The Girl has successfully been repatriated into my basement. Painting, decorating, purging and organizing is mostly done. She has also scored not one, but two, part-time jobs while she continues her search for career-grade employment.
We are doing pretty well learning to cohabitate again. She is a good cook. That helps. A lot. Her boyfriend, ZZ, has become a fairly regular visitor. Over the past month, he’s starting to acclimate to the strangeness of our clan. Oh, and he is a good cook, too. That helps. A lot.
Monday night, i was enjoying a rehearsal-free evening, and was putzing about the condo. As is often the case, i was wearing a tank top and underwear. i was putzing. That’s the general garb one wears when putzing, right?
As i was scooting out of the kitchen, moving something from Point A to Point B, i noticed ZZ step onto the front porch, about to ring the doorbell. i just opened the door, standing sort of behind it and said “Hi. i’m not wearing pants. She’s downstairs…”
ZZ laughed, and trooped down the stairs. i heard him announce to The Girl “Your mom isn’t wearing pants…” but i couldn’t hear her reply.
Last night, i apologized for the misfire.
The Girl: Yeah, I told him that I was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.
daisyfae: Well, it’s kinda what i wear most of the time… i hope he wasn’t too freaked out.
The Girl: Oh, no. He said “It’s nice to see the thighs from which you sprung…”
daisyfae: *snort* oh, shit…
The Girl: I just told him “Not exactly. It was a C-section…”