(My mom and I are in the backseat, and my dad is driving. We’re stopped at a red light in a rough neighborhood, and a young guy dressed in baggy jeans is standing at the corner with his hand down his pants.)
Me: “Mom, look at that guy! I think he’s touching his you-know-what.”
Mom: “Most likely; he’s strumming himself like a guitar.”
Me: “What?!”
Mom: “You know.” *imitating strumming near her crotch area with a goofy expression*
Me: “MOM!”
(On the car ride down to my aunt’s, my mom explains the sleeping situations..)
Mom: “So [Grandpa] will be sleeping in [Aunt]’s room. [Grandma] will be sleeping in [Older Cousin]’s room.”
Me: “Don’t grandma and grandpa sleep in [Aunt]’s room?”
Mom: “They don’t anymore.”
Me: *worried they had a bad fight or it was something with my grandpa’s health* “Why not?”
Mom: “They snore.”
Me: “They snore so loudly they wake each other up?”
Mom: “Yup!”
(That’s my grandparents for you!)
(I’ve been driving for five years, with nary a ticket, yet my mom always thinks that I’m going to crash. We are driving down the highway and my mom is next to me in the passenger’s seat, and my sister and brother are in the backseat. They can’t see it, but Mom is getting more and more tense, so they’re just talking.)
Car: *loud bump*
Mom: *blood-curdling scream*
Me: “Jesus Christ, Mom! It was just a pothole!”
Brother & Sister: “What’s wrong?!”
Mom: “No, it wasn’t. You hit someone or you got hit!” *clutching at face* “Pull over! Pull over!” *tearing at hair*
(Concerned, I did so, and there was nary a scratch or any evidence that I hit or was hit. When I pointed this out to her, she insisted on my sister driving my car instead of me. My sister… who has so many tickets from hitting cars, I have lost count. Mothers.)
(I have been giving the driver in front of me a bit of space as their driving is a little haphazard. I assume it’s perhaps a new driver who is a little nervous on the road. They eventually stabilise so I catch up to give them a more respectable distance, when they slam on their brakes about 20-30 metres away from a traffic light that has just turned red. The force they used to stop automatically triggered their hazard lights momentarily. I stop as expected along with the line of cars behind me. I can hear some horns going off, but other than that I’m just waiting for the car to start moving again. Instead, a woman climbs out of the passenger side and runs to my car. I lower my window.)
Woman: “Sorry about that! My son’s just started learning to drive. Bless him!”
Me: *checking the car* “Where are his L plates?”
Woman: “We don’t use them. It makes him nervous.”
Me: “If he’s driving that car, he must use them.”
Woman: “He won’t even get in the car with them on!”
Me: “By law he must use L plates if he is a learner driver. You’ve put everyone he interacts with at risk by not doing so.”
Woman: “He’s fine! I’m in the car with him so he won’t do anything dangerous.”
Me: “He just braked without reason. Had I not been observant enough to realise there was something wrong I could have collided with you.”
Woman: “Oh, you’re exaggerating!”
Me: “I’m really not. Get L plates on that car before I report you.”
(The woman sneered before spitting at me in the face. She screamed “F*** YOU” before heading back to the car. Before the door was even closed the car sped off, nearly colliding with the traffic light they had stopped for. I took note of the number plate and when I arrived at my destination I reported them to the local police. Half an hour later while I was driving home I noticed the car again, only this time it had mounted a pavement and collided with a lamppost. I saw the kid in the car looking shocked while his mother was being arrested by two police officers (one of which looked like he might have been pushed onto the ground at some point) while screaming “HE GETS NERVOUS!”)
(I have just gotten one of my wisdom teeth removed and am still feeling the effects of the drugs. I’m driving home in the car with my dad, listening to the radio.)
Dad: “This song sounds familiar. Who sings it?”
Me: “Marlon Brando.”
Dad: “What?”
(This conversation repeats a few times, with my dad growing more confused and me growing more upset each time because I know I’m not saying the right thing, but am too drugged to fix it, until I eventually give up. It was Bruno Mars.)
