esme

Ugh, my father simply does not have a clue.

A month or two ago he was telling me about how he had a crush on his psychiatrist ("She's really my ideal woman. Intelligent, Swedish. I mean, I loved your mother, of course, but I really have a thing about Swedish women.") and he knew she liked him back so he asked her on a date. A few days later he was approached by the head of the department asking him to back off because it was innapropriate ("Well, sure, I know it was. I mean, she was my doctor.") So he stopped seeing her (as his doc; they never went out), ran into her awhile later at the library or the grocery door or whatever such place. ("She really understands me. She knows that I'm a gentle soul.") Sends flowers to her office. Few days later finds a rose plant outside his door. ("Who else could it be from? There was no card but I know it was from her.") And it was like this John O'Farell story that I just reast about this guy whose mime career is going down the tubes and you, the reader, can see it, but the narrator is too caught up in his own delusions to see what's going on ("The trouble with these little halls is that a lot of them put out those awful plastic chairs which are very uncomfortable if you're sitting through a two-hour show. It means that some people with bad backs or whatever can't come back for the second half, which is a shame because they miss the real message of the piece"). So my father has completely fabricated this little romance, but I'm far too [scared? protective?] of him to tell him so. So I write him an email ("How's your crush?" "Oh, I just saw her yesterday.






In court.")