I know that you are kind of an insane person. Indeed, you have a twisty-handle bar mustache, a severe case of OCD coupled with a sick desire to hoard random objects in large, spooky trailers in the back yard.
You have an odd sense of humor- a mix of wit, baseness and loudness that can be hilarious or soul-damaging. Like calling the place where your son meets men “McFisty’s” or buying me an action figure called “The Crazy Cat Lady” complete with a list of criteria for being a cat lady (with the ones I had accomplished checked off- like 1)never having a boyfriend 2)being covered in cat hair 3)living alone).
Do not get me wrong, dad, you are fantastic. You are, for the most part loving and creative. Up until now, you had used your powerful crazy for good (or against my brother-which is similar to good). I was alarmed, then, when you turned against me- your youngest child, your baby girl.
I know that I often ask you for things. Thanks to your psychological illness, requests for objects like a crossbow, a gas-mask, an ocsillascope were all met with an enthusiastic ‘YES”. So when I asked you politely to send me a few sets of scrubs, I was unprepared for your reaction.
Aside from repeatedly saying that I needed a much bigger size, you were helpful. Your request to get my an XXXL were met with mild hostility and you still assured me that you would procure my garments and ship them to me free of charge. You even called me to make sure they had arrived and asked me to search the contents of the package for the note you wrote.
How was I to know you were so cruel?
I never found the note, dad. Nope, I looked through the clothes and nothing fell out. So, off to work I went.
I changed into my nwe green scrubs (which fit just fine) and walked into the lounge to put away my lunch. I had polite conversation with coworkers and then proceeded into the OR suite to get my assignment. I talked to people at the front desk, wandered casually back to my room and was introduced to the surgeons as the new nurse. Everyone was very polite to me, but i noticed they did not make eye contact. No dad, instead they all stared at my crotch. I didn’t really know what they were doing, no one said anything, but their eyes darted around to my lady business.
I pretended not to notice, but I had only one thought in my head. You. Sabatoged. My. Pants. Because I did not want to wear a circus tent in pant form, you cunningly decided to sabatoge my pants in an embarassing and evil way. I walked into the sub-sterile room where no one could see and my felt down to my nethers. And i ripped of the tape. the tape where you wrote a single word.
I assume you meant Camel Toe, like the one I would have if my pants were so tight that the seam of tyhem seperated my labia. Yeah, great thoughts dad. I thought hrrmmm…i could explain this, but then, I am sure many would wonder why my father would casually reference my vagina like that…maybe they would assume that I had been diddled? Either that or I would explain that you were an insane pseudoasshole with a warped sense of humor, but I did not have the time to take strangers down that dark road.
I even thought briefly of falling back on my old “my Boyfriend put this here” and within seconds had thought of a fake story about how he had come shopping with me and thought that the pants gave me camel toe, but then that would also make him an asshole AND the scrubs were clearly marked as coming from a Hospital and not a store, so I was screwed on that excuse.
Instead, I did something I rarely do. Nothing. I did not lie or over explain. I just took the tape, balled it and threw it away. I briefly did the same thing with my self-respect.
So thanks for the scrubs dad. And thanks for putting that tape on the crotch of every single pair of pants you gave me.