We bought the boat of our dreams during this whole crazy experience the world has been going through. With restrictions and cases finally dropping to a level that isn’t absolutely bonkers, we decided to go on our first long-distance journey, leaving from the east coast of America and heading for the west coast. We’re planning to be gone for about ninety days.

This morning we awake in gorgeous San Marino, Mexico. I quickly hit the galley and make some Italian-inspired breakfast burritos using this lovely habanero marinara sauce my partner found on our journeys, some chicken, pepperoni, eggs, and onions. Using three burrito-sized tortillas, I am able to fashion this monster together as I grab a fresh beer to start the day as we’re docked here until tomorrow.

I tell you about my delicious breakfast burrito because it is a main character in our story today. I stumble up to the main deck with my goodies and our pups in tow; they’ve got a good patch of turf to do their business up here. Standing there in my crocs, obnoxiously bright swim trunks, and one of those oversized straw hats with the chin strap, I hear the song of my homeland: some entitled woman going ballistic on some dock workers.

This sends my childish brain right into wallflower mode, as nothing is better with a sloppy burrito than people-watching.

The woman is screaming at the two men on the dock about a boat, not mine but one clearly privately owned and not some kind of rental. The woman is demanding that they provide the ship to her for the day and is swinging around a fistful of bills. Our Mexican friends are doing their best to communicate to her that they have nothing to do with the boat — I assume, as my Spanish isn’t the best. The woman is screaming and stomping as she gestures toward the boat and workers are awkwardly shrugging and attempting to avoid her.

Then, it happens. I’ve been spotted. I attempt to slink back under the deck, but alas, as I turn around to seal the cabin, I see the woman making a beeline for me with what can only be described as an “I’m going to get the manager to do what I say” expression. Having two very large and protective dogs, I bite the bullet and step back onto the deck.

Woman: “Sir! Why don’t your workers speak English? How are they supposed to do their jobs if they don’t speak English?”

After a stunned pause, I respond.

Me: “Well, ma’am, we’re in Mexico; the primary language here is Spanish. Also, they’re not my workers as I don’t work here. Please get off of my boat.”

Going from zero to a hundred, the woman launches into a tirade about how it’s BS and they need to speak English and I need to get that random person’s boat ready for her before her husband arrives with their kids. Add in plenty more racism.

Finally cutting her off, I yell:

Me: “Hey, lady! I do not work here, or even in this country. Kindly get the f*** off my boa—”

As I was saying the word “boat,” the woman shoved me — no words, just a full-on shove. I did end up going overboard, but the sight I saw on the dock when I came back to dry land was glorious.

You see, in my journey over the starboard bow of my boat, I did manage to throw the about 70% of burrito I still had in my hand — which was stuffed full of Habanero sauce — at the woman, hitting her in the neck. Apparently, it exploded everywhere, and the woman was covered from her cheeks to her midsection, even seeping through the bikini top she was wearing. Surprisingly, after she was done screaming about the heat, she simply sat down and started crying.

I headed back below deck for a fresh burrito and another beer. The dock workers managed to high-tailed it while the woman was occupied with me, so all ended well.

My parents divorce when I am eleven. Mom has custody, though we spend weekends with Dad.

Ever since the divorce, Dad has lived in various rental apartments in the general vicinity. When I am nineteen or so, Dad moves back into Mom’s condo with us kids, and Mom moves out to live with her sister.

The decision is because Dad is the only person who can control my younger brother, who is fully into his rebellious phase. There is some genuine worry that he’ll wind up in juvie if he doesn’t have a stern hand holding onto him.

Unfortunately, I’m nearing twenty-two now, and there has been no improvement in my younger brother’s behaviour. Plus, my aunt is making noise about how long Mom has been freeloading at her place.

The new arrangement my parents have come to is that Mom lives with me in her original condo, while Dad buys another home and lives with my younger brother there.

I’m talking with Dad when he mentions that he’s interested in buying a unit in the condo down the road.

