(My boyfriend of over a year and I are talking online about our plans for the next day. I recently switched school buses after moving, but one day a week I go to a song-writing class in the city I used to live in, so I’m on the same bus as him. At our school there are two after school buses per route: the early one straight after school, and the late one.)

Me: “So I’ll be going to song-writing tomorrow; early bus, yeah?”

Boyfriend: “Actually, I’ll be on the late bus.”

Me: “What? Why?”

Boyfriend: “I want to go to the gym as often as possible.”

Me: “You know, this is exactly the sort of thing that would make a PARANOID person think there was another woman.”

Boyfriend: “Why’s that?”

Me: “We both miss each other on the bus, but the one day a week I can actually get the same bus as you, and you want to stay late to work on your fitness, therefore becoming more attractive.”

Boyfriend: “You’ve been reading too much ‘Not Always Romantic.’ You’re addicted; I told you.”

Me: “Babe, switch the roles here: one day a week you take my bus, and that’s the day I’ve chosen to go to the gym, even though we go together on Mondays. Wouldn’t you think something was up?”

Boyfriend: “…I’ll get the early bus tomorrow.”

Me: “You better.”

(My hair is shoulder-length, and currently in a ponytail.)

Me: “I want three daughters. Maybe a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.”

(A realization kicks in.)

Me: “But then I’d have to comb their hair every morning.”

Boyfriend: “What, you don’t trust me to do it?”

(I undo my ponytail, and hand him the hair-tie.)

Me: “Comb is over there.”

Boyfriend: “…I see your point.”

(I am a single female away at college tidying English. I am friends with my parents on Facebook to keep in touch. Earlier in the day I studied the poetry of John Keats, a 19th century poet, in class.)

My Status: “Confession: Keats has stolen my heart!”

Dad: “Who’s this Keats guy?”

(We are sitting at the table eating dinner when my four-year-old son turns to me looking quite concerned.)

Four-Year-Old: “Mum, I want to be a Dad and have kids, but I don’t know how to make kids.”

Seven-Year-Old: “Don’t worry; you don’t have to do anything. God just puts the baby in the mummy’s tummy.”

(My two-year-old is determined to join in the conversation.)

Two-Year-Old: “When I’m a mum, will I be a kid?”

Me: “Oh sweetheart, I hope not.”

(As a funeral rep for a newspaper, I have to call numerous funeral homes to verify death for legal reasons.)

Funeral Home Director: “Thanks for calling [Funeral Home]. Can I assist you?”

Me: “Yes, I’m calling to verify someone’s death. Last name is [Last Name].”

Funeral Home Director: “Oh yeah, they just wheeled her in. I’ll be throwing her in the incinerator in a few minutes. Here’s hoping she’s dead!” *chuckles*

Me: “…”