This morning, on the way to school, Daughter #1 says, “I’m making a board game based on my whore novel.”

“WHAT?!?” I shriek.

In the rear view mirror, I catch her baffled what-did-I-do-now expression. “A BOARD GAME. Based on my WHORE NOVEL,” she enunciates. “WHAT?”

“What the heck kind of book are you reading? A WHORE novel? In fifth grade?”

“Yeah,” she says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s a whore novel?” asks Daughter #2.

“It’s a book about scary stuff,” says Daughter #1, perplexed. “I thought it would make a cool board game.”

It dawns on me, finally, that she is not, in fact, creating a game about prostitutes.

“OH,” I say. “A HOR-ROR novel.” I crack up. I can’t breathe, I am laughing so hard.

“Yeah,” she says. “A whore novel.”

“Oooooh, you are really going to want to keep that extra syllable,” I say. “Trust me.”

“Why?” they both ask, in unison.

“Um, remember when you said you wanted to start a cathouse?” I ask Daughter #1. She had meant, of course, a rescue home for felines.

“OOOOOHHHHHH,” she says. “This…is like…that?”

“Wait,” says Daughter #2. “I don’t get it.”

“A whore is a not-so-nice word for a prostitute. Which is, um, a lady who….”

They wait.

“…a lady…who works…well…she takes payment to let men, um, have sex with her. I was trying to figure out what that board game would look like. A little different from Monopoly, I’m thinking.”

Daughter #2 grimaces. “EWWWWW!”

Daughter #1 asks, “Isn’t that illegal?”

“Well, yes,” I say. “Except in Nevada.”

“Why Nevada?” Daughter #1 asks.

I am stumped. “Maybe…it’s a Wild West thing. Las Vegas is in Nevada. Good question. It’s the oldest job in the world, they say. Being a prostitute. It’s a hard life, I think.”

“You can probably Google it,” Daughter #1 says. “Find out more official information about the job.”

“This is kind of like the time I picked up the splinter thing and I called it a PRICK, right?” says Daughter #2. “And you said GET THAT TINY PRICK AWAY FROM MY EYE and then you started laughing because you realized we were all saying a bad word by mistake?”

“This is EXACTLY like that.”

“Are you going to write about it?” asks Daughter #1

“I kind of think I have to,” I say. “Is that okay?”

“Sure. The minute you started laughing, I figured it would be good for the blog.”

“But we all understand that CATHOUSE, WHORE and PRICK never get used at school. Or…you know. Anywhere.”

“We understand,” they say.

And I am laughing again. Which makes them laugh. We are Losing Our Poo by the time we pull into the school parking lot.

Now I secretly want to create a board game called CATHOUSE. Maybe that should be my next project.

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