I’ve been cleaning up some files around here, and found some old crazy talk stuff that I thought I’d re-post as a Fun Friday Flashback.

———-

Bro: Guess what?

Niece: What?

Bro: Auntie’s pregnant!

Niece: Really?? Cool!

Me: Yeah, I have a little baby growing in my stomach.

She looks down.

Niece: Oh look! I can already see the bump!

Me:…Yeah…looky there.

I decided not to mention that the baby was probably only the size of a bean at that point.

———-

Steve: One day we’re going to have flying cars–that’s crazy!

Me: How do you know we’re going to have flying cars?

Steve: Because they’ve showed it.

Me: They have?? Where?

Steve: Ummm…the Jetsons?

Me: That’s where you get your information? The Jetsons?

———-

“Good morning, Lily! It’s your baptism day!”

“Hey, do you think they can baptize the grumpiness out of her?”

“I think you’re getting mixed up with exorcisms.”

“Oh. Well, can we get that instead?”

———-

The other day I was feeding Lily lunch, waiting for Steve to get home from work so I could leave to work. When he walked through the door…

Me: Finally! Come get your daughter so I can go.

Him: Calm down, you’re not even ready yet.

Me: Uh, yes I am.

Him: Oh. I thought you were still in your pajamas.

Perhaps it’s time to get a new wardrobe.

———-

Picture this. We’re at church, Steve’s holding Lily, Lily’s trying desperately to jump into my arms, I’m trying desperately to ignore her.

Lily (grabbing for me): Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! DADDY!

Surrounding Church-Goers: The hell?

Lily calls me Daddy. All day, every day, and it confuses everyone. I try to teach her to call me mommy.

Me: Say “mommy.”

Her: ?

Me: Ma-ma-ma-ma-mommy.

Her: Ma-ma.

Me: YES! You did it! Say it again! Who am I?

Her: Daddy!

———-

Him: I’m going out to check the mail.

Me: OK.

A few moments later…

Him: Hey, how come our grass is like that?

Me: Like what?

Him: Come look.

There are some weird swirly patterns in our knee-high grass.

Me: How weird.

Him: How did it get all flat like that?

Me: How should I know?

Him: Scary. It’s like those crop patterns.

Me: Yeah, the aliens are trying to tell us to mow our lawn already.

———-

Mommy: What does a cow say?

Lily: Mooooooooo!

Mommy: What does a cat say?

Lily: Meee-oooooow!

Daddy: What does rooster say?

Lily: Cok-doo-dooooooo!

Mommy: What does a Daddy say?

Lily (pretending to sleep): Zzzzzzzzzz!

Daddy: Oh yeah? Lily, what does a Mommy say?

Lily (flapping her hands like a mouth): Blah, blah, blah.

Yes, we teach her these things like she’s our little puppet.

Then , I tried to stump her.

Mommy: What does a snuffleupagus say?

She put her finger up to her mouth for a moment, deep in thought. Then her eyes lit up.

Lily: Muah!

Haha! She thought I said snuffleupa*kiss*! Smarty pants.

The other day, on our way to the park, Lily starts running down a hill and exclaims ”Weeeeeeee! A ground slide!” Haha! One of my favorite parts of parenthood is trippin’ off all the crazy things that come out of my toddler’s mouth. Who is this little girl?? One day I’m teaching her how to say “milk” and “please”, then next thing I know she’s calling out, “Peace out, much love in the ‘hood!” when I leave for work. Here are a few doozies from the past week.

—–

I guess this is what I get for not breast-feeding long enough. Instead of Lily seeing my chest as a natural part of the body that provides nourishment and extra cushioning for cuddles, she’s just always trying to see them, period. She’s constantly trying to bust down the door when I’m changing in the room. And the more I try to hide, the more she wants to see. I’m starting to feel a bit violated! Yesterday, as I was changing, she burst in unexpectedly.

Me: Lily! Get out! Mommy’s changing!

Lily: But I want to see!

Me: No! Get out!

Lily: Mommy, just trust me. Trust me to see your boobies.

Me: What the?? Where did you learn that from?

Lily: From Tangled.

Huh? I’m pretty sure Eugene didn’t try to coerce Rapunzel to flash him. Turns out, there IS a part in the movie when he tells Rapunzel to trust him. But it’s my perverted daughter who added the “boobies” part.

