NOT Funny!

My husband can't imagine where all my humorous rumblings originate. He stolidly maintains, "You're not funny at ALL." - though he "maintains" it from behind his Wall Street Journal, and misses the brilliant Hamlet death scene I perform in response.

I AM funny. You people see it, right?

He thinks I have a ghost writer.

But because I'm such an open-minded person, I reflected carefully on his words - in the context of my average day. Okay, I was sulking. But it sounds better to call it "reflection." At any rate, I found the difficulty, as you will see.

6:30 AM: NOT FUNNY. In fact, displaying uncharacteristic cowardice, my husband typically sends his pre-school children to wake me, banking on their chances for survival being higher than his. He's very smart, actually. Have I mentioned that?

7:30AM: NOT FUNNY. Just pass the orange juice, and I'll thank you to not add any editorial commentary.

8:00 AM: NOT FUNNY. I'm actually, at this very moment, driving on the world's most congested road on my way to drop two ungrateful children (who are complaining that their SOCKS are WICKY - whatever the hell that means) at school. I have remembered lunch boxes, show and tell cultural non-toy items, nap paraphernalia, closed-toed shoes, field trip permission slips, and KETCHUP for the picnic. But my shoes don't match.

8:30 AM: NOT FUNNY. Witty repartee' in the elevator is NOT an option. Just get me to my eMail.

8:45 AM: FUNNY AS ALL-GIT-OUT. I've breezed through my second cup of coffee, had my way with my morning eMail. I'm good to go. Unfortunately, I work in a small engineering firm, and high-functioning-humorists are simply not appreciated. I get straight lines from 8:30 to 2:30. It's almost excruciating not to respond as my nature dictates. I've taken to just squeaking "Ow" each time I pass one up in the interest of office harmony.

They think I have a foot injury.

I "limp" through 2:30 PM, with one exception:

Noon: NOT FUNNY. But that's only because when my husband calls, I'm eating Fritos. Can't joke and eat Fritos at the same time, but I aspire to, some day.

2:30 PM: NOT FUNNY. I'm carting my children home through rush-hour traffic. At TWO THIRTY, for Pete's sake. Don't these people have jobs? Clearly not, as they're too stupid to even use turn signals.

5:00 PM: NOT FUNNY. I haven't had the opportunity to be funny, as the children have not stopped TALKING since I picked them up from school. I'm serious. I've TRIED peanut butter sandwiches. They have well-developed jaw muscles from all that yakking.

5:10 PM: STINKIN' FUNNY. But I'm in the bathroom by myself, so there are no witnesses.

6:00 PM: NOT FUNNY. Husband arrives home, and I'm busy serving up green beans to children who would sooner masticate wolf excrement than anything remotely resembling nutritious fare. (Do you suppose wolf excrement has vitamins?)

6:30 PM: A WILD AND CRAZY GAL! But dear husband is watching the business news, and misses the show. I have entertained 7 strolling neighbors, had the CAT in rolling in the aisle, and outlined three column ideas for next week (in crayon, with my left foot, while simultaneously whistling "Dixie.") The kids are impressed.

7:00 PM: NOT FUNNY. Dishes are NEVER funny. Even the ones with Blues Clues on them.

8:00 PM: NOT FUNNY. One can never afford to be entertaining when one is putting children to bed. My whole strategy revolves around being the most boring person on Earth, so that they'll fall asleep as quickly as possible. It doesn't work, and I continue to be NOT Funny through 9:00 PM.

9:30 PM: VERY FUNNY. I'm brushing my teeth, and pretending to be a rabid dog in the mirror. For some reason, dear husband fails to see the humor in this. Maybe I should go for "rabid raccoon" instead. Only with the toothbrush, it would sound more like "wabbid waccoon." But that's funny, right?

He must have had a rough day.

10:30 PM: AS FUNNY AS A HUMAN BEING CAN POSSIBLY BE WITHOUT RUPTURING A MAJOR ORGAN. And I'm capturing it all on disk, thanks to my trusty laptop. Which, I lament, doesn't have a vibrating battery.

Dear husband is snoring.

Maybe he's think it was funny if I stuffed Kleenex wads in his nose? No, probably not. Maybe I can get my ghost writer to do it…