I am out for dinner with my then-fiancée (now wife) and her dad, my (now) father-in-law. He’s not the nicest to her (he got divorced and remarried, and he loves his new kids more than my wife) and gives her grief over everything she does.

We’re at the end of dinner, and my father-in-law offers to pay for the meal. Okay, that’s surprisingly nice.

Fiancée: “I’ll ask to get my leftovers boxed and I’ll take them home.”

Father-In-Law: “You’ll just leave them in the fridge, and then they’ll just get thrown out.”

I’ve been hearing stuff like this all night, so I snap.

Me: “Listen, it’s not your fridge. Leave her alone.”

Father-In-Law: *Getting mad* “Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter!”

Me: “Then don’t speak to my fiancée that way!”

He literally throws the bill and folder at me.

Father-In-Law: “Fine! You f****** pay, then!”

He storms out, so I pay the bill and I’m just waiting for the receipt. We’re still waiting ten minutes later, so we’re wondering what is going on. Tensions are rising, and [Fiancée]’s dad is waiting outside, just building up steam and ready to blow once we get out there. I ask the waiter:

Me: “Can I just get our bill and go?”

Waiter: “Oh, no, sir, you have to wait for the manager.”

It turned out that they had a contest running where “every bill is a winner.” Normally, you’d win a free drink or appetizer with your next meal. Well, we won the GRAND PRIZE: a trip for four to Florida! Whoever paid got the prize.

We did not bring [Father-In-Law] on our free trip!

Years ago, I made the mistake of coming up with a game where I let my niece ride on my shoulders and “drive” me by turning my head wherever she wanted me to turn. She enjoyed this a bit too much. Years later, she still begs to do this all the time, despite getting big enough that shoulder rides aren’t that easy to give anymore.

Because she is so big, her legs now start falling asleep if she stays on my shoulders for too long, so I try to make sure she takes walking breaks. This is solely because I’m a good uncle who doesn’t want her legs to hurt and not at all that my shoulders need a break — honest!

Me: “I think this car is running out of gas. Are you ready to get down?”

Niece: “Just a little more.”

Me: “Sorry, kiddo, you know how this works. I need you to take a break and walk a little.”

I get her down, despite her protests. She sort of starts walking on her own but slowly and acting a little odd.

Me: “You okay? Are your legs hurting already?”

Niece: “No, but I’m so tiny now.”

Me: “Huh?”

Niece: “You made me get down. Now I’m small.”

I suppose dropping to less than a third of your previous height would be an odd experience.

My friend’s sibling spent a lot of time hiding who she was because she was afraid people would not accept her as a woman — mostly, how her seven-year-old nephew would handle identifying her.

I got to sit in on the conversation where [Friend] explained what was going on.

Friend: “So, from now on, you say Aunt [Sibling]. Her name isn’t Uncle [Dead Name] anymore.”

Child: “Why?”

Friend: “Because that’s her name.”

Child: “But Uncle [Dead Name] is a boy!”

Friend: “No, Aunt [Sibling] is a woman.”

Child: “Oh.” *Pauses* “Can I change my name?”

Friend: “What do you want to be called?”

Child: “Umm… Fart!”

I admit I laughed. [Child] was thoroughly pleased with himself, while [Friend] gave me a good-humored glare.

Friend: “Okay, maybe we will wait to change your name.”

Child: “You can call me Fart!”

Friend: “Okay, that’s enough. Go play.”

Child: “Bye, Daddy Fart!”

Friend: “Oh, my God, what have I done? Now he’s going to tell everyone his name is Fart and I’m going to get called into a parent-teacher meeting.”

Me: “Well, at least he won’t get confused with the other [Child] in his class anymore.”

[Child] had no problem calling his aunt by her name, though convincing him that he could not call himself “Fart” took a lot longer.

I’m having trouble removing my showerhead to replace the filter in it and don’t have the proper tool to help me, so I head over to my dad’s. My dad was in construction for over thirty years and maintains a sizeable collection of tools and hardware. As such, I’ve been around tools my entire life and am decently familiar with their usage and nomenclature. However…

Me: “Dad, I need to borrow the black thing.”

Dad: *Smirking* “The black thing? You don’t know the name?”

Me: “Yes! It’s the black thing! That’s all you’ve ever called it!”

My dad starts giggling and, realizing he’s not going to be any help at all, I start digging in the tool chest. I find the strange black pliers-wrench hybrid I was looking for and hold it out to my dad.

Me: “This! What is this called?”

My dad looks at it for a second. He stops laughing and his shoulders slump a little.

Dad: “That’s a custom tool that was only made for a limited time by one manufacturer. There’s no official name.”

Me: “THE BLACK THING!”

When my youngest son was a senior in high school (just last year) he took a Zoology class, where they worked on a bug collection project. My husband was asking our youngest about said project after it had been turned in.

Husband: “When are you going to know what grade you got? Did you get all the categories you needed?”

Son: “I don’t know. [Teacher] has three or four Zoology classes, so she’ll be looking at bugs for a while.”

Me: “Well, she’ll be pretty bug-eyed, won’t she?”