Last weekend, I went to brunch with Muffin Uptown, my ex-husband, and my wife-in-law. It was mostly just an excuse for everyone to spend a little time with MU before she embarks on her big LA adventure.
We don't exactly hang out, but we've spent a goodly amount of time together in the interest of parenting this (now grown up) child. We all went to the parent-teacher conferences, the music recitals, graduations, and art shows. They've come to my house for Christmas, and I've been to theirs for Thanksgiving. We've eaten out together. We collaboratively celebrate her birthday. We have a lot in common.
And we are very, very, civilized people.
Driving back from the restaurant, her dad was telling me of their plans to remodel their ten-year-old kitchen. The plan is to knock out a wall and extend the cooking area into the space that is now the garage. Their kitchen is already the size of a football field.
So I said, "Oh-my-gawd, Vickie! It's going to be HUGE!"
Muffin Uptown put her face into her hands. Then she looked up and shrugged at her stepmother, who held up her hands like, "What can you do?"
"What?" I said. "What?"
Then it hit me. My ex-husband's wife's name is Jackie. Vickie was the name of wife number two.
photo, Vintage Pulchritude.