Pajama Funny Quotes

I'm not leaving, Kitten. You're going to do this." My mouth opened as did the door behind us. Stomach dropping, I turned to see Mom standing there in all her fuzzy-bunny pajama glory. Oh, for the love of God.

Two years ago, I was a twenty-nine year old secretary. Now I am a thirty-one year old writer. I get paid very well to sit around in my pajamas and type on my ridiculously fancy iMac, unless I'd rather take a nap. Feel free to hate me -- I certainly would.

We're very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it's funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Haagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas. But of course, a breakup is a type of grief, it's the death of not just any relationship - but the most important one in your life, There's nothing cute about it. "Dumped" is also a word that falls short of its true meaning. It sounds so quick - like a moment in time. But getting dumped lasts forever. Because a person who loved you decided not to love you anymore. Does that ever really go away?

Onscreen is the image of a thirty-year-old Renée Zellweger, sporting red pajamas and belting a song into a rolled-up magazine. "Oh my god, Miles," I say. "What?" He says. "You're watching Bridget Jones's Diary?" "It's a good movie!" he cries, a little defensive.

Mama, Ollie taught me how to play ‘Let It Go’ on guitar,” Crista piped up in a muffled voice as she pulled her pajama shirt over her head. Aunt Linda shot me a look that was half sheer terror, half witch hunt. The face of someone at peak Frozen saturation. I didn’t, I swear, I mouthed, making chopping motions by my neck.

One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I don't know.

Lady, you have the wrong number. Our cat isn't even in the hospital. He doesn't want pajamas.

I’m terrible at being one of those moms who can sit in the bleachers or dance studios and make forced small talk with parents who all seem to know (and secretly hate) each other and who never seem to show up in pajamas or mismatched shoes. I’m continually saying something awkward and inappropriate, like “I thought this was just for fun” or “No, actually I don’t think that toddler is too fat for ballet.

It was funny, what friendship meant in Rebecca’s world. It mainly meant lunch, twice a year, and the occasional dinner party, except for Dorothea, who was an old school friend, a genuine friend. Rebecca had realized, ruefully, that she should have made more friends in school; they seemed to be the only ones women really talked to honestly because the shared history meant fewer lies were available to them. With the others shared meals had become a substitute for intimacy, but not the kind of substitute that allowed for dark nights of the soul, calls at 1:00 A.M., tears and drinking and despair in pajamas.

What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already  dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?” “I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.” “Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess.Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early. “No, I mean—” “I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper. “Cletus. That’s disgusting.”Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding. Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?” “Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows.“Meaning poop?” “No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh. “That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled. “Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath. We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house actfunny?” Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.” I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.

WHEN you are creeping through the literary underbrush hoping to bag a piece of humor with your net, nothing seems funny,” Russell Baker wrote in a preface to an anthology of American humor that he compiled. “The thing works the other way around. Humor is funny when it sneaks up on you and takes you by surprise.” Yes,

We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas. But of course, a breakup is a type of grief. It’s the death of not just any relationship—but the most important one in your life. There’s nothing cute about it.

Don’t be silly.” I turned to my suitcase, pulling out my pajamas. “I’m just going to go change . . .” He coughed down at his own suitcase, open on a chair in the corner of the room. “Of course.” I changed, washed my face, put my hair up, pulled my hair back down, put it up again. Moisturized. I brushed my teeth, used the loo, washed my hands, moisturized again. Brushed my teeth again. I stalled. And then, stepping out, I let him past me to do the same routine, realizing as he walked into the loo that he had only a pair of shorts in his hand. He slept shirtless. Fuck me sideways. However, when he finally came out of the restroom, Jensen was still wearing his T-shirt, to my enormous dismay. “I thought you slept shirtless.” What. What did I just say? He looked up at me in surprise. “I mean, I usually do, but . . .

