"She's a hussy, man. She just said she wanted to get in his plane and sit on his lap," Chuck says as I walk into the room.
On screen, Ginger is wide eyed and breathy and desperate to get off the island.
A new phrase has entered our lives:
"A maturity of crap."
This is what happens to babies experiencing puréed foods and it is also the name of my roman e clef.
I unwrap a new bottle of Ortega Sauce. Chuck thinks the stuff is gross. A cafeteria-grade condiment. I disagree with the gross; agree that it enhanced the tacos at St. Pius X in the 1980s.
"You must use that all the time," Chuck says. "I never see a full bottle."
"It's a holdover from my pregnancy," I say. It was one of my craves.
"It's a holdover from your childhood. You're going to put it on you Vandekamp Fish Sticks."
At 3:55 pm we both look at our daughter and sort of growl "Muuuud."
We are watching the movie "Mud." Aside from that, there is no reason why we would both pick that moment to say that.
We look at each other for a minute.
"What did you say?" Chuck asks.
"Mud," I say.
"Did you know I was saying that?" He asks.
I shake my head.
This level of brain synch was not uncommon when we spent a month together this past summer. But we are only on the second day of vacation.
Once the PBG drops a Maturity of Crap, it's smooth sailing. She might've ruined her outfit and your lunch, but it means the tubes are cleared for the rest of the day AND the next day. It's a thing. So regular, it's practically a rule.
Which is why I'm in her bedroom swearing in my sweetest mom-voice as she sticks her foot into the thick of a diaper holding her second deuce of the day.
... Five minutes later I'm washing my hands in the kitchen and turn to see Hal, our kidney stone cat, spraying urine all over our cupboards.
"I'm moving out," I tell Chuck as he hands me 409 spray.
A scientic study by researchers at Zimbio determines that, of all the characters on Seasame Street, I am most like Big Bird.
I am in bed reading by 9 p.m. Day 2 of vacation has been just so ... Bodily.