Genetically Inclined

Pat's parents returned from their winter stay in Florida this week, and we went to see them this weekend. As we entered the house, I paused to take off my shoes. I hear my father-in-law say "Looking a little hippie" and I looked up to ask if he could believe how long his hippie son had grown his hair, just as his dad reached over to nudge my hip with the back of his hand. Ohhhhh...HIPPY! And he was talking to me. All I could do was blame the maternity jeans, which I finally just gathered the courage to put on for the first time that day.

The next night, after leaving our daughter in the care of her grandparents, Pat and I set out for an child-free evening with friends. Pat opened the conversation in the car as he always does whenever we're going out for an evening alone...something like..."Sooo...you got enough dollar bills for the strip club." This joke is old and tired, and I've long since started answering it with "Sure!" Although, that night, I added, "I'm sure every stripper is dieing to give a pregnant girl a lap dance."

He quickly replied with a lament because, supposedly, he had vowed to himself that the next time I readily agreed to go to the strip club with him he'd just go there, you know, in order to call my bluff. But after I reminded him that I was, indeed, pregnant, he added "Yeah, the thing with the strip club is the girl you bring has to be hotter than the strippers." Then let out a breathy sigh of disappointment.

He can inherits his father's skinny legs, lack of butt, and knack for absurd trivia, but did he have to inherit his tact as well?