I don’t know why, but for the past few months, my husband Chris and I have taken great delight in calling our two boys by different names. Fortunately, the kids don’t seem to mind that we’re doing this. But maybe that’s just because we do it behind their backs.
“Where’d Tango and Cash go?” Chris will ask.
“Who? You mean Lenny and Squiggy? I think they’re at the neighbors,” I’ll answer.
“Well, can you let Dolce and Gabbana know that it’s time for dinner?” he’ll say.
“Sure!” I’ll yell as I’m heading out the door. “But remember, Jake and Elwood hate broccoli!”
After a few days of this rather moronic game, it quickly turned into an unspoken challenge between us where we tried to never use the same names twice.
“You already used Cheech and Chong yesterday,” Chris would say. “At the pool, remember?”
“Well, so what? You said Butch and Sundance about ten times at the park,” I’d say back. “Not to mention Statler and Waldorf five times at the post office. I mean, come on.”
“Fine,” he’d retort. “But at least I never tried using Bangers and Mash. What the hell? That doesn’t even make sense unless you’re in Europe.”
One week, we decided to up the ante and go exclusively with musical pairings.
“Are Hall and Oates asleep yet?” I’d wonder.
“Well, I just looked in on Simon and he’s asleep,” Chris would respond. “But Garfunkel’s having some issues with his sippy cup and I think he might pee in his pajamas later.”
Another week, we tried historical figures. Unfortunately, after the obvious “Lewis and Clark” and “Orville and Wilbur,” we realized our public school educations were failing us, so we had to switch to TV cops.
“Are Starsky and Hutch doing their homework?” I’d ask Chris.
“Yes, although Crockett’s having a little trouble with his math,” he’d answer. “And Tubbs is still going potty. He said he had a lot of apple juice in kindergarten this morning.”
But now it looks like our game has finally come to a merciful end. Not only have we run out of new things to call the boys, evidenced last week by my attempt to use “Cut and Paste” and “Smith and Wesson,” but lately we’ve been getting a little confused about our children’s real names.
“Hey,where’d Sam and Jack go?” Chris asked last night after dinner.
“Who?” I responded. “Sam and Jack…Sam and Jack…oh, wait! Are those the guys from that Scorcese movie? Because I think you used that last week.”
If by some stretch of the imagination, that post left you wanting even more of my brilliance, I’m also found in two other places today. First, I’m handing out specious advice at The Mouthy Housewives. (Also, if you have a big problem, little problem, or sort of creepy problem, we’d love to hear about it. Especially if it involves your ongoing David Beckham fantasies. Send it to: email@example.com.)
And second, I’m recapping the wonderful, horrible Project Runway over at Reality Roadkill. It’s funny even if you don’t watch the show. Well, sort of. To me, anyway.
So go ahead. Click already. No big whoop.