(My husband is from Louisiana, and he has a very thick Cajun accent. Usually he’s good about enunciating, so most people don’t have any trouble understanding him, but when he’s very tired or drunk, he’s harder to understand. We are camping with our families, and his sister is sharing our tent. One morning, I get up early to make breakfast. I wake my husband up to ask him how many pancakes he’ll want.)

Husband: *still half-asleep, says something completely unintelligible*

Me: “What?”

Husband: *repeats himself*

Me: “Babe, I can’t understand you.”

Sister-In-Law: “He said he wants four, and that he had to put the powdered milk in the green ice chest instead of the red one because it wouldn’t fit.”

Me: “…[Sister-In-Law], you have a superpower.”

Sister-In-Law: “Uh-huh.” *goes back to sleep*

(My husband is doing our shared flat’s laundry when he finds a pair of black tights.)

Husband: “Honey, are these yours or your sister’s?”

Me: “They don’t look familiar. Sis, are they yours?”

Sister: “Nope. [Female Roommate], are these yours?”

Sister’s Roommate: “No, definitely not mine.”

Me:“If they don’t belong to any of us girls, how did they get in there?”

(Then my brother, who was in dance school, walked past and grabbed them out of my hands without saying a word.)

(I am evacuating from a hurricane with my 92-year-old grandmother and her dog. Traffic is bumper to bumper.)

Granny: “Why doesn’t the slow poke up there pull over so we can pass?”

Me: “There’s not one slow poke. The road just isn’t big enough for this many cars.”

Granny: “Well, if they’re having car trouble, they should push their car off the road so we can get by.”

Me: “They aren’t having car trouble. There’s just too many cars in a long line trying to leave.”

Granny: “Why doesn’t the first car just go faster?”

Me: “There’s not one car in front. The roads are just full of people trying to get out.”

Granny: “But why doesn’t the slow poke just pull over and let us pass?”

Me: *gives up*

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(Mom, Dad, and I are sitting around the dinner table playing cards. I am distracted by the cat, who is letting me pet him.)

Mom: “Stop petting the cat. We’re playing cards.”

Me: “But he’s cute!”

Mom: “I think your father’s cute, but you don’t see me petting him all the time!” *pause* “Or at all.”