My Wife and I Discuss Our Daughter's Underwear (Or, Overhearing Myself)

Jim O'Brien

"Have you seen our daughter?" asked Debbie, settling on the couch with a plate of birthday cake and ice cream.

"She and her cousins just left," I answered.

"Where are they going?"

"To the bathroom, so Kayleigh can show them her new underwear."

"It's Scooby Doo underwear."

"I know," I said, "I dressed her this morning, remember?"

"Well, I laid it out for you."

"Yes, but, I washed them and folded them, so they would be there in the drawer for you to lay out."

"If I hadn't picked them out at Wal-Mart, you wouldn't have been able to wash them."

"Well, I fathered the children who made the underwear in Kathy Lee's sweatshop."

"I didn't know you were overseas."

"I mailed it in!"

"Oh, please…"

"Anyway, I thought we were raising her not to worship material objects."

"Well, we are trying, but there she is nonetheless, proudly showing off her Scooby Doo underwear."