I was going to need help. Peter was out of town again, and I didn’t feel like collaborating with (or even seeing) Putty. Luckily Michelle was around to help me come up with a lie so my Dad wouldn’t recognize a third-degree love burn on my chin.
He arrived early afternoon and was mortified that his virginal, beautiful daughter had f*cked up her face. “Sweetheart. What happened!?”
I ushered him into the suite and pointed out a large buckle in the kitchen carpet that had been there since we moved in.
“Daddy,” I replied, motioning to the floor, “I got up last night and tripped over this.”
“Oh, Honeybunch” he grimaced, “You really need to be more careful.”
He got down on the ground inspecting the spot. He stood up and stepped on it. To his dismay, but to no one’s surprise, it popped right back up.
Since this was a carefully orchestrated con, this was Michelle’s cue to saunter out of her room and play surprised to see my Dad standing there.
“Michelle. I would like you to meet my Dad.”
“Oh pleasure to meet you, sir! Ugh, are you looking at the carpet? I heard Tracey fall when she tripped on it last night.”
It worked because it was such a simple, boring story. If I had said that I used the vacuum pump on a Vacu Vin Wine Saver on my chin to see what would happen, then he might have raised an eyebrow. Also, since my brother had already done this as a little kid, it would be unlikely that I would do that to myself as an adult.
Plus, I never needed to vacuum seal wine after it was opened. My Dad knew I always finished the bottle.
Dad strongly suggested that “us girls” call building management to get the carpet fixed right away. We nodded firmly in agreement. Then lied a week later when my Dad called to check and see if we did.