Happy Father's Day. Please Don't Shoot Me.

I live in FL and my AC went out 2 days ago, and I now know what true suffering is. So because it's Father's Day and I can't bring my laptop into the bathtub full of ice I'll be laying in for the rest of the night, here's an old post about my dear old Dad.

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My dad is an interesting man.

Not interesting like he runs marathons and speaks Latin.

Interesting like he goes in and out of a Cajun accent without ever having spent any real time in Louisiana. He is obsessed with Nazi history, much to the dismay of my half-Jewish mother. He refers to himself solely as Padre de Gato and almost shot me in the face when I was a kid.

Yeah, you read that right.

I was six years old, and my dad almost offed me.

He was teaching my brother and I about gun safety. Being a southern-raised good ol' boy, my dad having an arsenal of weapons was as common as other dads having golf clubs.

"Never touch my guns," he said. "Now this one isn't loaded, but..."

Pop!

A single bullet whizzed by my head and shattered the dining room window.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My mom drew up divorce papers.

It was a pretty traumatic day.

Surprisingly enough, my dad was not kicked out of the house after his safety lesson gone awry, but he did spend the rest of the afternoon boarding up the window and trying to figure out how to spin this story to DCFS.

To this day he swears the my first near-death experience was an intentional lesson in disguise.

"I taught you an important lesson--accidents happen," he'd preach, "You now know to be afraid of guns... And besides if I wanted to shoot you, Allison, you'd be dead."

Good to know, Pops.

However, his "lesson" didn't really teach me to be afraid of guns, but it did make me very suspicious of him.

So Dad, just know, I'm still watching you, you son-of-a-bitch.

 But happy Father's Day, nonetheless.