(It is the first day of fourth grade for me. I’m not in the best of moods, because I’m not a very social kid, and not looking forward to being forced into socializing for school. When I get to the bus stop, there is a new, cute boy animatedly talking to his brother. He stops, and looks at me up and down.)

Me: “What are you looking at?!”

Boy: “You, apparently.”

Me: “Well, don’t! It’s not my fault your mom let you out of the house looking like that.”

(He glares at me, and chases me up and down the bus stop before tackling me in a bush. He then stands up, dusts himself off, extends his hand to help me up, plucks a leaf out of my hair, and gives me a lopsided smile before extending his hand again to take mine and shake it.)

Boy: “Hi, I’m [name]! I just moved here!”

Me: *stunned*

Boy: “You got a name or what?”

Me: “Of course I do! My name is [name], and what weirdo doesn’t have a name?!”

Boy: “I don’t know; you tell me!”

(We’ve been joint at the hip ever since. His parents called it from the start, and despite taking years of trying people who didn’t quite fit us the way we fit each other, we got together. It’s probably the best decision I have ever made!)

(My mother has aged very well, and is often mistaken for my sister rather than my mother. We are checking out at a supermarket, and there is a bottle of wine in our purchase.)

Cashier: “Can I see your ID for the wine, miss?”

Mom: “Hold on a second…”

(My mom digs around in her wallet but can’t find her ID.)

Me: “Do you want me to get it?”

Mom: “It must be in here somewhere!”

(I see the cashier looking suspicious, so I turn to talk to him.)

Me: “Sorry, she can be so stubborn. Mom, will you just let me get the wine?”

Mom: “Fine!”

Cashier: “Wait… you’re her daughter?”

Me: “Yeah…”

Cashier: “I’m not going to bother ringing it up separate; just show me your ID. If you’re old enough to drink then she sure as h*** is!”

(My mother works a 12-hour night shift as a nurse, so she has an inconsistent schedule and often sleeps during the day. She also has been working on renovating the basement. My mom has just worked a full shift the night before, and she’s snoring away. I’m hanging out in her room with my laptop. It’s around 2 pm when she suddenly gets up and slips downstairs.)

Me: “Mom? Are you going out?”

Mom: *sleepily* “No. I need to measure the floor downstairs so I know how much tile I need.”

Me: “Okay… ”

(She exits the room and comes back a bit later, takes off her shoes, and climbs back into bed.)

Me: “Why did you measure the floor now, anyway?”

Mom: “I was wondering how expensive it would be to re-tile the floor.”

(She promptly falls back asleep, snoring away. A few hours later, she is properly awake, and I ask about the measurements.)

Mom: “I did that? I don’t remember. Darn, I wish I’d at least remembered the measurements!”

(I am having a hard time finding a job, and I am the type of person who can’t just sit around and do nothing. On a day-off, my cousin, dad and sister comes to visit to keep me company.)

Cousin: “So, any luck finding a new job?”

Me: “Nothing yet. I’ve been teaching the dog commands to fill my time.”

Cousin: “What tricks have you taught him?”

Me: “I taught him some yoga stretches and karate moves.”

Sister: “Legit, she taught him caterpillar, cobra, karate kick, and karate chop.”

Cousin: “What ever happened to sit and roll over?”

Dad: “You should ask her what she taught the cat.”

(I work at a printer. We typically wear composite toed boots, jeans and a black t-shirt. Today I am wearing a t-shirt that has the New York-based European alternative metal band Emigrate on it. I go next door for lunch; same as every day for the last four years.)

Cashier: “We don’t serve your type here.”

Me: “Huh?”

Cashier: “You weird foreign types; go back to whatever trash you are from.”

(I am confused, as I’m about as Midwestern-American looking as the cashier.)

Cashier: “Your filthy shirt declares your status! Leave already!”

(The manager steps out from the back and recognizes me.)

Manager: “Oh, hey [my name], how are you?”

Cashier: “Why are you talking to her? She shouldn’t be here! Look at her weird shirt!”

Me: “It’s a shirt for a metal band, called Emigrate. They’re New York City-based.”

(The manager starts snickering; note that we both know several languages. He begins speaking to me in Finnish.)

Manager: “Their drummer isn’t with them anymore.”

(I continue the exchange by switching to German, which he also understands.)

Me: “I know; he’s now based back in Germany.”

Cashier: “What is wrong with you two? Ugh!”

(The manager turns to the cashier, and returns to speaking in English.)

Manager: “Go ahead and leave.”

(The cashier tries complaining about foreigners, but is unsuccessful because the manager is married to a French immigrant!)