—–

Whenever I get a knife out while cooking, or scissors out for arts & crafts, Lily gasps, puts her hands to her mouth, and exclaims, “Mommy, don’t cut me again!”

Again? Again?? I never, ever even came close to cutting her, I swear. But she says this every single time. I’m just waiting for the day she says this in the wrong place at the wrong time and someone calls CPS on my ass.

—–

I mentioned before that Lily insists on being called Princess, all day, every day. I’m called Prince, and no amount of reasoning or pleading has deterred her from referring to me as such. My brother has tried convincing her that I should be called Queen, but she wasn’t having it. Then today, I finally figured out why.

Lily: Mommy?

Me: Yes, honey?

Lily: Are you the Queen?

Me: Yes, baby! I’m the Queen!

Lily: But you’re not a mean Queen, right?

All this time she didn’t want to call me Queen because in Disney movies the Queen is usually evil or a witch. No wonder! It was all so clear now! And even though she has somehow started figuring out that a Queen isn’t always a bad guy, I think there is still some confusion. Because a few minutes later when she called out to me?

Lily: Hey, Witch!

Huh. I think I prefer “Prince”.

—–

The other night, Steve and I got into a huge fight. I ended up in my room, sitting on the floor, leaning my head on the bed, crying. Lily walked in and sat next to me. She started crying too.

Lily: What’s wrong, Mommy?

Me: Nothing, sweetie.

Lily: But, why are you crying, Mommy?

Me: Mommy’s just a little sad.

Lily: Is it because you can’t go poopie?

Poor baby has constipation issues. When she can’t go poo, she leans on the bed and cries. So, seeing me in that position must mean, in her mind, that I was crying because I couldn’t go poopie. Even in the middle of crying, I couldn’t help but laugh.

—–

Started with a story about boobs, ended with poop. My work here is done.

Call me old-fashioned, but I love sending and receiving handwritten notes and cards. But who does handwritten correspondence anymore? That’s why I love writing to my grandma. It gives me an opportunity to use the pretty stationary I always buy but rarely use.

It also helps me avoid conversations like the one we had this morning.

I heard my phone ringing in the bedroom. I was writing in the livingroom, so I ignored it. Then Steve walked over with my phone and said, “It was Mama.” D’oh! She had called me twice before, and I hadn’t called her back yet. As much as I dreaded it, I knew I had to call her back now. That probably makes me sound like a jerk, but y’all don’t know. I love my grandma, but our phone conversations make me crazy.

Mama: Shirlene??

Me: Hi, Mama!

Mama: Shirlene, I’ve been trying to reach you! I called twice before Thanksgiving. I need your mom’s address. Why didn’t you call me back??

Me: I’m sorry. We were so busy preparing for Thanksgiving and I kept forgetting.

Mama: What? I can’t hear you!

Me: I KEPT FORGETTING.

Mama: Mmmm. (translation: she still didn’t hear me.) Well I didn’t think you, out of all my grandchildren, wouldn’t call me back. You’re always so good at writing to me. Anyway, I have 329 for your mom.  Is that the right house number?

Me: NO, IT’S 949.

Mama: What??

Me: NINE…FOUR…NINE.

Mama: Oh! Did she move?

Me: YEAH, LIKE FOUR YEARS AGO.

Mama: What?

Me: SHE MOVED A LONG TIME AGO.

Mama: Mmmm. Anyway, how are you? How is the baby?

Me: GOOD. WE’RE ALL GOOD.

Mama: Are you OK, Shirlene? It seems like you don’t want to talk. Are you in a hurry?

Me: NO, IT’S JUST HARD TO TALK BECAUSE YOU CAN’T HEAR ME.

Mama: What? I can’t hear you. Are you mad at me? You sound different. (but how do I sound different when you can’t hear me?)

Me: NO, I’M NOT MAD AT YOU. IT’S HARD TO TALK BECAUSE YOU CAN’T HEAR ME.

Mama: Mmmm. I can’t hear you. I think you forgot about my right ear. I can’t hear well from my right ear. And it’s not because of the TV. (really? because the TV is blaring pretty loudly there, which I can’t imagine is helping matters.  and maybe try putting the phone to your left ear?)

Me: I have a surprise for you, Mama!

Mama: What?

Me: A SURPRISE!

