(I’m nineteen and visiting my dad. I’m having trouble getting a part-time job to pay for college with, in part because nothing pays high enough and in part because any callbacks I’ve had make it clear they’ll refuse to let me take hours that accommodate my classes. I’m venting to him about it. My dad has worked for the same company for thirty years at this point.)

Me: “I just don’t know what else I can do to make myself clear and respected enough. I’m happy to work any hours excluding five per day when shops are usually slow anyway. I’m happy to work weekends or nights. But it’s like as soon as the manager hears I’m in college, they’ll suddenly only want me during the morning-to-afternoon of weekdays.”

Dad: *while reading over my resume and cover letter* “It looks good to me, but I don’t know squat.”

Me: “Huh?”

Dad: “Times have changed. The way everybody wants things done has changed, too. I haven’t applied for a job since I was your age. I know the Internet changed basically everything. Heck, I can’t even pay the bills without signing up for the utility company’s website.”

Me: “Oh, well, I guess that’s true. It’s just that mom’s advice was awful. She kept driving me around to make me ‘pound the pavement’ and apply in-person, but nobody takes walk-ins anyway. It’s embarrassing and frustrating. The people who work at the places I apply to give me weird looks. I thought because you’re smarter than mom…”

Dad: *laughs* “Hey, not really. But it’s funny she’s acting so ignorant about this, since she’s changed her career five times since you were born. Just do the opposite of whatever she says. Because she probably did the opposite of what she’s telling you. My guess is she wants you to fail to get a job, so you’re forced to stay with her, so she can get the tax benefits for a dependent.”

(How right he was! It’s a shame his house was full to the brim of my step-siblings or else I’d have moved in with him. Even after I moved to another state, my mother kept calling me around tax season to try to threaten and wear me down so she could claim me on her taxes. But that’s a story for another time!)

(I’m at the beach with two cousins. They are discussing an important e-mail message that [Cousin #1] has received, and [Cousin #2] needs to see it.)

Cousin #2: “Don’t forget to forward [important e-mail] to me. Can you do it right now?”

Cousin #1: “Oh, right.”

([Cousin #1] takes out his phone and starts looking for the message. A few minutes later…)

Cousin #1: “I can’t find it; I’ll have to do it later when I get home. I think I put it in my spam folder.”

Cousin #2 & Me: *almost in unison* “Why would you put an important e-mail in your spam folder?!”

Cousin #1: “Because that’s where I put things. Where else would you like me to put it?”

(After a few more minutes of discussion, we found out that [Cousin #1] legitimately didn’t know what the spam folder was for and was using it to store all e-mails that he wanted to save. Thankfully, the important message was indeed there.)

(I’m dining out with my wife and ten-year-old daughter. The waitress is handing out the silverware.)

Waitress: “Is it okay if I give your daughter a knife?”

Me: “That’s fine.”

Daughter: *after waitress leaves* “She didn’t think I could use a knife?”

Me: “I can’t imagine why.”

(We immediately began sword fighting until my wife made us stop.)

(I have brown hair and brown eyes; my younger sister has red hair and blue eyes. I also, unfortunately, struggle with acne, especially as a teenager. We are about seventeen and nine years old, respectively.)

Me: “You look like a strawberry shortcake.”

Sister: “Well, YOU look like a pimple sandwich.”

(Love you too, sis.)

As my grandfather, Bill, had just passed three days earlier, my sister, her husband and I pack in a car for a six-hour drive.

I’m listening to my music and my sister waves to get my attention. She and her husband were talking and her husband had said that my grandmother and all of us should watch Kill Bill.

Took him a second before he realized what he said.