We’re off to Calistoga, baby, so you won’t hear from me this weekend! All I know is that by Sunday I will have washed mud out of every crevice and massage oil out of my hair. And paid a bundle for the privilege.
And—lest I leave you all with stars in your eyes and birds twittering round and visions of Phil on a white horse—I give you two quotes from the last thirty-six hours that had us falling off our chairs at dinner last night.
As Phil was leaving the other night, I thanked him for taking care of the kids. “You know, you only fell down in one area: you didn’t bring me a glass of wine at my desk.”
He looked at me at said, “Well, that’s just too fucking damn bad. I didn’t know how much I was going to need. I brought you the fucking damn popcorn.”
And then while we were waiting for dinner at the bar last night, we chatted and listened to the tiny baby crying behind us. I was trying to decide if he was tired or hungry, and had finally decided that he was tired because he wasn’t making that rapid wah-wah-wah hunger cry. Phil muttered, “I don’t even know where the baby is.”
“Oh, I know exactly where that baby is,” I replied, “I have Mommy Ears.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t pull out a gun and shoot the baby, I said I didn’t know where he was.”