My dad is the cutest thing ever. (and I'm not meaning in a reverse Freud way).
Last week, I confided to my dad a new development in the life of Scribe. It was a monumentous change and one that is coming at the most inopportune time. I also told him not to breathe a word of it to "Jesus Christ Margaret" a.k.a. June Cleaver. Some things are better left unsaid, under the cloak of secrecy. This is one of them, or at least for now. Otherwise, it's the Spanish inquisition and I don't need that right now.
Since then, he's been calling me almost every day to check in, to see if I'm still sane - or as sane as I've ever been - and he's been doing it all cloak-and-dagger-like, waiting until Margaret /June is out of earshot, out of the house, or busying herself dusting the table legs. He's also handing me money like it's crack. He says it's to tide me over and I say "no, I don't want it" even though I have Snake waiting on the corner ready to hand over the goods with an eye peeled for any po-po patrols. In actuality, he calls it an emergency fund and it's really not that much. So, you burglars reading this and getting ready to stake out my house, a bite on the ass from my boxer is just not worth it.
He called the other day since he's coming over to "fix" the kitchen tap he put in last week and wanted to firm up the details of when he should drop by. He lives near Niagara Falls and I live in Brampton, so it's a big deal to get the times right. As we were signing off, he heard a flurry of activity and realized it was Margaret/June seeing the red "busy" light on the phone and wondering with whom he was conversing. Perhaps it was the new retiree who had moved in down the street... and there was no way she was getting her hooks into my father's non-existent, flat (and saggy) ass (no offence, pops).
He whispered a veiled bye and quickly disconnected, hoping she wouldn't hear me breathing on the other side of the telephone wire. And while I asked only not to tell my mother that big piece of startling news, it's funny that he's taken it to the Watergate/Deep Throat extreme of checking for telephone line bugs, looking over his shoulder and changing his voice whenever he calls.
I'm expecting him to visit tomorrow with the promised tool to get my tap sitting flush to the kitchen counter. I just hope he leaves the trenchcoat and shades at home. Otherwise, my neighbours might just call the po-po and my grow-op/temporary meth lab/brothel will be discovered.