know he wasn't coming? Instead, I sat there in the waiting room, terrified that I'd been abandoned, for two hours until it was time for the studio to close for the night and everyone else had gone home. My teacher had to haul me back to their place.

Despite his having three children, he doesn't exactly strike me as someone who likes kids much. He generally hasn't done much with the grandchildren beyond making fun of us and conspicuously stealing from our shares of holiday candy (he does not ask, he does not take only a little) and then smiling when our mothers wouldn't stop him because "he's old." I admit that I have issues with old people behaving obnoxiously and being allowed to get away with it. It drives me batty, and I don't think it's okay. Guess where that comes from?

And yes, I know, the stuff I've just told you is rather petty and childish, but I'm trying to go in chronological order here. As a kid, I wasn't fond of him. I didn't hate him, but I didn't like him, either. He never had much interest in any of us grandchildren (I can prove he knew my name once, when I was 17), so we didn't have much back in him. It was a quiet standoff. My cousin Alicia once asked me, "How come all the good grandparents have to die?" (Her other living grandparent, her grandmother, is an absolutely evil raging bitch who hates everyone. And you thought I was the only one of my relatives with these issues?)

My dad never liked him, and he used to tell me plenty of jerky stories about him. How when Dad's father had died, Granddaddy wouldn't drive them to the airport without being allowed to keep and use Dad's car for however long they were gone (you do NOT mess with Dad's cars), how he'd go steal Mom's car when she was a teenager and drive it until it was out of gas, how he used up all of my great-grandmother's money, etc.

Then came the time of my grandmother's death, when Mom received a phone call at work a few days before it happened. The call was from my grandfather's new girlfriend, who was calling to say that he had moved into her place and there was nothing Mom could do about it. We didn't see much of him for the next few years. He wouldn't attend family gatherings any more, he went everywhere with her, and he pretty much ignored my mom and aunt. My mom, who was the middle child and thus nobody's favorite, was pretty damn hurt by this. I thought that Granddaddy was just a complete jerk who thought of, well, nobody but himself and whoever he was with at the time. It's one thing to ignore the grandkids, but your own kids? I just don't get that.

And then the girlfriend died, and Granddaddy, not wanting to have to do anything for himself any more, remembered that he had children. My mother, being the one who lived in the same town as he did, ended up being his de facto babysitter for the next few years, constantly ministering to his needs while he acted like a jerk to her. She was sobbing with happiness at the first Thanksgiving afterward that he was finally home with her again. He came over every week for dinner and spent holidays with us, and he was his usual pleasant self. Adding to the fun, this was the time when he began refusing to bathe, wash his clothes or use deoderant. So not only were there personality issues, I felt nauseous being around him.

I started to hate him then. I didn't want to hug him. I didn't want to kiss him. I didn't want to tell him I loved him, I didn't want to have a friendly conversation with him (not that we had anything to talk about even if I did), I didn't want to even be around him. I hid in the parents' bedroom and went on the computer to avoid him (though sometimes he'd come in and snoop around). Mom just could not get why I felt like this, why I didn't adore him. And god only knows that's the last thing I could ever tell her, so she'd ask why and I'd fumble about and lie badly and she wouldn't understand or lay off about it.

This went on for years, until one night when we were in one of our semi-regular massive blowout screaming fights. I don't even remember what we were fighting about or how we got on to this topic. I am very, very good at keeping everything penned up inside when I'm mad at someone EXCEPT if you push me long enough and loud enough and hard enough to the point where I no longer care about trying to not hurt your feelings. And I ended up screaming in her face that I hated Granddaddy.

I earned all the evil points in the world for myself that day. Hating my own grandfather.

Mom didn't say very much about it at the time, come to think of it. She didn't discuss it with me again for a long time. But she stopped making me hug and kiss him. At any rate, he decided he wanted to move into the nearest vets' residence, which was up by Napa, so I didn't have to see him all that often after that. The hate eventually died down after some years of not having to deal with his crap on a regular basis. I don't hate him now. But I don't love or care about him now either.

About last Christmas or so, Mom decided that it was high time that I started loving Granddaddy. She was VERY pissed at me for not wanting to hug and kiss him again (not that any of the other grandkids did either) when we visited him, and told me that I HAVE to love him because he is my blood. I have no choice but to love him. She said that she'd forgiven him for everything he did to her, so why couldn't I? She told me he loved me and cried about me. I still find that hard to believe. Almost impossible to believe. And it still didn't melt a hole in my frozen, uncaring, selfish heart. I can't work up an ounce of caring for him.

Does anyone besides me find that pretty twisted? I can't automatically love someone who is a jerk just because we're genetically related. Hell, even my cousin who acts like a dick most of the time has shown more caring than my grandfather has. My grandpa (who isn't biologically my grandpa) may be the strong, silent type, and we don't get into long conversations, but at least I know he loves me and I love him. Blood isn't an excuse.

As for why I can't forgive him, well � It's one thing to forgive actions when someone's screwed up, but for me, it is another thing entirely when someone continually acts like a jerk to you. Anything someone does like that that reveals them to be a person I actively do not want to be around, and how can I forgive them for being themselves? They wanted to act like that, and they're not sorry. And I just have no interest in letting people like that into my life again after I've realized that fact. I don't know what the hell I would do if someone who was a jerk to me ever wanted back into my life and said they had changed for the better, but this really hasn't even come up with Granddaddy.

I feel evil for what this does to Mom and how it makes her cry, but I can't even attempt to fake caring for the man. I don't want to have a relationship with him. I don't want it, and I don't need it. I've learned to live without a loving grandfather in my life already. That's the sucky thing about family-other jerks you can write off for life, but you're stuck with the ones you're related to. Maybe that's why there's the enforced-love rule.

So suffice it to say that on Saturday, everyone's going to be feeling like shit in one way or another. Goody goody gumdrops.

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