(I’ve never been able to eat eggs when they’re served on their own. It’s not an allergy, since I can eat them in baking with no problems. There’s something about the taste, smell, and texture that makes me gag. My mother-in-law has always known this about me, and yet… during a Christmas visit in 1992…)

Mother-In-Law: “[My Name], have some of this breakfast dish I made.”

Me: “No, thank you; I’ll just have some toast.”

Mother-In-Law: “Why not? I worked hard on that!”

Me: “It has eggs in it.”

Mother-In-Law: “Oh. Right.”

(During another visit in 1999…)

Mother-In-Law: “Ah, [My Name], there you are. I saved you some scrambled eggs.”

Me: “Um…”

Two-Year-Old Daughter: “Mummy doesn’t like eggs!”

Mother-In-Law: “What? Since when?”

(During another visit in 2012…)

Mother-In-Law: “[My Name], have a bagel tuna melt.”

Me: “Thank you! I love bagel melts.” *takes a bite* “Um, is there egg in the tuna?”

Mother-In-Law: “Of course!” *as though I am stupid to ask*

Me: *quietly to my husband* “Would you like mine? I’ll just have the soup.”

(It’s been over twenty-five years now, and I don’t think she’ll change. We’ve never gotten along, so I suspect that she’s “forgetting” on purpose.)

(My husband, daughters, and I are preparing to leave for our first trip to Disney World, so we’re all very excited. I have a somewhat unusual name. For clarity’s sake, let’s say that my full legal name is “Penelope Piggott-Montmorency,” but I always go by “Penny.” We’re Canadian, so we need passports to fly.)

Employee: *checking my boarding pass and passport* “Did you know that your boarding pass says, ‘Penny,’ but your passport says, ‘Penelope’?”

Me: “Oh, I always go by ‘Penny,’ so that’s what I put when I was booking our flights. Is that a problem?”

Employee: “Um, yes. Don’t you remember the airline website telling you that you have to use the same name as the one on your passport?”

Me: “Oh, boy, you’re right. I totally forgot.”

Employee: *continues to hang on to my documents* “I’m thinking seriously about not letting you get on the plane.”

Me: “What?!” *my kids start to cry* “But we’re going to Disney World! Is there anything I can do? I didn’t mean to use the wrong name! And you can see that the photo in the passport is definitely me.”

Employee: *smirks* “Rules are there for a reason, ma’am.”

(Just then, another airport employee joins us.)

Employee #2: “What’s the problem here?”

Employee: “She’s trying to board with a boarding pass that has a different name from her passport.”

Employee #2: *glances at documents* “You must be kidding. How many ‘Penny/Penelope Piggott-Montmorencys’ do you think the world has? Especially ones whose pictures match the woman standing in front of you? Let her and her family on the d*** plane.” *to me* “Enjoy your trip, ma’am. But next time, make sure you book your flight with the name ‘Penelope,’ just to avoid this kind of hassle again.” *glares at colleague*

(Ever since then, I’ve used my full legal name every time I fly, even when it’s domestic.)

(My friends and I have decided to spend our Saturday night at our favourite bar. Because I’m the designated driver, I’m sticking to a soda. I’ve left my half-finished drink on my table to go dancing. I figure that it’ll be safe, because one of my friends is staying at the table. When I get back, my glass is completely empty.)

Me: “What the h***? What happened to my soda?”

Friend: *grinning* “You know that creepy guy that’s always hanging around, waiting for other people to leave their drinks unattended so that he can finish them?”

Me: “You mean he drank my soda?”

Friend: “Yup.”

Me: “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Friend: “Because he was obviously hoping that it was alcoholic. He looked really peeved that it was only soda.”

Me: “Well, that’s great and all, but now I’m drinkless.”

Friend: “I’ll buy you another one. It was worth it just to see his face.”

(I don’t know if the creepy guy changed his ways after that, but he never tried to steal one of my drinks again, anyway.)

(When I was in high school, I was pretty goth. Growing up I haven’t changed much, other than altering it to what I jokingly call “Casual Vampire Goth Mom,” now that I have a daughter who is currently six and a half. I just have a darker wardrobe with bold lipsticks. One day on Facebook I see one of those text pictures saying, “My daughter is the sweetest, most beautiful, evil, psychotic creature you will ever know,” and I share it with a story from this week.)

Daughter: “Remember when you used to take me to play funerals?”

Me: “Play funerals?”

Daughter: “Yeah, play funerals!”

Me: “Um… What did we do there?”

Daughter: “Ugh, play funerals! I was like three, there were moms, and lots of kids, and toys, and we would play while you talked to each other.”

Me: “You mean play group?!”

Daughter: *starts laughing* “Oh, yeah. Play group.”

(My mother comments on the post.)

Mother: “Where have you been taking my granddaughter and telling her it’s fun?!”

Me: “You mean you never took me to play funerals when I was little? What kind of childhood did I have?”

Mother: “You used to have play funerals with your cousins; I wanted nothing to do with that.”

Me: “Oh, my God! I forgot about that! I’ve been goth since I was a wee baby, and now my own wee baby has it in her blood!”

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(My friend and I are walking down the street when an old man suddenly collapses in front of us.)

Me: “Sir? Are you all right? SIR?!” *no answer*

Friend: “Call 911!”

Me: “On it.”

(The ambulance arrives in less than five minutes. Sadly, the old man has died. He had a massive heart attack and was probably dead before he hit the ground.)

Me: *suddenly realizing* “Wait a minute. [Friend], don’t you know CPR?”

Friend: *looking shifty* “Yes. Why?”

Me: “Why didn’t you do anything for him?”

Friend: “Because he looked gross. I didn’t want to catch anything. Besides, he was dead already; it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway.”

Me: “…”

(We’re still friends, but I lost a lot of respect for her that day.)