Tonya loved her Tuesdays!
Following dinner, she would drop a cup, or plate or two, about the kitchen area, during the washing-up; she recalled.
I would curse out loud. That! usually, got daddy up from his couch - half-heartedly, of course - attempting a re-establishment of himself, like a lame horse, a rebooting as top-dog, again, flapping about, clucking worse than a frightened farmyard hen: Unenthusiastically ordering - his yapping mouth foaming at the corners bordering - the immediate cleanup of broken, splattered, crockery, strewn across the stark linoleum floor, of printed colored pebbles, reminiscent of sea-side rockery gardens, polished to threadbare limits, in gleaming tattered mockery – of nature.
Lazy gardeners, grimace. His aggressive mind, carousing the limits – our homely stench of former cooking – tainted; with reeks of subtle humid nasal strands, born of detergent-popping quasi pine-scented bubbles of a kind, impregnated into ripe kitchen airs, stirred into action, by the pairs; of red-knuckled dish-swilling hands -- of mine.
Point-blank, Tonya would blatantly refuse and stomp her foot in sympathy with her concocted principles; wearing her naively feigned rationale and phony objection's on her cuff - the delivery of which, held, just short of a rant, a quarrel and all that stuff - reminded daddy, that, although his daughter was closer to him than his son, she was still a woman, and that came not from him, but from her Mom. Tonya recalled...
The very fact of the existence - at all though - of my refusal to obey his command, seemed to daddy - it seems to me - as if sand, itself, were being kicked into the very face of his manly Right, to be: Obliterated from sight - the blind acceptance he needed to rule -- especially that night – torn out of his gut, by his loving daughter of a slut, seemed to him, as it seemed to me – doubtfully contrite!
Daddy's illusion of authority was thrown on the line! To him, it all added up to the same thing - his manhood was being challenged, and he didn't like it - but to me, that was just fine.
I questioned his self-appointed superiority, and fought him on it: Now and again rattling his lock and chain, which held lobby -- wresting apart rusted gates, of self-righteousness: Corroded steel doors, guarding entrance at the very core of his being.
My reluctance to dwell within the narrow bandwidth of blind compliance - father-daughter style - tearing mercilessly at the very heart of his soul with razor sharp nail-varnished talons, dug deep at the quick of his male persona – it seemed, as I policed my daddy, like a London Bobby: I learned how to do this when watching mommy fighting against him – it became my hobby.
I tried to keep to the program, I tried to hold the format: I wanted to be consistent: I wanted to be a good daughter, I didn't care about no Totem or Taboo: I knew what I wanted – sort 'a: My little pussy was stinking; all I wanted was for it to get licked.
