My mom doesn’t really like when I share her momisms here but NOT sharing them was crushing all the fun out of my life so she’ll have to deal.

First, this classic from several months ago:

“Robert Pattinson. Isn’t he in that movie with Reese Witherwhatever, Elephants Can’t Swim?” -My mom

And then, from just now:

Mom: Doesn’t Reese… *a long pause ensues in which I assume she’s going to say some version of Witherspoon when she throws me a curve ball* Fillbus look good?

Me: …I’m sure I would agree with you if I had any idea who Reese Fillbus… wait. Do you mean Regis Philbin?

Mom: *unfazed* Doesn’t he look good for his age?

Me: *sighs* Yes, mom. Yes, he does.

And then, for old time’s sake, a rerun of this classic from the day Heath Ledger died…

Mom: Isn’t that a shame about Keith Richards?

My husband: You mean Heath Ledger? Yeah…

Mom: And Keith Richards is still alive! *she says as if Husband was the one who’d said it wrong*

Husband: Uh… yeah.

Mom: And now I’m all depressed about this financial stuff I saw on TV. I was watching that guy… oh, you know… the Mad Money guy…

Husband: *just trying to keep up* Jim Cramer?

Mom: Yes! Him. You know me. I’m terrible with numbers.

Doesn’t that just about sum it up?

Husband, who originally hails from PA, wishes to make a U-Turn but is prevented by posted traffic signs.

Husband: New Jersey is such an ass backwards state.

Me: Whatever. We invented the light bulb. What did Pennsylvania ever invent?

Husband: America.

“The day I start a book 200 other people start books. And they’re smarter, and funnier, and more talented than I am, and you would enjoy them much more than you’re enjoying me. But too bad for them and too bad for you, ’cause I’m the guy that finished the book. That’s the reality.” -Stephen Hunter

Oddly inspiring in a “so what if I suck, I have the odds on my side!” kind of way.

Me: I’m having trouble with this part [in my book] and I need some advice.
Husband: OK (Starts to read what is on my computer screen behind me)
Me: No! Don’t read what is on the screen. Everything on the screen has already been cut out and is from an old draft where events don’t even happen in the same order. Ignore what is on the screen, it is not in the story anymore and let me tell you about the problem I’m having.
Husband: OK
(I then detail the problem I am having with my story. He does not appear to be giving me his full attention. I finally ask)
Me: So what do you think of that idea? Do you think it sounds good?
Husband: Well, what is on the screen there is terrible, you should cut all of that out.

He was serious, not trying to be funny. At this point I shrieked “I already told you that I cut that out and not to read it!!!” and highlighted all of that text in the color of poop to remind him that it was crap that had already been cut out. He then became incredibly facinated that my version of Word had the ability to highlight things in poop color while his could only do bright yellow and I lost him into the magical distracted place that men’s minds go when poop is even tangentially involved.

As a husband? A wonderful person.

As a writing critique partner, though, he’s freaking useless.

There are so many quote board entries I cannot put because they are talking about other people. It is downright sad.

The runner up:

Me: It’s interesting to see how many people I knew from school who were really shallow ended up married to rather fat guys. Do you suppose this means they finally learned to accept a person’s inner beauty?
Steve: (in a half asleep stupor) Nah, it means that they married their hot guys and they got fat. *A really long pause ensues here where I have moved on to other thoughts. Suddenly out of the blue Steve says in a dreamy half-asleep voice* . . .  you know. Like Frederline. He got fat.”

But the amazing winner is, of course, my mother:

Me: So is Watchman worth renting?
Mom: Let me put it this way. His penis isn’t big enough to make it worth sitting through the whole movie for.

My 13 year old cousin is a budding writer and we were talking shop one day when she mused, “I am totally stuck in this one story. I don’t know what should happen next.”

“Kill someone,” I said.

“Really?” she replied.

“Yeah,” I said, “I read a book on writing once that recommended killing someone if you are stuck.”

She looked down at the ground for a moment and then looked up and shyly asked, completely serious, “But. . . won’t I go to jail?”

