Growing up in the early 2000s, my dad was the system operations lead for a major institution. He was on call constantly, and he had a work-from-home setup decades before this was a normal service that you could simply buy out of a box.

He worked with this organisation, with the same boss, for decades. The boss was on the other side of the country from us, but he and Dad were fast friends. It was to the point that I grew up calling him ‘Uncle Boss’. And the fact that dad had this WFH setup meant that Uncle Boss WAS a part of my life too.

Whenever he had to work on the weekend, the boss was also there beside him, halfway across the country.

Whenever I was sick and had to stay home from school, Dad would work from home, and every single time, Uncle Boss would make sure to take a minute to tell me he hoped I would feel better soon. 

Once, when I was about 6 and VERY sick, Dad put his headphones on me while he had to step outside to deal with something in the front yard, and Uncle Boss kept me distracted by reading me a story.

I was also six years old when Uncle Boss came across the country for a conference, and he insisted on taking Dad’s whole family out to dinner.

It was a later dinner for me; I was cranky. So when my dad told me to “Say ‘hi’ to Uncle Boss”, I answered with all the scathing disgust that only a child who Knows They Are Right can:

Me: “That’s not Uncle Boss. Uncle Boss is a computer.”

Having never seen him in person before, and talking to him almost exclusively over the much-less-robust internet, I had logically come to the conclusion that my ‘uncle’ was a robot.

 I was six before I found out this was not the case.

This conversation has, unfortunately, happened multiple times.

Dad: “I need you to drive to [store] and get me [thing].”

Me: “Hang on, I’ll check their website to see if they have it in stock.”

Dad: “No.”

Me: “Huh?”

Dad: “DO NOT look on the internet.”

Me: “Well, I don’t want to waste time by going down there only to find that they don’t have it.”

Dad: “Then call them and ask.”

Me: “I can just look it up myself.”

Dad: “NO! CALL! THEM! NOW!”

Me: “Fine, g*******t it!”

I dial the store’s number.

Employee: “[Store]. How can I help you?”

Me: “Yeah, hi. I’m looking for [thing]. Do you have it in stock there?”

Employee: “Uh…I don’t know. You know, you can look that up on our website.”

Me: “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” (hangs up) “They said they don’t know.”

Dad: “Then just go down there and look.”

Me: “What is the big f****** deal about looking it up on their website?”

Dad: “Only nerdy-a** tech geeks who can’t get girlfriends use the internet. It’s not a real thing for real people.”

Me: “You realize it’s not 1992 anymore, right?”

Dad: “GO! DOWN! THERE! NOW!”

Me: “I’M F***ING GOING!”

I drive to the store, discover that they, in fact, do not have the thing Dad wants, and am told by an employee that they ONLY sell it online, not in stock at ANY store, and that if I want it, I have to order it online. I am told this as if I am the idiot here. I drive back to Dad’s place and inform him of this.

Dad: “NO. Go drive to a different store.”

Me: “Haven’t we wasted enough of the day on this already?”

Dad: “It’s YOUR fault the day is wasted. You should have thought of that before you wasted all that time, like you ALWAYS do.”

Me: “You know what? Go drive there yourself.”

Dad: “DRIVE! TO! A! NOTHER! STORE! NOW!”

Me: “KISS! MY! A**!”

I have one sibling, and our father has no siblings. When my brother got engaged, I sent his now-wife a gift: a teacup from our deceased grandmother’s china set, with a note saying:

Note: “I knew if Grandma were still here, she would be as happy to have a new granddaughter as I was to finally have a sister.”

My brother sends me a text:

Brother: “How come I don’t get an engagement present?”

Me: “You didn’t get me anything when I became your sister.”

Brother: “…because all you had to do was get born, and I was two years old?”

Me: “Excuses, excuses.”

I’m currently living with my mom. We deal with our own meals and such, which isn’t a problem on its own, but unfortunately, she has a bad habit when it comes to the food I make for myself… 

I’m making a big pot of garlic Parmesan pasta and chicken in this story; I like having leftovers so I can eat through the week. I like spices and cheeses and all that good stuff, while normally my mom likes salads and light seafood because anything else is apparently too rich for her. As soon as the sauce starts bubbling though, she’s poking her head around the corner…

Mom: “What are you making? Mmm, smells good!”

Me: “Oh, just some garlic pasta with chicken. You can have some when I’m done.”

Mom: “Thanks! But oh, no thanks for me, you know I just like to smell what you’re making!”

She returns to her nightly TV, and I finish up cooking my dinner. Once I sit down, she manifests in the kitchen as soon as it’s out of my sight, and I hear it, the sounds of mixing pasta and sauce.

Me: “…Mom, you can have some with your salad if you want.”

Mom: “No, no, it’s okay! I just want to try the bits!”

Me: “Okay, but could you not add any more sauce? I don’t like when my pasta gets too soggy.”

Mom: “Oh, you! You’re so funny, you like your food SO dry. But I’m not touching it, I just want to see what you made…”

Resigned, I get up to check she hasn’t loaded it with more sauce in the guise of getting a drink. She hasn’t, but what she’s doing is stirring with a spatula, digging out bits of onion and sauce, licking the whole thing, then going back to stirring around for more sauce and onions.

Me: “Go ahead and have some pasta, Mom, it’s okay.”

Mom: “I don’t want any, really! It just smelled so good—” *Stirs, licks.* “—that I just wanted to try some of the bottom—” *Stirs, licks.* “—and on the sides. Mmm, it just smells so good! Thanks for the bits!”

She then leaves the kitchen, and I look forlornly at my spit-pasta. I try to cook as far away from her as I can, but unfortunately, if I want to keep the peace, I’ve learned not to stop her when she does manage to get at my food…

Luckily, she’s moving out to her own place next month, and I’m looking forward to it.

My parents have very different philosophies about food: my mother is just a few almonds short of being a full-blown health nut, while my dad doesn’t much care beyond “it tastes good” and would probably live off frozen pizza and wings given the chance. I ended up somewhere in the middle; I love cooking, but I like a good salad as much as I do a good burger.

One day, I received a cookbook as a gift from my grandmother. As I thumb through it, I mark down a few recipes that look interesting. One thing I stumble across is something called “cheeseburger meatloaf” that appears to be the author’s attempt at making a Big Mac in brick form.

Naturally, I decide to show this to my mother, purely for her horrified reaction. As expected, she recoils when I show her the picture and recipe.

Mom: “Why would anyone make that? I can feel my arteries atrophy just LOOKING at that thing.”

Dad: “What are you two looking at? Cheeseburger meatloaf?! That sounds good! Honey, can we try that?”

Mom: “No! We’re trying to extend your lifespan, not shorten it!”

I reassured him that if he really wanted to try it, I’d copy the recipe for him, and he could make it. He declined.