My bloody father likes to elicit reactions from me. In short, he likes to piss me off, then say, relax, geez, you're so uptight, to which I respond by walking away or ignoring him (a rabid fear of heights prevents me from taking the high road). Today we're watching football, my team fails to block a goal, my bloody father says oh bravo! let's see that again, and I say oh hell, must shower, and turn the telly off in a fit of disgust. Bloody Father says Tullola, that was very rude. I take the high road up the stairs to the shower. As if Bloody Father has a right to tell me what's rude when he uses the terms "pussycat" and "pussyfooting" and "pussy" in reference to cats (and dogs) all morning to try and get me angry. Not being much a feminist, I still hate the word "pussy" and my bloody father's inept social senses when I've told him many times how offensive that word is (he uses it in front of people, including business people, my friends, and strangers). I do manage to ignore him all morning re: pussy. But hey, I'm the rude one here. Bloody Father is always bloody right. Pardon *me* for turning the TV off so you can gloat over my team losing.