That Time My Dad Diagnosed My Whole Life

One day not too many months ago, my dad called just to say hello.  This time, I was in quite a bad mood because my non-level oven had just ruined a lemon meringue pie I was making for a party.

Dad:  What's up?
Me:  I ruined a pie, so I'm mad.
Dad:  Didn't you ruin a cake last month?  You're supposed to be good at baking.
Me:  I did NOT ruin a cake.  My oven caught on fire.  I'm pretty sure oven fires are in the category of "not my fault" until such time as I intentionally set this piece-of-junk oven alight because it un-levels all of my cakes and sometimes decides to broil instead of bake.
Dad:  You're like a living episode of I Love Lucy.
Me:  Shut up. I'm hanging up on you.
Dad:  But everybody loved Lucy. It's a good thing. You just have a lot of mishaps, and it's funny.
Me:  I don't want to be stupid.
Dad:  Lucy's not stupid - she just had adventures that didn't turn out so great for her. For us, they were hilarious.
Me:  Fine, but I still like Ethel better.
Dad:  Oh, now she was stupid. Her best friend was Lucy, and that b**** was dangerous.

So this is how I came to be diagnosed with Lucy Ricardo Disease.  It all makes sense now.  Every time I have a somewhat dumb conversation with a stranger, or say the world's worst curse in front of a little old lady, or tell a police officer my whole life story until he decides not to give me a ticket, or become a witness to some silly adventure at the store, it's really just a symptom of my disease.  And while I can't see that this disease is terminal, at least in the dying sort of way, it does seem that the harder I try to do the right or nice thing, the more likely I am to set my fake nose on fire or be forced to eat a million pieces of chocolate.

Yeah, I took awkward photos ON PURPOSE.  What now?

I guess there's no point in trying to hide just how awkward I really am, but I figure being a little like Lucy Ricardo isn't the worst thing in the world.  After all, I could be Ethel.  

She makes a good point.