Traumatic things which should not happen to the b'fiss first thing in the morning.
The phone shouldn't ring.
If it does, it should not be the father.
And even it accidentally happens to be the father, the conversation should not start as follows.

bfiss : hello?
the father : yes, sugarplum.
*stunned silence*

*Moment of explanation. The father does not call me sugarplum. No one in their worst nightmares, or in my worst nightmares would dream of caling me sugarplum. Any man, woman or child thinking the words sugar plum and b'fiss in the same sentence would find themselves with a dislocated jaw and a decidely relocated friendship. Having said that it remains only to explain the obvious. That my uh father has umm embarrassing names for my erm mother. Ahem. Yes well. And since I will not reveal their little embarrassing secret names *which i discovered accidentally over the phone right now* I'm choosing sugarplum. Which is considerably less embarrassing than the actual names. Which should give you an idea of how mushy the parents are. And why I am perpetually one step away from dying of madness or diabetes. Or both. So, to return to phone conversation.*

the father, somewhat surprised at stunned silence, continues : hello? sugarplum?!
bfiss : na. babel here.

*embarrassed silence on the father's part*
**even more embarrassed silence on fissy's part**
***embarrassment having dropped in decides to camp out for a bit***

the father : oh, ahem. *embarrassed cough*
bfiss : yes *repeat action with ambarrassed cough*

the father : hehe. so. you sound the same as your mother.
bfiss : *dryly* yes
the father : could you umm give the mumble phone umm to su- er your mother?

Thereafter phone was conveyed to the mother. And I went and got an icepack.

Yes well. Bascally. The reason I shall never get married is this overwhelming, overflowing, perpetually gushy, practically adoloscent luurbh between the parents.
This dear reader is Love Fest 1976-2006.
I need a holiday.