I like to think of myself as funny.
I’m pretty sure I won something in high school related to being funny…best sense of humor or best laugh, maybe. No, I don’t think it was my laugh because that’s a bit of an awkward and snorty mess most of the time.
Anyway, the point of the post is I fancy myself a wonderful blend of sarcasm and clever goof. I laugh at myself all the time and yet my children don’t seem to get it. Somehow what I think is hysterical, off the hook, comes across to them as, well odd, Denny’s late at night on a weekday strange.
Similar to the way I don’t understand how anyone does not like Cadbury Eggs, I don’t get why my humor does not translate.
I’m funny, I mean really funny sometimes. I do this thing with my teeth that’s…well, you’d have to be here.
My youngest has this saying, “cricket.” She calls it when there is a failed joke or someone is trying to be funny and lands flat. If we are all bantering and one of us, all right let’s say it’s me, adds something to the story that she doesn’t think is funny, she will say, “Mom, that’s a cricket.” Get it? The laughter has stopped, the room is silent, and all you hear is a cricket.
Who the hell taught her this?
It’s to the point now that we argue with her or plead our case for why something is not a cricket. Popular arguments are, “No, that was not a cricket because I wasn’t trying to be funny,” or “No, if more that half the people at the table laugh, it can’t be a cricket.”
My question is, who appointed her Cricket Master? Why does she get to decide? I’m totally funny and I’m just wondering why I could start a town, a whole village, like Cricketville, with all of my crickets?
Wait…was that a cricket?
My thoughts from the laundry room. Quiet.