Chuck’s been laid up in bed the last two days with kidney stone issues—do I need to take him in more often for servicing?—so the ex-nanny came yesterday. Her son grew a buttload of crooked teeth, giving him a distinct Ferengi look, but I was pleased Junior’s nickname is still intact.
As she was packing up her stuff to leave, Diana told me that Junior was saying the…[here she paused, looking for the right word]…darndest thing.
“Yes?” I asked.
“He was saying, ‘Come on…bitch. Come on, bitch’.”
“When he was playing with his Thomas the train set—”
“—Bridge! He meant bridge. That’s how he says bridge.”
“Oh! Of course. He was trying to piece the tracks together to make a tunnel, but they wouldn’t fit. Ooooohhhhhhhhh.”
We had a good wholesome chuckle then. Still, as she dragged her child and cheese and loaf of bread to her car, I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d been envisioning all afternoon before we cleared the matter up: Me smacking Chuck’s ass in front of Junior and nodding towards the bedroom, saying, “Come on, bitch”?
Oops, I mean my Chuck slapping my ass.
Mrs. Mullet, you are not the dude.