(I’m singing “Riptide” by Vance Joy to myself.)

Me: “Running down to the riptide, taking it away to the dark side, I love you, when you’re singing that song, I got a lump in my throat ‘cause, running down to the riptide, take it away to the dark side–”

Nana: “Don’t go into the dark side! No, no, no!”

When I was about four, my parents decided to get a Pomeranian. This was the first pet I ever had, and my parents were very attentive, making sure I was gentle with him. After a week or so, they trusted me enough with him to leave us alone together, and we were inseparable. I loved playing with the little guy. 

My grandparents were over for dinner one day and I excused myself to play. I was running back and forth from one end of the house to the other, so my parents asked me to stop. That’s when they noticed I had a pillowcase in my hand. They asked me what was in it and I said, “Nothing,” and ran off giggling as the bag started to bark. My parents chased me down and wrestled the bag out of my hands, rescuing the poor Pomeranian from me. When they got him out of the bag, he had doll clothes on him with marker all over his face and paws as if it were makeup and nail polish. 

After giving me a huge scolding, they sent the dog home with my grandparents, where he lived out his life very happily. They decided to wait a while before getting a couple of labs, figuring it would be harder for me to bully a larger breed. Luckily, I grew up to be much more loving towards dogs, but my parents still won’t let me live it down to this day!

(My mother-in-law was one of the first speech/language pathologists trained in the United States and she thinks that speech pathology, occupational therapy, etc., are the be-all-end-all of careers for women. She tends to be EXTREMELY overbearing and has ALWAYS insisted that I follow her career path to the letter because she doesn’t want her son — her only child — to be married to someone who “isn’t like her.” I am a former truck driver — one of the few women in my area to be a truck driver — who went to college to study supply chain management but is now pursuing a career as a Certified Public Accountant. My mother-in-law isn’t happy about this.)

Me: “[Mother-In-Law], I have decided to enroll in the MBA program at [College] to get the required college accounting credits to qualify to take the CPA exam in [State].”

Mother-In-Law: “But why don’t you want to become a speech pathologist? Everyone wants to become a speech pathologist, but most people aren’t smart enough to become one.”

Me: “I hate speech pathology! I’m not comfortable sitting with children and disabled people and teaching them how to speak or swallow or whatever you people do.”

Mother-In-Law: “But speech pathology is the best career for women! I love speech pathology!”

Me: “Yes, you might love it, but I am more comfortable working with numbers and financial statements. Remember how you told me that you barely passed basic accounting when you took it while you were in college in the 1960s? I took basic accounting for my supply chain management degree and I got an A because I loved it so much. We are different people; please understand that!”

Mother-In-Law: “But everyone loves speech pathology! People don’t like accountants!”

Me: “I don’t care! People also don’t like truck drivers, despite the fact that we are the people who deliver every single good that they use in their day-to-day lives. Public perception is very flawed. Also, pretty much no one I know even understands what speech pathology is. Everyone knows what accountants do.”

Mother-In-Law: “But you should become a speech pathologist. I have always wanted a daughter-in-law who is a speech pathologist!”

Me: “That’s you. I also took a vocational test through the Department of Labor and accounting was the career that I scored highest on. My scores for speech pathology and the other health sciences were very low. Why should I do something just because you say so?”

Mother-In-Law: “Because I want you to!”

(I walked away from her at that point because she wasn’t going to understand the fact that people are different and have different interests.)

There was a party at my house when I was seven. My mom and dad were busy, but I was hungry. Not wanting to bother them, I decided to make my own microwave ramen noodles.

I knew that my mom didn’t add the pack of veggies, so I left them out. In the directions, adding the veggies and adding water were in the same step. My seven-year-old brain thought, “You only need the water for the vegetables,” so I didn’t add any water. 

I put it in the microwave and waited for it to be done. All of a sudden, the microwave was on fire and smoke was filling the kitchen. 

The fire department ending up coming and in the end, we had to get a new microwave, oven, and kitchen cabinets.

(Birthdays have always been a struggle for me. No matter how many people I invite, only the usual close relatives show up, and sometimes my best friend who I’ve known for 23 years. Besides that, I never had many friends. Somehow my “BFF” has managed to excuse herself out of it for five years now. So, my birthday goes by with just my mom, my brother, his girlfriend, my grandma, and my uncle coming in the afternoon. My friend calls to say that her car broke down and she can’t make it… again. Surprise. In the evening, I expect two of my bandmates — whom I have known for less than a year — and they don’t exactly live nearby. They have been traveling by train for two and a half hours to get to me, so I invite them to stay the night. They arrive, congratulate me, shove two bottles of wine and a homemade cake in my hands, and look around.)

Bandmate #1: “Where are all the guests? I brought my guitar and everything. I thought there was a party?”

Bandmate #2: “Yeah, we were excited to meet all your friends! Where are they?”

Me: “Well… it’s just us three now. Some family came this afternoon, but they went already. And my one friend cancelled… again.”

Bandmate #1: “Well, that’s not fair!”

Bandmate #2: “Your best friend cancelled… and your other friends?”

Me: “I don’t really have any… Not nearby at least.”

Bandmate #1: “Well, that’s just stupid! We don’t live nearby, either, and yet we are here. What trouble is it to just come over?”

Bandmate #2: “Don’t worry. We’ll get you wasted enough to not be sad about the bad turn up!”

(And they did. They conjured up another bottle of rum from their bags and we drank — I never even drink, but screw it just this once — sang songs, played games, laughed, and chatted until 4:00 am, and I can’t recall having a happier birthday ever!)