Two

My daughter thinks I’m no fun. She’s got a Nintendo DS with $600 worth of games, a 17-inch screen laptop computer, an I-Phone that I gave up my business phone line to pay for and two chests full of low-tech toys and craft materials. Her bookshelves could stock a small town library. She has a dog and two cats. Did I mention we have cable TV with pre-teen fare running 24/7? But Sally is bored and by God it’s my job to keep her entertained.

And I’m not doing my job. Sally is 11 years old and resents the time I spend working at the computer. She goads me with the little platitudes she’s picked up about “all work and no play.” She’s also not above using guilt. “You can’t work all the time,” she whines. “You have to spend some time with your family.” By “your family” she means herself. Sally could give a shit whether I spend time with Joe or her brother.

Truth to tell, Joe and my 22-year-old son would rather I spend any “family time” I care to bestow with Sally. Since Joe is currently unemployed and my son is, near as I can tell, unemployable, my attentions make them feel alternating currents of guilt and dread. If I discuss the household financial straights, they think I’m blaming them (I am) and if I don’t (because I don’t have the energy) they think I’m trying to make them feel guilty (I wish).

Sally, of course, is right. I am no fun. Not in the let’s-play-silly-games-and-bake-cookies sense. Not in the cocktail conversation sense. And definitely not in the get drunk and get naked sense.

I work because I can, because I have to and because nobody else is going to do it for me. I also work because it’s a damn sight easier than dealing with anything that matters.

I should drink more.