Nipple cream and bird poop
Claus had some dry skin affliction on his hand and the dermatologist told him to use lanolin lotion. There's a popular creme called Lansinoh that hospital gives to all new moms. I got a half ounce sample when I gave birth, and was told to use it on my nipples to prevent cracking during breastfeeding.
I still have my old tube in our medicine cabinet and he sees it all the time. Though I stopped breastfeeding over a year ago, I now use the ointment for chapped lips. He saw it and pilfered it last week.
"Why is my Lansinoh in your toiletry bag?" I puzzled. When he told me that he needs it for his hand, I offered to get the other tube I left at my parents'. I'm sure it's there. Nothing gets thrown away there.
So I rang my mother. "Mom, long ago I left a tube of cream at your house. Is it still in your bedroom? Can you look for it? Claus needs it."
"Sure," she said. "Tell me what it looks like."
"It's purple, the brand is Lansinoh, and it says For Breastfeeding Mothers on the front."
"For who again?" she asked.
BIRD POOP AND WRINKLES
Claus was packing for our weekender to St. Regis Princeville. I have packed days ago. It is the night before, and he is going through his closet for smart-casual polo shirts for the restaurant. "What's this?!" I hear him saying. "And this? What the heck?"
He comes out and shows me whitish smears on his shirts. "Is this gum? Crusty laundry detergent? What is this?" he exasperatedly exclaims. (I would later look at it in bright sunlight and figure out it's a moth cocoon.)
I'm talking. Now I have to stop my train of thought and look at stupid white stains on his shirts. "I dunno," I say. "Bird poop? I line dry these outside sometimes," I guess.
"Bird poop?" He's totally annoyed. He rolls his eyes and goes back to the closet to find another polo. Then he's mad again. "This one is wrinkled!" He's totally huffy now. He has three polos and all are flawed in some way.
"I'll wash it again for you," I offer.
"We're leaving in the morning! There's no time! Bird poop!" he snorts.
"Well, that's your fault for being so last minute," I sniff back.
He comes to the bed with three polos for me to choose from. "Well, what's it going to be? Bird poop or wrinkles for the fancy resort restaurant?"
I decide to antagonize him. "Bird poop." I point to the darkest color shirt. He glares at me. I have called his bluff. He returns to the closet a third time to find something clean.
Since the aloha shirts have patterns, he wants to know what dress I'm wearing, so that we don't clash. "Bird poop," I tease. "With wrinkles."
You can also reach me at Diane@DianeAko.com