(I am about 4, and have heard my mother tell my teenage brother several times that he was ‘eating us out of house and home.’ I wake my mom up at 6 am on a Saturday.)

Me: “Mom! Mom! Wake up!”

Mom: “What? What’s wrong?”

Me: “We have to go to the store!”

Mom: “Why?”

Me: “We need to buy some house and home! I’m hungry!”

Mom: “Well, I should get going. I don’t have long before [Boyfriend] gets home and I want some time to relax.”

Me: “Okay. I’m going to go eat a box of chocolate while watching The Bachelor and reading Cosmopolitan because I just realized this will be the first Valentine’s Day I’ve been alone for in years.”

Mom: “…Okay. Well, I was going to say ‘have a good night,’ but that no longer seems appropriate.”

(It is the day before my dad is going in for a colonoscopy and he hasn’t been allowed to eat anything other than clear broth and Gatorade all day. My mom has left ‘pre-approved colonoscopy prep foods’ labelled on a shelf for my dad. She has asked my 17-year-old sister not to cook anything too pungent while he is on his restricted foods. I walk in from work at 6:00 pm to the overwhelming smell of freshly fried bacon. My dad is sitting on the couch looking miserable. My sister is sitting in the recliner across the room.)

Me: “Hey, who cooked bacon?”

Dad: “Your little sister thought it would be a great idea to make herself a bacon sandwich for dinner.”

Me: *to my sister* “Jeez, sadistic much?”

Sister: “Hey, I offered to make him one too, but all he wanted was that chicken broth crap Mom put in the fridge! I made extra bacon, if you’re still hungry, Dad.”

Me: *to my dad* “Do you want me to smack her so it isn’t considered child abuse?”

(I suffer from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’ve worked very hard to manage my illness, but when I have insurance I am required to attend therapy. I go to my boss and explain to her that now that I have insurance through the company, I’ll be needing one day a week, every other week off in order to seek treatment. The following conversation occurs…)

Boss: “I’m going to schedule according to the store needs. You need to manage your social life on your own time.”

Me: “It’s not my social life. It’s medical treatment for a recognized illness. I’ve got paperwork diagnosing me. I need the time off.”

Boss: “You’re not really sick! You’re just making that up!”

(At this point I could have called HR, but I decide to try one more time.)

Me: “In the first place, you don’t have any medical training so you don’t know what you’re talking about. In the second, I can’t expect my therapist to just randomly shoehorn me in here and there. She has a set appointment schedule and I have to work within that. I’m not asking for anything special—just my rights under the law.”

Boss: “You don’t have any rights under the law. You’re just making stuff up. I’m going to schedule according to the store needs, and if you don’t come in, you’ll be fired!”

(At this point, I get fed up. The next day I call the District Manager. I explain the situation to her. I email her copies of my diagnosis and a letter from my therapist explaining my needs. She reviews them, calls me back and tells me the following.)

District Manager: “You do what you have to to get well. You’re a valued employee and we want you around for a long time. If it comes down to it, I’ll work your hours that day. And let me know if anyone else gives you a hard time about your illness. I’ll fire their a** on the spot!”

(This happened many years ago, when the drinking age was just 18 and our state driver’s licenses had descriptions, not photos. While I worked for many years and in nearly every position in the restaurant industry, in this incident my friends and I were the customers, and we behaved badly.)

(Five of us—my brother and I, and three friends (two of which are brothers), are trying to get into a nightclub. Four of us are of age, but one of our friends is only 17 and underage. His older brother, who is 21 and with us, has given his 17-year-old brother an expired copy of his license to try and sneak him in; note that the two brothers are the same height, weight, hair, and eye color. As expected, the bouncer lets four of us in, but stops when he looks at our underaged friend’s ID.)

Bouncer: “Hey, this guy has the same name as that guy, there!”

(Our underage friend freezes: the jig is up. In one last desperate effort to save the situation, I blurt out the first thing that came into my mind with all the exasperated disdain a 21-year-old punk can muster.)

Me: “OF COURSE they have the same name! They’re identical twin brothers! What do you expect? Come on!”

Bouncer: “Oh, sorry. Okay, then. Go on through.”

(To that bouncer, should he read this and remember: Sorry, man!)