(My friend is visiting her sister-in-law who lives in my neighborhood so I invite both of them over for dinner. I make shrimp creole and they both compliment it and both ask for the recipe. The recipe involves sautéing diced onion, green pepper, and celery in butter, then adding tomatoes, bay leaves, Tabasco sauce, salt, and pepper, and simmering before adding cooked shrimp and serving over rice. A week later, I get a call from the friend.)

Friend: “My husband hates your shrimp creole.”

Me: “Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe the Tabasco sauce was too spicy for him.”

Friend: “No, it couldn’t be that. I didn’t use it.”

Me: “Oh, I guess he doesn’t like all those little veggies, but anyway, too bad he was unhappy.”

Friend: “Oh, cutting up those vegetables was too much work. I wasn’t going to bother with THAT! I just bought some salsa and heated it up and dumped in some frozen shrimp and microwaved it and put it over minute rice. He said he was surprised how bad it was, and I thought I should tell you that your recipe is horrible.”

Me: “Uh, you didn’t EVEN TOUCH my recipe.”

Related:
A Recipe For Disaster, Part 2
A Recipe For Disaster

(A woman gets on the train and sits directly behind me.)

Stranger: “I don’t like your hair.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Stranger: “Your hair. It’s too straight. And too clean. I don’t like it.”

Me: “Okay… Well, I’m sorry?”

Stranger: “Thank you. Can I put something on it? To make it better?”

Me: “No!”

Stranger: “Well, no wonder the seat behind you was so empty. What rude manners!”

(A friend and I are driving down Sunset Boulevard for the first time. I, the driver, notice an upcoming street. What followed was not planned.)

Me: “Cusson Street! Ready? Ready?”

Friend & Me: *simultaneously* “F***!”

Me: “I am so glad you knew what I meant.”

Friend: “I was on board that train.”

(I have just recently found out I am pregnant. I am eight weeks pregnant when this conversation happens.)

Me: “Well, I have some exciting news. I’m pregnant!”

Friend: “YAY! What day are you having it?”

Me: “The baby is due around the 25th of September, but you never know with babies.”

Friend: “No, I mean when did you schedule your c-section?”

Me: “What?”

Friend: “Your c-section. Don’t tell me you are not going to have a c-section!?”

Me: “Well, I would rather avoid a c-section unless it is necessary.”

Friend: “Oh, my god! NO! You can’t do that! You have to have a c-section. They are so much easier. Why would you go through all that pain and suffering when you can just get some drugs and get a c-section!?”

Me: “I would rather just have him naturally, rather than risk major surgery.”

Friend: “You will change your mind. I promise you will. If you don’t then make sure you get the epidural as soon as you get there.” *continues ranting about her c-section and how I just don’t know what I am talking about*

Me: “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Friend: “Okay. So, have you peed your pants yet?”

Me: “…”

(This conversation happened often over the course of my entire pregnancy.)

(My roommate and I like to read books to each other. On this night, we’re reading ‘Wuthering Heights’ since she just bought a Bronte Sisters anthology.)

Me: *reading book aloud* “Her position before was shelter from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance.” *under breath* “Do she got the booty?”

Roommate: “Don’t ruin Bronte, [My Name]! Don’t do it!”

Me: *smirks and continues reading as the author describes the girl’s appearance* “She dooooo!”

Roommate: “Godd*** it, [My Name]!”