Drunk Dialing Dad

I drunk dialed my dad the other night.

Calling him has always been a chore. For the most part, talking to him at all is about as interesting as debating wallpaper. At least my mom has the good sense to be hilarious when she has to talk to me about something serious. Good ole pa just cracks lousy puns in-between reminding me loftily of what I should be doing.

Bianca, whose tongue is leashed in by Millie, wants to scream:

I have mom for all of this, why do you even bother talking to me? It’s not like you were ever useful for anything other than spanking and lecturing me. Can’t we just go through the motions like we usually do so I can go back to my life without you in it?

Arms folded, a glare limns my upper lids, lips pouting out. Dad is a sore spot. Even the name rubs me the wrong way.

Millie is the only one who can stop Bianca from getting out of hand. Millie’s a fucking golden lab when it comes to dad, bounding towards him with innocence in her big stupid eyes, totally ready to please. She’s Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “treat me like you would treat a dog – kick me, hit me, neglect me, try to lose me…”

He answered the phone and I was wearing the inner child, the one who still seeks his approval.

“Hi dad!”

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, so the cheer catches him off guard. At this point I’ve already forgotten his birthday so my tone could have been apologetic and halting but four or five shots of whiskey have warmed my edges and now Millie is stepping out like a nymph into the moonlight.

“Hey.” I can hear that he’s smiling but he doesn’t know what to say so, empowered with liquid fire, I steer the conversation.

I tell him all sorts of things.

“Actually, I’ve been challenging myself a lot at work lately to try and make the best of it. I mean, happiness takes practice, right?”

Some jingling laughter follows, and surprisingly, he joins into the conversation with effortless gusto.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Working in that warehouse was really starting to take it out of me, but I think you’ll find that the happier you get, the angrier the people around you will be.”

Well duh, Bianca rebuts in my ear, draping an arm over my shoulder. Not like that’s news.

But Millie responds.

“Well duh!” Another giggle follows, telling my dad that I’m only joking and that it’s ok for him to laugh along. 

It’s a painful recipe for a meager yield, like sowing a thousand seeds and harvesting only a basketful. Who knew that bonding opportunities could be manipulated and manufactured like Hallmark cards?

That old fool doesn’t even know he’s being played. He actually thinks you two are having a special moment. Way to go, web-weaver.

Shut up, Bianca.

“I’ve told you for years that I would have a hard time relating to you until you were more of an adult. You sound very mature – ”

Thanks, pop.

I hang up after another few minutes of chatter and allow the conversation to die organically so that when I put it to rest I can imagine him sighing wistfully and wondering what was different about this conversation.

His opinion of me would plummet if he knew that alcohol was what made talking to him at all bearable. I can see the look on his face, the sadness in his blue eyes as he shakes his head and looks at the floor, ashamed of me.

He never says, I’m not proud of you, or I don’t think you’re mature, but he is passive in nature so instead, he subtly condescends to me and uses phrases like “Behave yourself” to imply that, without his reminder, I might not.

Because, you know, good girls don’t drink or fuck or live at all. Good girls are raised in white linens under glass bubbles and are devoted wholly to God and therefore, to the word of their father.

Good girls obey.

Bianca rolls her eyes and scowls.

Thank God I’m not the little princess he wants me to be.

Somewhere deeper inside, daddy’s little princess is crying alone in the corner while Bianca stands sentinel over her, hands stuffed deeply in her jacket pockets as she hates the world away.