Morning.” She blinks at me. Specifically at my abs, I think. “Where are your pajamas?” “Don’t own any.” I glance down at my boxers. All the important bits are covered. “Does it matter? I could put on my bathing suit instead. It’s more or less the same thing in a brighter color.” “Right.” She clears her throat. But I don’t miss her eyes making another quick sweep of my body. And I have to hold back a laugh. Could Alex be having a moment of regret? “Um…” She shakes her head once. “Thank you for dealing with the delivery.” “No problem.” I lift a hand to my chest and stroke a palm down my bare skin. And, yup, her eyes lock onto my fingers, and she follows my movements like a hungry dog eyes a piece of meat. How funny is this? Now I’m definitely not putting on a shirt this morning. Not until I absolutely have to. Why ruin the fun?

Every night, I sit in the rocking chair in the nursery when I give Willow her bedtime bottle. Tonight, I burped her halfway through her feeding like always. Then I sat her on my knees facing me and made funny faces. She looked right into my eyes. And she smiled. She’s ten weeks old and she just gave me her very first smile. I wish I’d taken a picture. I’m probably supposed to be documenting everything better for her baby book or whatever. She’s going to have a terrible baby book. But at least she’ll have a father who loves her. Because when she smiled at me tonight, I finally felt it. Love. A rush of love. I was so blown away by it I laughed, which made her smile at me even more. Then I hugged her small body and breathed in the smell of her Johnson’s baby shampoo. I could feel her heartbeat. Up until tonight, I was pretty sure Willow didn’t like me, and I understood why she didn’t. I didn’t blame her for resenting the idiot, bumbling guy who started doing for her all the things her gorgeous, familiar mother had done before. But tonight . . . tonight my little girl smiled at me. She gave her very first smile to me because I’m her person now. I’m her daddy and, in her way, I think she might love me, too. When I laid her against the inside of my elbow to feed her the rest of her bottle, her hand made a fist in the fabric of my shirt. She watched me as she drank down her formula. I’m tired and lonely. Parenting is far more difficult than I understood when I was a son and not yet a father. I miss my freedom and my friends and the life I had before Sylvie told me she was pregnant. I miss who I used to be. But tonight my daughter, a tiny girl in pink pajamas, smiled at me. Because I’m her person. Letter

My shrink suggested that if I was going to continue traveling so much that I could look into getting a service animal expressly trained to provide emotional support to people with anxiety disorders. I considered getting Hunter S. Thomcat trained, but then I remembered that he gets spontaneous nervous diarrhea every time he's in a moving car, and I'd imagine that holding a cat who seems to have explosive plane dysentery wouldn't necessarily *help* my anxiety as give me something new (and horribly unsanitary) to be anxious about. I called around to different service-animal specialists and spoke to a woman who told me it's better to get an animal who has already been trained and has the right temperament. She also told me cats aren’t preferred emotional-support animals for anxiety disorder, but my cats hate dogs so I figured I was fucked, but then she told me that the Americans with Disabilities Act was recently interpreted as allowing “people with anxiety disorders to travel with an emotional-support pony on airlines.” So basically I could bring a goddamn pony on board with me. I’m pretty sure a pony wouldn’t fit under my seat or in my lap, but I rather liked the idea of a small medicinal horse standing in the aisle beside me while I braided his mane. Plus, Pony Danza would make a great pack animal and instead of bringing suitcases I could just put my extra clothes on him and that way I wouldn’t have to pay to check a bag. Plus, the pony wouldn’t get cold because it would be wearing my pajamas.

