(I have been writing fiction for almost twelve years now, and would love to get something published. Until then, and having just graduated college, I am searching for a job while still trying to balance my writing. I have recently adopted a schedule of writing for an hour a day before dinner, as a way to keep focused and not get too burned out from job hunting.)

Me: “Okay, now to do some writing.”

Mom: “Apply to five jobs first.”

Me: “No… writing is more important right now.”

Mom: “Why? There’s no money in writing.”

(Thanks for letting me know after twelve years what you really think of my dreams, mom.)

(My brother was supposed to start a load of laundry early this afternoon and forgot, so he ends up bringing them upstairs for Mom to fold late in the evening. Granted, he screwed up, but Mom is acting like a five-year-old, pouting and throwing stuff, and I’m getting tired of hearing it. I’ve offered to help however I can, but she’d rather be angry. Then she discovers some of the clothes are still damp.)

Mom: “[Brother] didn’t check whether these god-d*** clothes were dry!”

Me: “I can take them back downstairs and dry them again—”

(She throws a pair of underwear across the room. I retrieve them.)

Mom: “Son of a b***!”

(She ignores my offer to help, gathers up all the laundry even though most of it did get dry, and stomps downstairs to dry it again. My step-dad and I are left upstairs.)

Me: “… her words, man. Not mine.”

(I’ve never understood why moms call their own sons son-of-a-bitch, but in this case it fit. Mom must have been way out of line because my step-dad admitted he thought the same thing.)

(My family is on vacation in South Dakota. I’m eight and my sister is seven at the time. We are going to Deadwood to see the shops and the gunfight. My mom is explaining what it should be like.)

Mom: “It’s going to be just like one of the movies your dad watches.”

Sister: “Will it be in color?”

(30 years later we still give her grief about it.)

(I’m babysitting my two nephews at my house. The eldest is six and the youngest is four. They have spotted my exercise bike and immediately hop on it to see how fast they can pedal. I sit nearby to keep an eye on them while they get some of their energy out, and overhear the following:)

Eldest Nephew: *viewing the ‘calories burned’ display* “Wow, [Brother]! You sure got a lot of points!”

(When I was about seven years old, my mother’s aunt died. I over hear the adults talking about the funeral and cremation.)

Me: “What’s cremation?”

Mum: “Oh, it’s instead of being buried, [Great Aunt #1] is going into a special fire.”

Me: *horrified* “They are going to burn her?”

Mum: “Yes, that’s what cremation is.”

(I had never known Great Aunt #1 to have a husband and in my mind I decide that’s what was done to unmarried women when they die — they burn them. Before then I thought that all boys were icky and that I would never get married; afterwards I am determined to get married so I don’t get burned when I die. Many years later, my grandmother has passed and my mother has just got her ashes back from the Crematorium.)

Me: “Did I ever tell you what I thought when I was seven, when [Great Aunt #1] died and was cremated?”

Mum: “I don’t think so.”

Me: “I thought that when women who weren’t married died they were burnt as some sort of punishment. That’s what I thought was done to [Great Aunt #1].”

Mum: “Why would you think that? [Great Aunt #1] was married.”

Me: “I never knew she was married.”

Mum: “You’re thinking of [Great Aunt #2]; she wasn’t married.”

Me: “No, we used to visit her in that old house on the highway in [Town] and I don’t ever remember her being married. [Great Aunt #2] lived on [Road] on the other side of [Town].”

Mum: “Oh, no, you wouldn’t have known. [Great Uncle] died before you were born.”

Me: “Anyway, that’s what I thought; then a year or two later, Dad was talking to [His Sisters] about what happens when they bury a body. He said that the germs would get as big as basket balls while they were eating the body.”

Mum: “He was just joking.”

Me: “I know that now, but all I could think of was what would be worse, getting burned or eaten. I figured burning would be quicker and wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Mum: “You don’t feel pain when you are dead.”

Me: “I know that now but I was nine years old.”

(I still shudder at the thought of being eaten by giant germs.)