Summary of a long story: earlier this week, I went into the city with my dad, and while we were there I bought a basket at Chelsea Market that had six little compartments in it, like those old-fashioned milk bottle delivery thingies. As we were walking down 14th Street back to the Path train, my dad asked what I was going to put in said basket. I told him "probably some baby plants," after which he was silent for a couple of blocks.
Finally, he turns to me in the middle of a crosswalk and says, "....ohhhhh! Baby plants!" Seems he'd misheard me and couldn't figure out why in the world I wanted to put baby pants into this basket. Needless to say, this became the running shtick chez nous, evolving into several variations (Bambi's pants, mambo pants, all my eggs, Jonas the cat, hamsters, my paycheck....anything and everything was metaphorically and occasionally literally put into this basket this weekend) but we always returned inevitably to saying, "....baby pants" out of nowhere and busting out laughing. Because, despite the impressive accumulation of graduate degrees in Three Feathers, our humour is pretty elementary, so something simple like "baby pants" can and will entertain us for weeks, if not months.
I just got back from being out all day and well into the wee hours of the midnight, and there.....on the back porch.....in three of my six basket compartments.....are three teeny tiny little pairs of underpants. With Power Puff Girls on them.
I think. I am going. To Die. Laughing.
(possibly the best part of this is picturing my 62-year-old ponytailed Birkenstocked dad going to Carter's and buying little girls' underwear for this prank. Although why this amuses me I don't know; having fathered three daughters, he's undoubtedly done it before. Just not in the last 35 years.)