“In the story! Kill a character in the story!” I clarified and she said, “Oh!” with genuine relief.

I’m not even sure where to begin with this.

A client contacted me a few days ago and I called, once and then twice before she finally called me back today. In between these calls was totally radio silence.

When I finally get her on the phone, the first thing she said to me is, in a dazed sort of way, “We’ve been playing phone tag for so long.” Now our voicemail has been acting up so I immediately said, “Oh, did you leave me a message?” because I wanted to know if it was still busted. I realize that with her not knowing this probably made me sound like an ass who was all “I called you but never called me, dimwit” but I assure you my intentions were pure.

“Oh, no,” she continues, like she is a little high and floating in a pool of whipped topping, “I never called you.”

So now I’m like, WTH? First I’m confused because I’m still trying to figure out if my voicemail is busted or not. Then I get a little annoyed as I comprehend. Not to be all literal but, if you never called me, how were we playing phone tag?

So, reaching for some form of clarity I said, “So, you never called? I just wanted to make sure because our voicemail is acting up.”

“No, I never called,” she says, like I am some lunatic who is accusing her of calling when she has no idea what a phone even is.

“Oh, OK. Cool,” I say because I am confused and it just seems best to move on. “So, let’s get down to business.” There is a long awkward silence and I’m afraid that she is mad at me or whatever so I start to blabber like a doofus and say, “Sorry, I just thought you meant that you had called me a few times when you said phone tag. I thought you were having trouble reaching me.”

In the same confused, dazed voice she replied, “I was trying to reach you. I mean, I didn’t call but I thought about it.”

Now, at this point, I just said, “Oh.” in a helpful way and barreled on ahead with business.

I should clarify that my rational thought is just that this woman is a space cadet who doesn’t think before she speaks. But what if she was being totally serious?

If someone tries to contact me psychically and fails, does that count as phone tag? Because I am pretty sure that is what just went on.

Yeah, I know. It’s Thursday. But since tomorrow I am going to visit my grandparents for Father’s Day with my parents, it might as well be Friday because I’m not going to do any work tomorrow.

My brother has a floating schedule where he gets two days off a week, but not necessarily Saturday and Sunday. He refers to every day of the week, however, not by its actual name but rather what it would be if he got Saturday and Sunday off. If he has off on Wednesday and Thursday, he refers to Tuesday as “Friday” and Thursday as “Sunday.”

As you can imagine, this is confusing as heck. Back when he had Thursdays and Friday’s off, he chastised me for forgetting LOST was on by saying, “LOST is always on Sunday nights!” This would be fine were it not for the fact that LOST is on on Wednesday nights so this conversation made no sense.

This past week, he lamented the fact that there was no good TV on on Sunday nights because shows like Family Guy and The Simpsons air on real Sunday. It makes my head hurt.

For most of the year, he also only has one day a week off so he would refer to that day as both Saturday and Sunday, switching words about half-way through the day.

This situation was also the architect of this wonderful conversation.

Sam: Tomorrow is my Friday.
Hillary: Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is everyone’s Friday.
Sam: Well, then we’ll all enjoy it, won’t we?

I suppose it’s the best system we have to work with.

My Mother: Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow? I’m making Admiral Cho’s chicken.
Me: Sure, but, just for the record, you mean General Tso’s chicken, right?
My Mother: (in a panicked voice) I. . . don’t. . . know. . . what I mean!

“He’s not the brightest tack.” -Mom, yet again mixing her metaphors

I love this woman, people.

And because Mom has been monopolizing the quote board:

Me: (making a wrap, asking for more lettuce) Can I have a little more?
Husband: You don’t want more. That’s potent stuff.
Me: (considering the lettuce) Really?
Husband: Yeah, trust me.
Me: I trust you, I’ve just never heard lettuce described as potent before.
Husband: Oh, it is. *pause* Wait. Did you ask for the lettuce? I thought we were talking about onions all this time.

“Dad got me this new cereal and I love it! It’s called crusty nuts of cluster!” -My Mom

That totally sounds like a Scottish gang name.

We think she means this: