I’ve come out as asexual to a couple of friends who I’ve met online. They’re all supportive, but one is completely clueless about anything LGBTQ+ and private-messages me for clarification. There is no malice or teasing, just lack of knowledge.

I’m known for being the “innocent child” of the group, extremely short and not intimidating in any way.

Friend: “If you’re ace, can you perform mitosis?”

Me: “While that would be cool… no. No, I cannot.”

Friend: “That sucks.”

I’m about to ask if he has any more questions before this message comes through.

Friend: “Two [My Name]s would be awesome but equally terrifying.”

Always a kick to be called “terrifying”!

One of my husband’s friends is visiting, and he’s petting our cat. Suddenly, he gets a confused look on his face.

Friend: “I thought your cat was a boy.”

Husband: “He is.”

Friend: “But he has nipples. Are you sure?”

Husband: “Yeah… he has a penis, too, and the vet removed testicles when he was neutered.”

Friend: “Oh, that’s so creepy! How can he be a boy and have nipples? Is something wrong with him? Are all cats like that?”

Me: “Hey, [Friend], you’re a guy. Do you have nipples?”

Friend: *Pause* “Right…”

Several years ago, we moved to a tiny town in Eastern Ontario very near the nation’s capital, Ottawa. Ottawa has huge celebrations for Canada Day, July 1. We’ve learned that areas surrounding Ottawa view themselves as detached from Ontario and Canada, but we didn’t realize by how much until this conversation.

The area is also very insular, not recognizing much of the world beyond its own boundaries. During our first summer in the area this conversation occurs.

Me: “Does [Small Town of about 75 residents] have any Canada Day celebrations?”

Local Official: “Yes, on [date in June rather than July 1].”

Me: *Puzzled* “Is that so the celebrations don’t conflict with those in the [Very Nearby Capital]?”

The official speaks in a tone as if I’d suggested a perversion.

Local Official: “No. Nobody goes to that! It’s so it doesn’t conflict with the big celebration in [Nearest ‘Town’ of a few hundred people].”

Me: “Okay, so we won’t miss that!”

We go to the June celebration in the tiny town, which is a picnic with very modest fireworks in the evening. On July 1st, we go to the festivities in the nearby “big town” which centres around a parade. The parade consists of locals driving their own undecorated cars around the main drag for an hour, followed by two horses. I speak to a local at the parade.

Me: “Have you ever been to the Canada Day celebrations in Ottawa?”

Local: “What?! There’s a parade there, too?!”

Me: *Internally* “We have soooooooo moved to the wrong place.”

Camping in the summer is a tradition in my family, especially since my grandparents have a trailer. I’m a small, bookish elementary schooler and my grandfather is watching me play in front of the trailer.

An adult volunteer is going around the campground inviting children to a program about butterflies native to Michigan, including monarchs.

Volunteer: “Hello! Do you like butterflies?”

Me: “Yeah, why?”

Volunteer: “We’re going to have a program with them soon. You can find out where monarch butterflies live!”

Me: “Don’t they live here and then fly all the way to Mexico?”

Volunteer: “Um… yes! Do you know what they eat?”

Me: “Yeah! They eat milkweed as caterpillars because it makes them taste gross to predators, and when they’re grown up they drink nectar, but they still taste bad so birds don’t eat them.”

Volunteer: “That’s right!”

The volunteer gets increasingly flustered as I geek out over monarch butterflies, oblivious to her struggle. When the volunteer gives me the details of the program and scurries away, I turn around to see my grandfather quietly laughing.

Me: “What?”

Grandfather: “I don’t think she expected you to know so much about butterflies!”

No real harm was done in this situation; it was more of an unfortunate series of events.

My boyfriend, a friend, and I are out to lunch at a very busy restaurant in the middle of a bustling city. By some miracle, we manage to score a metered parking spot directly outside the restaurant — entirely unheard of in the history of time.

We go inside to eat and can see the car through the large window. About halfway through our meal, the spot in front of our car opens up. Shortly, another car pulls in.

The person driving the car begins to parallel park and backs the car into the spot. Inch by inch, they back up until the bumper of their car literally hits mine. The people in the car — a man and woman in their late sixties — seem unaware as they get out. 

My boyfriend runs outside to ask them to move a few inches forward. The couple looks confused, and then they see the cars touching and hop back in the car to move it forward.

My boyfriend comes back inside. We watch as they pull forward a few inches, decide that was too far, and reverse back… directly into my car again.

My boyfriend goes out again and talks with them. They appear deeply embarrassed and move the car forward an appropriate amount this time.

They then come inside the restaurant where we are eating. As they pass our table, the wife glares. She is clearly deeply embarrassed and directs that into anger.

“Maybe if you had parked fully in your spot, we wouldn’t have had to wedge in,” she says. Her husband pulls her away to their table, appearing mortified. 

As my car was perfectly fine except for a tiny scratch on the bumper plate border, my boyfriend, friend, and I had a good laugh about it. The waitress even thought it was funny.