So you hook up with strangers?" Liam asked in a hushed whisper as the cashier rang up their order. "Were you with someone last night?" "Yes. His name is Max." She pulled out her phone. "I have a selfie of us together." She held it up for the cashier to see, keeping the screen away from Liam's line of vision. "Oh, he's gorgeous," the cashier said. "He's got the nicest eyes." "Let me see." Liam felt his protective instincts rise. "Who is he? Max who?" "He doesn't have a last name." "Jesus Christ, Daisy," he spluttered. "Does Sanjay know you do this? What about your dad?" "They know all about Max," Daisy said. "In fact, my dad took a picture of us cuddled together in bed the night before he left on his trip, and the cutest one of Max on my pillow. I bought some pajamas but he refused to wear them. He likes to sleep au naturel." Bile rose in Liam's throat. "And your dad took... pictures?" "Photography is his new hobby. He took some great shots when I was giving Max a bath..." "Stop." Liam held up a hand. "Just... I can't. I don't know what's happened to you, but it ends now. We're engaged and that means no more random hookups, no pornographic pictures, and no flashing pictures of strangers in the nude." "Amina doesn't mind. She's my second cousin." Daisy introduced them before turning her phone around. "And this is Max." Liam was a heartbeat away from shutting his eyes when his brain registered the picture of a fluffy white dog on a pink duvet. His tension left him in a rush. "Max is a dog." "He's a Westie. Layla got him for me as an emotional support dog at a bad time in my life." Liam bit back the urge to ask Daisy about a time so bad she'd needed extra love. It was her business, and he could only hope she would tell him when she was ready so he could offer his support. "That wasn't funny." "Amina and I were amused." "I heard you were engaged." Amina's gaze flicked to Liam and she blushed. "He's almost as cute as Max.

You’re…you’re what? Where?” I stood up and glimpsed myself in the mirror. I was a vision, having changed into satin pajama pants, a torn USC sweatshirt, and polka-dotted toe socks, and to top it off, my hair was fastened in a haphazard knot on the top of my head with a no. 2 Ticonderoga pencil. Who wouldn’t want me? “I’m outside,” he repeated, throwing in a trademark chuckle just to be extra mean. “Get out here.” “But…but…,” I stalled, hurriedly sliding the pencil out of my hair and running around the room, stripping off my pathetic house clothes and searching in vain for my favorite faded jeans. “But…but…I’m in my pajamas.” Another trademark chuckle. “So?” he asked. “You’d better get out here or I’m comin’ in…” “Okay, okay…,” I replied. “I’ll be right down.” Panting, I settled for my second-favorite jeans and my favorite sweater of all time, a faded light blue turtleneck I’d worn so much, it was almost part of my anatomy. Brushing my teeth in ten seconds flat, I scurried down the stairs and out the front door. Marlboro Man was standing outside his pickup, hands inside his pockets, his back resting against the driver-side door. He grinned, and as I walked toward him, he stood up and walked toward me, too. We met in the middle--in between his vehicle and the front door--and without a moment of hesitation, greeted each other with a long, emotional kiss. There was nothing funny or lighthearted about it. That kiss meant business. Our lips separated for a short moment. “I like your sweater,” he said, looking at the light blue cotton rib as if he’d seen it before. I’d hurriedly thrown it on the night we’d met a few months earlier. “I think I wore this to the J-bar that night…,” I said. “Do you remember?” “Ummm, yeah,” he said, pulling me even closer. “I remember.” Maybe the sweater had magical powers. I’d have to be sure to hold on to it. We kissed again, and I shivered in the cold night air. Wanting to get me out of the cold, he led me to his pickup and opened the door so we could both climb in. The pickup was still warm and toasty, like a campfire was burning in the backseat. I looked at him, giggled like a schoolgirl, and asked, “What have you been doing all this time?” “Oh, I was headed home,” he said, fiddling with my fingers. “But then I just turned around; I couldn’t help it.” His hand found my upper back and pulled me closer. The windows were getting foggy. I felt like I was seventeen. “I’ve got this problem,” he continued, in between kisses. “Yeah?” I asked, playing dumb. My hand rested on his left bicep. My attraction soared to the heavens. He caressed the back of my head, messing up my hair…but I didn’t care; I had other things on my mind. “I’m crazy about you,” he said. By now I was on his lap, right in the front seat of his Diesel Ford F250, making out with him as if I’d just discovered the concept. I had no idea how I’d gotten there--the diesel pickup or his lap. But I was there. And, burying my face in his neck, I quietly repeated his sentiments. “I’m crazy about you, too.

