My mum has a severe lung condition which causes her to get very out of breath from walking any faster than a turtle on land. We both enjoy watching the old crime drama “Poirot,” and we have seen every episode multiple times. Or so we thought.

Mum’s left the TV on a channel playing “Poirot” reruns, disappearing off to do something upstairs after one episode ends – she’s not precious about making sure she’s there to see another since she’s seen them all. I’m doing other things whilst in the same room when the next one starts. It takes a hot minute for me to realise that I can’t place this episode

Me: *Yelling* “Mum, do you remember the Poirot episode where a girl dressed as a bumblebee is drowned in an apple-bobbing tub at a Hallowe’en party?”

Mum: *Distantly* “What?”

Me: “A bumblebee girl getting murdered.”

There’s a bang, followed by frantic footsteps as she runs downstairs and into the living room and flies to her seat. As a result, she’s bent forward in her chair and is “whistling,” a bad sign that she’s not taking in enough air, so I rush up and get her inhaler.

Me: *Alarmed* “Why did you just do that?!”

Mum: “Poirot… I’ve… not… seen!“

Me: “It’s not worth killing yourself over!”

Mum: “Yes, it is!“

She was fine. I was very anxious for about twenty minutes until her breathing normalised, and I scolded her — after the episode — for being stupid with her health.

I’m looking through a catalog that sells nostalgic items. My mom points to a picture of ribbon candy.

Mom: “My grandma always bought that. I hated it. It cut up my mouth.”

Me: “Then why did you eat it?”

Mom: “Because it was there.”

My sister has always been a bit ditzy — she even proclaims that she’s living proof that “blonde is not just a hair color” — but ironically, one of her ditziest moments ever comes about the night after she decides to dye her hair blonde while we are in junior high school.  

We live out in a semi-rural area, so we have to wake up at six in the morning in order to be showered, dressed, fed breakfast, and ready to catch the school bus at seven. One morning, my sister shakes me awake with the following announcement:

Sister: “We overslept! It’s six-thirty! You gotta hurry or we’ll miss the bus!”

Me: *Groggy* “But… I didn’t hear the alarm…”

Sister: “There was a power outage! It shut off the alarm! Get in the shower!”

Still groggy and fuzzy, I get in the shower while my sister hurries to whip up some breakfast and get us ready to go. Then, she sticks her head into the bedroom where my mom and stepdad are asleep.

Sister: “[Stepdad]! You overslept! Get up; you’ll be late for work!”

Stepdad: *Wakes up* “[Sister], it’s twelve-thirty in the morning.”

Sister: “No, it’s not! The clocks are wrong! There was a power outage!”

Stepdad: “I’m looking at my watch.”

Sister: “It’s wrong; there was a power outage!”

Stepdad: “How is a power outage going to affect my watch?”

Mom: *Sniffs* “Are you… making pancakes?”

Sister: “Yeah, we gotta hurry and eat breakfast before the bus comes!”

Somehow, they finally manage to convince her that it isn’t even one in the morning and she has several hours before she has to catch the bus. Mom then finds me in the shower, still half-asleep.

Mom: “Your sister read the clock wrong. It’s twelve-thirty, not six-thirty. Dry off and go back to bed.”

Me: “Oh. No wonder it felt like I’d only been asleep for an hour.”

To this day, we still don’t know how my sister decided a power outage would affect every single clock in the house, even watches and battery-operated clocks. My stepdad’s explanation was that she dyed her hair blonde the night before and “the chemicals went straight to her brain.”

It’s dinner time. My younger brother’s eyes are glued to his device and he is barely eating. My parents are adamant that I am not to steal his device — again — so I am reduced to nagging him to eat faster. It isn’t working. After I’ve lost my patience, I say this.

Me: “[Younger Brother]. You will start eating your food faster, or else I’ll be forced to feed you.”

He’s like eight. I thought that threatening to feed him like a baby would have been embarrassing enough. Alas, he calls my bluff.

Younger Brother: *Not even looking up* “Sure!”

I sigh, scoop a mouthful of food, and offer it to him. He eats it without even looking and visibly winces. After struggling with the worst expression of disgust, he finally swallows his food and glares at me.

Younger Brother: “What the h*** was that?”

Me: *Unrepentant grin* “Liver. It is just the worst, isn’t it?”

The two of us absolutely hate liver. On the other hand, our mom loves it, which is why there is some available at the dinner table.

Younger Brother: “Why did you feed me that?!”

Me: “It’s not my fault you weren’t looking at what you were eating.”

That finally got him to put down his device and start eating in earnest. Unfortunately, over the years, I’ve had to redo this trick several times to get him off his device, mostly using chili, which was more common than liver and had far more amusing and effective results. You’d think he’d have learned his lesson by now.

My dad, mom, sister, and I are having dinner together. For dessert, Mom brings out a big bowl of Jello.

Sister: *As she’s serving herself* “What flavor is this? Raspberry, cherry…?”

Dad: *Deadpan* “It’s red, Jim.”

Did I mention we’re all “Star Trek” fans?