Dad: “It’s significantly cheaper than the others in the area, but it’s pretty lousy. The owners have renovated the place such that it only has two bedrooms.”

Me: “From the original three?”

Dad: “Yes. So I might have to get a bunk bed if you’re staying over.”

I burst out laughing at the notion.

Dad: “Uh, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. I was expecting you to be all fire and brimstone at the prospect of sharing a room with your brother.”

Me: “Dad, it’s not even a five-minute walk down the street. I can just walk back to my room here if I need to sleep.”

Dad: “But what happens if you stay over?”

Me: “No point. There are literally less than 100 meters between…” *jerks my thumb at my room* “…and that place. There’s no point in me staying over.”

Dad: “I see. Though I’ll still get bunk beds, in case you change your mind.”

Me: “No need. If worse comes to worst, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Dad: “You’re that opposed to sharing a room with [Younger Brother]?”

Me: *1000-yard stare* “Yes.”

I have a roommate, and my roommate has a cat. I had a spider plant, and my roommate’s cat had a snack. We’ve just moved into a new basement suite, and she celebrated by bringing home a cactus.

Roommate: *Excited* “I found a plant that my cat won’t kill!”

Me: “Your cat won’t, but you will.”

My roommate looks a bit hurt and a lot offended, so I elaborate.

Me: “Your bedroom doesn’t have any windows, remember?”

Roommate: *Looks around* “CRAP!”

She ended up keeping it in the bathroom window… that was underneath a deck. I don’t think it died, but I’m not sure it lived, either.

I’m a twenty-year-old woman, and I’m currently dating a rather sweet guy — also twenty-one — and we’re thinking of taking things to the next level. As such, he’s invited me to come back to his hometown and meet his family.

I’ve met a few of his relatives before, like his maternal cousins or his older siblings, but given how large his family is, that’s not a lot.

We get off at a train station, where his grandma and aunt will be picking us up to drive the rest of the way to his parents’ hometown.

[Aunt] is essentially the bane of [Boyfriend]’s existence. He spends most of the ride — good-naturedly — grumbling about her. I’ll sum up his complaints into three things: blackmail, mischievous prankster, and always get away with everything. He also warns me to never tell [Aunt] that he said any of that because she’ll definitely take revenge.

We get to the station and I go to buy coffee when I get stopped by a girl who looks around fourteen or fifteen.

Girl: “Hi, are you [My Name]?”

Me: “Ah, yes.”

I notice her hair and eyes, which are the same as my boyfriend’s older brother’s.

Me: “Are you [Boyfriend]’s younger sister? Uh, [Younger Sister], was it?”

Girl: “Close enough. So where is [Boyfriend], anyway?”

Me: “Let me buy some coffee and then I’ll bring you to him.”

We start up some small talk while waiting in line, and we basically become friends. She brings up [Aunt] and I share with her my boyfriend’s complaints about her, with which she commiserates.

Afterward, we go find [Boyfriend], who’s talking to a middle-aged woman who looks exactly like [Girl].

Me: “Hi there, [Aunt]. I’m [My Name]. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

Both of them suddenly look at each other, seemingly surprised.

Boyfriend: *Horrified* “Oh, no.”

Woman: “Dear, I’m not [Aunt]. I’m [Boyfriend]’s grandmother.”

I blink in surprise.

Me: “Wait, if you’re the grandmother, then…”

Girl: “Hi, I’m [Aunt]! Nice to meet you!”

She turns to face [Boyfriend], who’s rapidly paling.

Girl: “She’s told me everything.”

Boyfriend: “You told her?!”

Me: “You didn’t tell me that she was younger than you were!”

I don’t think [Boyfriend] ever forgave me for that. But in my defence, the word “aunt” conjures up an image of a middle-aged woman, not a fifteen-year-old teenager.

We are visiting a large and beautiful bookstore.

Clerk: “Can I help you?”

Me: “I seem to have lost my wife.”

Clerk: “Hmm.” *Looks around* “Are you fussy?”