Discovery!

Last night, I was talking to my Dad on the phone and I was going to post some excerpts of the conversation here, especially since many people have told me that Pop is their favorite character in the Cupcake Mafia. Then I remembered something Pop said last night, something that made my blood run cold. He said, "I read your blog".

Now, before we go on with this story, I'll give you a background example to demonstrate the smooth way I have of dealing with my father when I'm trying to distract him from something I don't want him to know about.

When I was a senior in college, my Dad was having people over for dinner and he decided to clean the bathroom that my brother and I share because this is the bathroom the guests would be using. I don't know who he was expecting for dinner, but they were apparently the kind of people who dig in the far reaches of bathroom drawers because that's where he was cleaning when he found a condom. Maybe two. So my father called me and told me what he found and asked if they were my condoms.

Now, I don't lie to my father- usually I tell him the truth because I know it will annoy him and that gives me a perverse kind of pleasure. But, I quickly thought about the Italian Catholic macho culture I grew up in and made a command decision that it would be better for everyone involved if my father believed the condoms belonged to his 19 year old son instead of his 22 year old daughter. So, I lied and said they weren't mine. "Well, if they're not yours, they must be your brother's." I don't even think I agreed with him on this point; I wanted to leave the possibility open that some random stranger had left condoms in our bathroom drawer.

What was I thinking? Well, I guess I was thinking, after my father hung up the phone, he would call my brother and ask him the same question. My brother, knowing the condoms weren't his would figure out who they belonged to and lie to protect me. Clearly, I was deluded. Forget about my brother selling me out, what I really overestimated was the ability of my father and brother, both men, to never actually talk to each other. So, unbeknownst to me, this phone call between the two of them never happened and I promptly forgot about it (bad move- because I could have worked some dammage control in the mean time).

Two weeks later, or so, it was Easter and my brother and I went home for the holiday. Remember, this is Easter we're talking about, the day Jesus Christ rises from the dead. So, it's maybe Holy Saturday and the three of us are sitting around the kitchen table. Out of nowhere, my father turns to my brother and says, "That was real nice, you leaving your condoms in the bathroom drawer."

My brother, who has no idea what the hell is going on says, "What?! What are you talking about?" In that instant, time slowed down. I could see in slow motion, my father turning his head away from my brother and turning to face me. As his head spun slowly around, before his eyes could come to rest on me, I jumped up from the table, threw my hands in the air and yelled, "AAARGHTY BLAGATHY BLAH BLAH!!"

That is right, cupcakes. I couldn't even use real words. It was the equivalent of a caveman pointing to a charging mastdon and yelling, "Ooga Booga!"

So, the three of us just sat there looking at each other, my brother, finally realizing what had happened, and my father staring at what I can only assume he came to see as his slutty, insane daughter. We never said another word about it. I think shortly after that the three of us left the kitchen, went to our respective rooms and closed the doors.

Now, let's fast-forward to present day. The last time I talked to my father, he said he had run into someone from my hometown at the grocery story. "She said she reads your blog," said my father, pronouncing the word "blog" hesitatingly as if it might be dirty. (It's okay MizPizz! I still love you!) Before he could say anything else like, 'what is this blog thing?' or 'can I read your blog?' I yelled something like, "Dad! I'm pregnant! Can I move back home and keep the baby?" He was suficiently distracted and the subject never came up again.

Last night he said, "I ran into MizPizz at the grocery store..".

"Yeah," I said quickly. "You already told me."

And then he said, "I read your blog."

For a moment my distraction stragety faltered and I said, "You read my blog??" my then I thought, okay, let's not make a big deal out of this. I said, "Did you read the story about me climbing over the fence?" My father loves that story. He brings it up every time we talk.

"Yeah, that was good."

Then I revived the distraction theory and told him about how I just applied for a writing course that begins at the end of the month.

So, there you are. I don't know what to do. Dad, I guess if you want to read my blog, be my guest, but there are going to be things you don't like. Not necessarily stories about my wild and crazy NY life (friends who know me are actually choking on their Snapple right now), but stories about crime in my neighborhood and just things I generally don't tell you about. Also, I'm sure you do not appreciate my creative use of the f-bomb. But what the hell, we're all adults, right?