Don't Say It! Please.

Hi, my name is Amanda, and I can’t say the word niblet with a straight face.

It’s sad, really. Some poor woman named Nan Niblet keeps leaving me voicemails at work, and I refuse to call her back because I can’t say her name out loud without laughing. Over and over again, I imagine returning her call:

“Can I speak to Nan, please?”

“Which Nan?”

“Nan N.?”

“They’re both Nan N.”

“In that case, I dialed the wrong number.” (CLICK)
 
There should be a support group for women like me. Women who are incapable of having a serious discussion about Uranus. Women who giggle like a gaggle of cheerleaders when anyone mentions penal codes. Women who, after three decades of Christmases, still can’t sing the second verse of “What Child Is This” — in which the “ox and ass are feeding” — without burying their guffawing heads in their hymnals.

Underwear’s another great way to bring out my inner 8-year-old. Every time I pass Victoria’s Secret, I can’t help thinking “Hee hee hee, there’s bras and stuff in there.” It’s ridiculous. I’m 33 years old, and I’d rather shop for my own coffin than “Bring in this promotional postcard and ask for a FREE PANTY.” You mean you want me too ask for it out loud?

As for naming the, ahem, “parts of the body,” I do my best where my children are concerned. I know I owe it to my boys to teach them the proper anatomical names rather than their cutesy counterparts; you just don’t want to be around when I do — what with all the sweat and smoke billowing out of my pores. And of course I’m dreading the day when they start demanding details about where babies come from, since there’s a good chance I’ll mumble something about a “magic love hug” and run screaming from the room.

My husband will be so proud.

Last weekend he lay on the bed shaking his head while I attempted to read The Owl and The Pussycat to our 4-year-old. In case you’re not familiar with Edward Lear’s delightful 19th century poem, it’s about an owl and a pussycat who go to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. (They take some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note.)

I was reading along just fine until that crusty old owl had to go and grab his guitar:

The owl looked up to the stars above, I read.
And sang to a small guitar,
Oh lovely Pussy! I snorted
Oh Pussy, my love!
What a beautiful pussy you are!

“Oh for God’s sake,” my husband said. “You’re pathetic.”

You are! You are!
I snorted again, this time with tears streaming down my face.
What a beautiful Pussy you are!

My son studied my face to gauge whether I was laughing or crying.

“The owl is being really funny, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “He’s being really funny. It’s your mother
who’s sad.”