(We are having a conversation about money, and breadwinners.)

Me: “I am a winner of Pokémon, and you are a winner of bread.”

Boyfriend: “Now I am wondering if Pokémon are edible.”

Me: “Some more than others. Roasted Rattata would be good.”

Boyfriend: “Pidgeotto would be too gamey.”

Me: “Bet you could treat Pidgey like quail, though.”

Boyfriend: “Too bad Charmanders are endangered. They would be amazing!”

(When my dad was younger he went to a lot of rock concerts, so now that I’m old enough to go he takes me to a bunch. We’re coming back from a heavy metal concert by a band who really likes to push the envelope with a lot of controversial themes. I was afraid my dad was going to get offended but he doesn’t say anything. I finally get the guts to ask what he thought of the show on the way home.)

Me: “Dad?”

Dad: “Yes?”

Me: “What did you think of the show?”

Dad: “Oh, it was great!”

Me: “Wait, really?”

Dad: “Yeah! I’d like copies of their CDs actually if you have them.”

Me: “Really!? So, you didn’t get offended?”

Dad: “Oh, please. No, actually one thing did offend me.”

Me: “What?”

Dad: “You know how before the show started that girl was crowd surfing and she flashed
everyone?”

Me: “Yes?

Dad: “Yes that offended me, but only because she was really fat.”

(My boyfriend is a video game geek. He especially loves shooting games, which I absolutely suck at. After much begging he convinces me to play a game with him; he puts in Resident Evil 5.)

Boyfriend: “Okay, I’ll give you the automatic shotgun and load it with all of my ammunition.”

Me: “Huh?”

Boyfriend: “You’re good for over 800 shots. You’ll be fine.”

(He randomly picks a level.)

Me: “I’m ready!”

Boyfriend: *about a minute into the level* “No! No no no no no! We have to stop
immediately. I’ll pick a different level!”

Me: *irritated* I’m not incompetent, hun. We’ve already started. Can’t we just finish?”

Boyfriend: “Fine. Whatever.”

(Note: I’m deathly terrified of dogs. All of a sudden, a giant zombie dog runs at me with a gaping hole for a mouth. I panic and start blindly shooting, round after round, screaming the whole time. My gun clicks empty and my boyfriend takes two steps and shoots the zombie dog in the head with one shot. He holds his hand out and I silently gave him the controller. We don’t play shooting games together anymore.)

(We’re outside by my aunt’s pool at the annual family barbecue. Among us is my athletic male cousin.)

Grandma: “[Cousin] is pretty hot. He could make a lot of money as a male stripper.”

Me: “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear that.”

(My family is going through some photo albums of my sister and I as babies. My mom comes across a picture of me.)

Sister: “Oh my God. You had the biggest head.”

Me: “My head wasn’t that big, was it?”

Mom: “Actually, it was. You may not remember this, but your head was so big and heavy that you used to topple over because your body couldn’t balance the weight. We even tried to counter-balance you with pillows!”

(My entire family is now in hysterics.)

Mom: “And then, your sister had to sit next to you all the time and push your head back up so you wouldn’t fall off the couch!”

Sister: “I can just imagine what little baby-you was thinking!” *goes into a baby voice* “Oh, no! I’m falling over! Oh, no! Oh, no!” *pokes my head* “Oh, yay! The magic finger saved me again! Thank you, magic finger!”