Stop Touching My Butt

S: Mom, Calvin and Rose were messing with my butt.

Me: Okay, dear.

S: Don't you care?

Me: Not really.

S: Calvin was making his toy dance on my butt, and Rose kicked me.

Me: And?

S: So, are you going to punish them?

Me: Why?

S: Because they TOUCHED MY BUTT!

Me: And I'm sure you had absolutely nothing to do with it.

S: Of course not!

Me: Uh-huh.

S: Moooom!

Me: [Silent stare]

S: I was only sitting on Calvin. I wasn't doing anything.

Later . . .

Me: Did you make your toy dance on Sabrina's butt?

C: She was getting up, and it was just too tempting. [Smirks]

Me: Getting up from where?

C: From on top of me.

Bait and Switch

Calvin:  Dad, how long before I can have a TV in my room?

David:  A long, long time.

Calvin:  Okay. How long before I can have a hovercraft?

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Sabrina: So I was talking with Fred the other day.
Me: Remind me who Fred is again?
Sabrina: He's like the boy version of me, the simpleminded version.

In Which the Children are Educated on the Value of Old, Ugly Cars

Rose: Why are there so many advertisements for cars? People don't buy cars like they do clothes or groceries. I don't get it.

David: Well, not everybody waits until their car dies before buying a new one. Many people like to buy a new car every two or three years.

Sabrina: Why? That seems really wasteful.

David: Some people really like new cars. Others spend a lot of time in the car commuting to their job. If I spent a lot of time driving to work, I'd certainly want a better car than I have now. My car is 15 years old, has peeling paint, upholstery that's coming unglued, dents, and has creaking sounds that I have to cover by playing the radio really loudly. But at least it's . . . uh . . . it's . . .

Calvin: Intact?

David: Yeah, it's intact.

Not for kids under 17

The latest episode of "Modern Family" cracked me up. Of course, it always cracks me up. But the whole storyline of Claire and Phil with their role playing going slightly awry had me on the floor.

Still the idea was intriguing, and it got me thinking. What would happen in our household . . . ?

Me: David, want to try some role playing?

D: No.

Me: Come on. It'd be fun.

D: No.

Me: Okay, you're the lord of the manor, and your eye is caught by the earthy milkmaid.

D: A milkmaid? You hate cows.

Me: Forget the cows. It's pretend. Let's start again. You're the lusty lord of the manor, and the earthy milkmaid has caught your eye. But you can't have me because I'm too far below your station.

D: My station?

Me: It means we come from different classes.

D: I know what it means. But come on, my station? The only station I could be in is Grand Central, or maybe South Kensington if you're insisting on this whole lord of the manor England thing.

Me: (quickly changing gears) Okay, then you're a shy shoe shiner working on one of the platforms in Grand Central Station. You've seen me almost every day, but haven't been able to bring yourself to talk to me.

D: Why can't I talk to you? Is this another station thing?

Me: No, we're separated by the tracks. You work on one side shining shoes, I work on the other selling baked goods.

D: Baked goods? Do you mean doughnuts?

Me: If you want.

D: Because you know I'd only be interested in the doughnuts, not the person selling them. And besides, you'd probably be a little on the chubby side. Or is that what you mean by earthy?

Me: Did you just call me fat?

D: Well, you would be if you were selling doughnuts. Did I ever tell you about the time I worked in a doughnut shop when I was a teenager? Fifteen pounds in three weeks. But maybe you have good teeth.

Me: I think I'm going to throw myself on the tracks.

D: There aren't any tracks around here.

Me: FINE! I hear the garbage truck coming down the street. I'll go throw myself in front of it.

D: Now you're a sanitation worker? That's even worse than the whole station thing.

Me: ARRRRGH!

A Typical Conversation in the George Household

S: Mom, look! I can inhale my upper lip!

Me: What?

S: I can inhale my lip. I can almost suck it into my nostril. I'll have to work on that.

Me: Well, everybody needs a goal in life, sweetie. Nice to see you have one.

D: Sabrina, that's disgusting! I can't believe you're doing that! Calvin, stop that! Quit imitating her.


a short while later . . .

Me: David, what are you doing?

D: Nothing.

Me: Because it looks like you're pushing your lip up with your fingers and breathing very deeply.

D: Uh --

Me: Harder than it looks, huh, dear?

Critical Thinking

Me: Sabrina, I got a note from your teacher that everyone has signed up for a day and time for their oral book reports. What did you sign up for?

S: A week from Thursday, the very last time slot available.

Me: Why so far out?

S: Well, you remember my oral reports on "The Pearl" and also on Greek gods and goddesses?

Me: Yes. How did those go by the way?

S: I never gave them. We ran out of time. So I figured if I signed up for the last time slot for this report, there's a good chance I wouldn't have to do this one either.

I'm only slightly ashamed to say that I gave her a high-five and complimented her on her critical thinking skills.

Color Theory

My esteemed brother whose birthday is a mere three days before Christmas made it known that he would like a Dairy Queen ice cream cake to celebrate his illustrious day. So my dad and I trekked out to the only Dairy Queen that was open to purchase said cake.

There were three cakes left, all white with red trim. The clerk said, "Would you like a message on it?" We said, "Yes, how about 'Happy Birthday, Douglas!'?" We're nothing if not creative. "What color would you like the writing in?" At this point my dad said, "Green." But I protested.

My brother has always disliked having his birthday so close to Christmas, feeling like he often got gypped. With comments like, "Douglas, here's your Birthday/Christmas present," I couldn't blame him. So I said that green writing with red trim looked a bit too Christmas-y. I suggested red writing to match the red trim.

At this point the clerk jumped in and said, "We don't have red." I said, "Yes, you do. Look this very cake has red trim." And the clerk said, "Well, the writing icing comes in different colors than the trim. For writing messages we only have primary colors, like green."

I opened my mouth again to debate color theory, but seeing this would go nowhere, my dad stomped on my foot and said, "Green is fine."

Sorry, Douglas. I tried.