Want To Explain But You Can’t Find The Words

, , , , | Related | June 9, 2017

(My sister and I are at my cousin’s house babysitting her young daughters. While my sister is out of the room, the two-year-old grabs a word search book.)

Two-Year-Old: “Can you read this book to me?”

Me: “Um, that’s not a book you actually read.”

Two-Year-Old: “Please?”

Me: “It’s the opposite; you actually try to find hidden words.”

(She looks disappointed, but that doesn’t stop her from opening the book and flipping through the pages. After a few minutes:)

Two-Year-Old: “I like that story a lot. I want to read it again!”

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He’s All There; You Can Put Your Finger On It

, , , | Related | June 8, 2017

(My father has an accident while he is repairing a customer’s roof. He falls off a ladder and lands on his side on concrete, breaking several ribs and vertebrae. My uncle and I are standing at the end of his bed.)

Uncle: “…I’m glad he’s okay, though. He needs to stop doing such s*** as he’s just hit his 60s.”

Me: “He’s stubborn; not much more you can do about it.”

Uncle: “Always was a stubborn a**-hole!”

(With that my father, in his highly morphined state, slowly raises his arm to produce a slowly rising middle finger. I start laughing.)

Uncle: “And that’s how I know he’s still all there.”

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Getting The Short(bread) End Of The Stick

, | Related | May 24, 2017

I have been baking for a while, and I know my family’s taste and any allergies they have. I moved out eight months earlier and for about five months some of the treats have been going missing. Nothing major, just a few cakes here and some biscuits there, but I have now lost my patience as the cookies I baked for my friend’s birthday have all been eaten. I decide to have a barbeque to find out who is doing it.

I invite several people to the barbeque including my aunt. The day before, I bake some Nutella shortbread, put them in a box, and leave them in the kitchen by the biscuit tin. My idea is that whoever is eating the treats will go to the biscuit tin, find it empty apart from a few rich tea biscuits, and then eat some of the treat.

I know that if my aunt eats anything with nuts in it, it will give her a bad migraine.

Fast forward to the next day and the barbeque. I leave the kitchen door open and the patio door leading to the front room in case anyone needs the toilet. Around 10 people show up and whenever one of them leaves I go and check the shortbread but bring something out with me. Sure enough the box is opened and some shortbread has been eaten and then moved about so you can’t tell.

An hour later the barbeque ends when it starts raining and everyone goes home except my mum. I count the cakes to find out that three have been eaten and now there are seven left.

I give them to my mum who offers them to my aunt when she visits her. Apparently she refused saying last time she ate them she got a migraine. I have never made Nutella shortbread for anyone. The treats have now stopped disappearing.

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A Monster Of A Rewrite

, , , , , | Related | August 16, 2013

(I am about 11 years old, and am being home-schooled. I’m working on my spelling/vocabulary lesson, and have to write a short story using every word in the lesson. I write a story about a superhero who has the power to turn the villains and monsters good. I am proud of my story.)

Aunt: “Why does she make them all turn good?”

Me: “Because they were evil and hurting people.”

Aunt: “Well, it’s not right to make someone do something they don’t want to do. You should change it.”

Me: “How do you know they don’t want to be good?”

Aunt: “They’re monsters. Rewrite it.”

(I stop arguing, and change the ending drastically by making the superhero kill the monster. She doesn’t like this one either. She makes it clear that she wants it written one way.)

Aunt: “What is this?”

Me: “My alternate ending.”

Aunt: “Killing people is bad!”

Me: “They’re monsters, remember?”

Aunt: “That doesn’t change anything. Rewrite it!”

Me: “To what? You didn’t like the first one!”

Aunt: “Just change it!”

(By now, I am quite irked, and change the story once again to a more generic superhero story ending.)

Me: “Here.”

Aunt: “So she just sends him off?”

Me: “Yes.”

Aunt: “It’s better, but why did you choose this ending?”

Me: “Because you told me to.”

Aunt: “That’s not a good reason. Why don’t you write a new one?”

(I am more irked now, and refuse to write another ending.)

Me: “I’ve already written a new one!”

Aunt: “And I want you to write it over!”

Me: “Fine! How about the superhero goes and turns the monster into a good guy so she doesn’t have to keep fighting him? That way everyone is happy. And now the monster can live happily.”

Aunt: “No, he wouldn’t be happy. He would be forced to be something he’s not.”

Me: “Yes, he would. He is my monster in my story!”

Aunt: “You can’t act that way in the real world!”

Me: “How about we leave my story be, and not force it to change into something I don’t want it to be?”

Aunt: “Are you talking back to me?”

(I don’t want to get into trouble, so I just give in.)

Me: “I’m sorry. I’ll learn from this. I can’t make people do stuff or they’ll be unhappy.”

Aunt: “Good. Now go work on math.”

Me: “Okay, Aunt [name].”

(I went on to my math lesson. I never chose to write a story for my spelling lesson again, which was unfortunate, because I love writing. I learned more from writing a story than I did copying the words over and over in my book.)

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Keeping Abreast Of The Book Filing

, , , , , | Right | March 28, 2011

(I am looking up a book for a little girl.)

Me: “I’m sorry sweetie, my computer shows I’ve only got one copy of that book left. The display’s right over there. It’s empty, so that means someone else has it.”

(A helpful customer overhears our conversation and produces the book.)

Customer: “Actually, someone misplaced it. It was over there. Here you go!”

Little Girl: *to me* “You must be almost as old as my mommy if you didn’t think to go do that!”

Me: “Well, I could be. I don’t know. I don’t know how old your mommy is, sweetie.”

(The little girl opens her mouth to tell us how old her mother is, but I interrupt her.)

Me: “I don’t think she’d want you telling everyone how old she is, though.”

Little Girl: “Oh, no. That’s okay. She told my aunt on the phone this morning. After she sees the doctor next week, she won’t care if people know how old she is. They won’t believe it with her new boobies!”

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