Pappy

Biodad called last week and left a long, jumbled, Wild Turkey-induced message on my answering machine. The gist of the message was that his ex-girlfriend's daughter was going to be on Monster House and the wrap party is set for June 19 - Father's Day - and he was told he could invite four people. Turns out the four people are his retired beer-guzzling golf partners and his youngest daughter. Sounded like so much fun that I forgot to call back.

He's a persistent old bugger and caught me offguard by calling again last night. It's got to be a record for him to have called three times in six months. Unfortunately, I do not have caller ID and picked up the phone thinking it may be someone I actually wanted to talk to. Instead I picked up the phone to this:

"Hi Honey, it's your Pappy."

I'm somebody's honey and I have a Pappy? News to me. Are we in Mayberry? Who the heck is my Pappy? Never in my life have I used the word "Pappy". Is it even a word? Who uses it other the klan members' grandchildren? Oh, yeah, my biodad. Sounds like a slang term for a pap smear, "Hey, I'm going to get my annual pappy today." Actually, given the fact I see him once a year it does seem appropriate...

Silence from me. Then he clarified: "It's me, your dad."

Oh, yeah, right, biodad. Gotcha. Pappy is probably the name his bar buddies call him. I can imagine him walking into the bar at 10:00 am and everyone saying "Pappy's here" as a shot of cheap whiskey is mysteriously placed on the bar in front of the stool forever embedded with good old Pappy's cheek print.

Anyhow, Pappy wanted to know what "we" were doing for Father's Day this weekend.

Hmmm...in 32 years I can't recall ever having celebrated Father's Day with Pappy and his recent interest in reconnecting is, quite frankly, becoming bothersome. At first I was willing to entertain the guy - a lonely, sad drunk looking back on his life and trying to make amends with his kids. I figured it was a phase and probably good for me to get to know him before he keels over so I'm not some crazy 50-something lady regretting never having known her "real" father and focusing my menopausal psychosis on things that happened when I was eight. Oh, and then there was the fact that he had to contact me in 1998 because he needed some bone marrow from one of his prodigy. That kind of call always makes a kid feel appreciated..."Hey, it's your Pappy and I'm dying. You don't really know me but I need a bone marrow donor and the doc said to start with my youngest kid."

But here it is, seven years , 10 uncomfortable dinners, nine holes of golf, and about 21 awkward phone calls since he needed the bone marrow, and he's trying to celebrate Father's Day with me? Next thing you know he'll expect me to know when his birthday is.

Before I knew it I had concocted a lie to get out of the Monster-House-reveal-party-with-complete-strangers-and-Pappy-on-tv-punching-a-key-grip-on-Father's-Day event by telling him I was going to Vegas with D. This was once true, we had planned to go there this weekend but she ended up needing new tires for her Suburban and they cost more than the annual income of a Peruvian so the trip was called off. So it wasn't entirely a lie.

Pappy responded that he was very upset - how could I make plans with a friend on our sacred Father's Day weekend? He sounded as genuinely hurt as he could and I actually felt guilty. I would've made a great Catholic.

I am not sure how it happened but I found myself apologizing for having a life and promising to get together with him sometime in the near future.

Now I just have to remember to call on Sunday and muster the falsity to wish him a Happy Pappy's Day. Of course, I'll be sure to call when I know he's out...