Mama: You’re coming to visit?

Me: Yes!

Mama: Oh, that makes me so happy! Listen to me. I’ll pay for the rental van so you can all come.

Me: No, Mama, we’re flying!

Mama: What?

Me: FLYING!

Mama: What?

Me: WE’RE TAKING AN AIRPLANE!

Mama: Mmmm. Ok, well try to upgrade to a bigger van so you can all come. I’ll pay for it.

This is how it goes every single phone call. Mama and I are better off as penpals, methinks.

Growing up, I didn’t much care for my name. Even to this day, people have a hard time pronouncing it. It’s not really hard to say, but I guess it’s not an easy name to remember. My childhood babysitter called me Selena the entire seven-plus years I was under her care. And forget about spelling it. Someone once spelled it Shriliene. Seriously?

By the time I was in junior high, I was sick of it and started telling people to call me “Sam.” Because I my favorite show was Who’s the Boss? and I had a girl crush on Alyssa Milano, of course. Who didn’t?? And it really stuck–EVERYONE called me Sam. My mom even had “Happy Birthday, Sam!” written on my birtbday cake one year.

On my birthday this year, I used my “Free Coffee on Your Birthday” coupon at Starbucks, and, while I don’t go by “Sam” anymore, I still give that name to the barista. Why, you ask? Well, because if I don’t, the conversation always goes a little something like this:

Your name?

Shirlene.

What was it?

Shirlene.

Shirley?

Shirle-NNNN-e.

Shirlena?

No, no “A” at the end.

Oh, Shirlene.

Yes.

How do you spell it?

You’re annoying me.

The other day Steve and I were lounging on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV. He stopped at some guy movie that he’s watched half a dozen times in the last couple of months because they keep re-running.

Him: This is such a good movie!

Me: Dude, how many times are you gonna watch this movie?

Him: No, fool, you’re getting mixed up with 300. This is Gladiator.

Me: Oh. Still boring.

Him: No, it stars Russell Crowe! See, there he is. He’s a good guy. His name is Something-Maximus.

Me: Gluteus Maximus?

Him (in all seriousness): Yeah, I think so.

Me: Hahahaha!

Him: What?

Me: Gluteus maximus means “butt,” you fool.

While watching Heroes on DVD…

Me: So, of all the Heroes, what power would you want?

Steve: Flying, of course! How ‘bout you?

Me: I don’t know. At first I thought that one chic’s power of persuasion. But then I thought, Who do I need to persuade that badly?

Steve: True dat.

Me: I definitely wouldn’t want Niki’s power. What kind of power is that anyway? Split personality?

Steve: You already have that power, babe.

I watched the High School Musical marathon today on the Disney channel. Most people know this about me by now, but in case you didn’t get the memo, I have a little crush on Zac Efron. I swooned over him in all three High School Musical movies, in Hairspray and in 17 Again. It’s a harmless little crush in my innocent little fantasy world. And I’m not so crazy as to not know the difference between what’s appropriate for make-believe versus what’s inappropriate in reality. But I have a REALLY good imagination, yo. And in my daydreams I’m certain that I have a pretty good chance of Zac falling head over heels in love with me since he fell in love with a brown chic in HSM, a fat chic in Hairspray, and an old chic in 17 Again. I am all of these things and more.

But I had a rude awakening in the theater watching 17 Again.

Throughout the movie as Zac’s swooning over the older woman and I’m lamenting the fact that That could’ve been ME! I could have been the older woman that Zac is kissing, every teenybopper girl in that theater–and it was only teenybopper girls up in that mug –started protesting.

“Ewwwww!”

“That’s so gross!”

“She’s so OLD!!”

“That’s nasty!”

Every single time Zac went anywhere near the older woman, the girls would cry out in utter disgust. And I found myself sinking lower and lower in my seat. The moment the closing credits started rolling, I booked it for the door before they could sense my inappropriate secret crush and lynch me–the gross, nasty, OLD woman.

My crush kind of waned from that point on. Mostly.

Me: Where are you?

Steve: Still at home, getting ready to go.

Me: Oh good! I forgot baby girl’s immunization card.

Steve: I’ll get it. Where is it?

Me: It’s either in the safe or in my Troy Bolton suitcase.

In my defense, the suitcase was a gift. And it’s a perfectly useful box. And handsome too.