I am standing by my car on the road, with the bonnet open. A man walks past.

Man: “Doing some work to your car?”

Me: “It’s getting scrapped tomorrow, but I want the battery out. It’s nearly new. I’ll flog it on eBay.”

Man: “You would get some good money for those wheels, too.”

Me: “Maybe, but the recovery truck will be a bit confused about how to lift it, then!”

He walks on. I remove the battery in two minutes and let the hood drop. I just need to lock the car. I insert the key in the driver’s door… and it won’t turn. I try the handle. It won’t open, either.

It dawns on me that the car needs the power from the battery to operate the lock. How is the car going to be winched onto the recovery truck if the recoverer can’t get inside it to steer? I can almost hear Laurel and Hardy shouting, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into!” I phone my father for advice.

Me: “He’s going to have a tough time recovering the car. Oh, there’s something else inside the car he needs: a parking brake!”

Dad: “To put the battery back in, you’ll need to open the bonnet. Where is the open bonnet switch?”

Me: “Passenger footwell.”

Dad: “Which is where?”

Me: “Inside the car. Oh, crap. I can’t steer, set the parking brake, or open the bonnet to put the battery back in.”

Dad: “Either deal with it in the morning, let him drag it on with the winch, or get a brick and smash the window in.”

I should have taken the man’s advice and just removed all four wheels!

Back in the 1990s, when only the police and 911 dispatch had caller ID, one of the most popular ways teenagers and adults with no lives would annoy strangers would be to call them and either sit and not say anything, ask for someone who didn’t live there, or call and immediately hang up.

At one point in time, these calls seriously became a nuisance to our home where every day, at 7:00 am sharp, someone would call and say nothing, and then at 4:30 pm sharp, they would call and ask for a “Sherry Slone.” Every… freaking… day. Picking up the phone and yelling, “F*** OFF!” did nothing but tickle the person pink and encourage them to call more often.

Then, my dad found a rather interesting solution.

Caller: “Hello, is Sherry Slone there?”

My dad pulled my science book out of my lap.

Dad: “Mitosis, a process of cell duplication, or reproduction, during which one cell gives rise to two genetically identical daughter cells. Strictly applied, the term mitosis is used to describe the duplication…”

The caller hung up. The next morning, they called again and my mother answered. They were silent.

Mom: “Oil painting is a hobby that requires both skill and patience. The supplies that I prefer using is a standard X size brush made out of—”

The caller hung up.

And surprise, all the calls stopped.

I’m texting a friend.

Me: “Hey, man, sorry I missed your call. I was running.”

Friend: “Running? From whom?”

Me: “Uh… my winter weight?”

Friend: “Okay, fair enough.”

My friend has been doing self-weaning, letting her daughter decide when she is done breastfeeding. That means she is still breastfeeding the girl at nearly three years old.

I’ve been babysitting the girl and we have just done a lot of heavy physical activity outside. When we come in, she asks to watch cartoons and, wanting an excuse to let her sit down and rehydrate, I agree to one show. She often nurses when watching cartoons, which I suppose she is used to because not long after the show starts:

Girl: “I want milk.”

She starts leaning over as if to nurse from me before realizing I’m not her mom.

Me: “Sorry, I don’t have any mom milk.”

Girl: “Oh, I forgot! You’re a boy; you don’t have nipples!”

Back in the days before the Internet, I used to hang around at a modelling club. People building scale models would meet, bring their builds, share tools, give and receive feedback, and the like. People who take the hobby TOO seriously can be very particular about the exact shade and hue of camouflage, resorting to complex quasi-alchemical mixtures for obtaining the “right” colour.

During one of those meets, I heard this exchange.

Modeller #1: “What a nice build. Is it in a desert scheme?”

Modeller #2: *Taken aback* “Of course it’s not; it’s in the green and brown scheme, as you can see.”

Modeller #1: “Eh, I can’t really see that. I’m colourblind.”

Modeller #2: “You’re pulling my leg.”

Modeller #1: “Why would I?”

Modeller #2: “But… But… But… It’s impossible. How can you be sure you’re not painting your tanks fuchsia?”

Modeller #1: “Well, I have this thing to help me.”

[Modeller #2] leans forward as if to be the only one receiving a secret

Modeller #2: “You do, eh? What is it, eh?”

Modeller #1: “I read the number on the bloody pot, you dolt!“