There's a difference between people who can sing in their showers and people who can sing onstage

We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas. But of course, a breakup is a type of grief. It’s the death of not just any relationship—but the most important one in your life. There’s nothing cute about it. “Dumped” is also a word that falls short of its true meaning. It sounds so quick—like a moment in time. But getting dumped lasts forever. Because a person who loved you decided not to love you anymore. Does

Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” He has one leg on the couch and the other on the floor, so I get on my knees between his spread legs and lean down over him, holding myself up with my hands flat on his chest. Matt doesn’t allow that but for a second, though. He pulls me to his chest and holds me close to him. His body rises and falls beneath me, steady and solid. “I would have told you he was here if you had given me time.” I laugh against him. “Don’t you dare laugh,” he says. “This is serious. Your dad is going to hate me from now on.” “I don’t care what he thinks,” I say. I scoot myself a little higher, getting my lips closer to his. “That was, like, the worst kiss of all time,” I whisper dramatically. “I know,” he whispers back. His hands land on my waist, and he lifts me, bringing my mouth even closer to his. He lifts the edge of my pajama top, and his warm hands touch my naked skin. “I’m never going to kiss you again. Because that one was too awful.” “Terrible,” I say quietly, looking at his lips. “But I think we should try again.” Matt hooks an arm behind me and flips us over. He looks down at me. “You think this is funny?” he asks. But he’s grinning, so I’m not worried. “Hilarious,” I breathe. “Don’t you?” His face lowers until his lips hover over mine. “You’re so fucking amazing that you make my heart hurt sometimes,” he says.

I mean, you can’t do it like this. Look at me!” Scanning me from head to toe, his smile was genuine. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.” “I’m outside barefoot, in my pajamas, smelling like baby spit-up.” A hand went to my unwashed hair, thrown into a bun. “I can’t even remember the last time I took a shower. This can’t be how this happens.” Looking down, I added, “I’m not even wearing a bra!” “I’ve noticed.” He smirked, his gaze lowering to my nipples, visible through the thin fabric. “Not funny.” Letting him pull me back into his arms, I melted into the embrace I’d craved while we were apart. “Baby, I love you just like this. This is you, the real you. The you that no one out there gets to see but me. We did everything backwards, but I wouldn’t change any of it. I don’t care where we are, if no one knows or everyone knows. If you want me to put it in skywriting or sign an NDA, either way is fine. All I want is you.” “Are you sure?” “I love you, Natalie. Something deep inside my soul knew the day we met that you were my future. I just didn’t understand then how that would ever be possible. Even if it took twenty years to find our way together, you were always worth the wait.

We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas. But of course, a breakup is a type of grief. It’s the death of not just any relationship—but the most important one in your life. There’s nothing cute about it. “Dumped” is also a word that falls short of its true meaning. It sounds so quick—like a moment in time. But getting dumped lasts forever. Because a person who loved you decided not to love you anymore.

We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas.

We’re very dismissive, as a culture, about heartbreak. We talk about it like it’s funny, or silly, or cute. As if it can be cured by a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a set of flannel pajamas. But of course, a breakup is a type of grief. It’s the death of not just any relationship—but the most important one in your life.

Ellery made good on his threat to put on his pajamas—warm flannel, soft as a kitten’s ass. Jackson had actually gotten to sleep a couple of nights by petting those damned pajamas.

baloney!” I’ve been doing that since I was little. It’s funny. Buddy hates it. “Suzi?” Mommy was at the top of the stairs. “It’s Christmas!” I shouted. “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” a loud voice boomed. At first I thought it was Santa — like, maybe he slept over. But it was Franklin. He walked up next to Mommy in his pajamas. Franklin wears red pajamas

He's crazy," Bruno said, twirling a finger in circles around the side of his head and whistling to indicate just how crazy he thought he was. "He went up to a cat on the street the other day and invited her over for afternoon tea." "What did the cat say?" asked Gretel, who was making a sandwich in the corner of the kitchen. "Nothing," explained Bruno. "It was a cat.