(A national fast food chain known for its burgers recently started serving breakfast, and one local branch of this chain has decided to celebrate the announcement by placing a giant, inflatable egg on top of their store. My mom and I are sitting at a red light outside of this restaurant when we see the egg.)

Mom: “That’s a big egg.”

Me: “Yep.”

(A pause.)

Mom: “I wonder how big the cow was?”

(A local amusement park that we frequent in the summer has a water park attached to it. I’m deathly aquaphobic so I avoid that part of the park which usually causes no problems, but occasionally on windy days the strong smell of chlorine will waft over and sometimes triggers a panic attack. I’ve just been calmed down after such an attack.)

Friend: “Wow, I’ve never seen anyone get triggered by the smell of chlorine before!”

Me: “That’s probably because the reason I’m so afraid of water is because when I was almost four years old, I tried to fish a toy out of my grandmother’s pool and fell in. Luckily I’d fallen right next to the ladder and was able to pull myself out because no one even saw me go in.”

Mom: “That never happened!”

Me: “Yes, it did. I know it happened because I was traumatized by it enough to remember it exactly as it happened. I even remember that the toy I was trying to get was the rubber seal that Grandma has on the shelf in the bathroom as a decoration.”

Mom: “I never left you alone by the pool, so there’s no way you could have fallen in!”

Me: “I wasn’t alone by the pool. You were there; you were just talking to someone. I pulled myself out before anyone saw me, but I clearly remember falling in and almost drowning.”

Mom: “We would have noticed!”

Me: “Well, you didn’t, and I was still wet because we’d been swimming in the pool earlier so you didn’t think anything of it, and I didn’t say anything to you because I thought you’d be angry with me for falling in. Why do you think I suddenly went overnight from loving Grandma’s pool to being too terrified to go near water?”

(To this day she insists I never nearly drowned in the pool, which I’m not sure is denial out of an attempt to not seem like a bad parent — she wasn’t; she was usually very attentive when my sister and I were around the pool; she just looked away for a second that one time — or because she doesn’t think I would be able to remember something that happened to me when I was so young, so clearly I either dreamed it or made it up. It’s worth noting that she also doesn’t remember the time my sister fractured her finger at school when someone slammed a heavy steel door completely shut on it despite the fact that she was the one who rushed her to the hospital and insists it didn’t happen, even though my sister clearly remembers the trauma from that, too, so maybe she just doesn’t like to think of her kids getting hurt and refuses to acknowledge it ever happening.)

(This is during the Northeast blackout of 2003. It’s the height of summer, and our power and water have been out for days. I’m 12 at the time and already acting like a teenager, communicating mostly through angry expressions and snarky words. My mom and brother are away on my brother’s school trip, so it’s just me and my dad. Unfortunately, my dad doesn’t really have any cooking or survival skills. He can barely boil water without something going wrong. During the brief time between when he moved out of his parents’ house and when he married my mom, he lived exclusively on pizza and fast food. He once nearly burnt down his apartment by trying to reheat a pizza in the oven without removing it from the box first. Obviously, he’s having some trouble feeding us both with no working fridge, freezer, oven, stove, or microwave. While I’m reading a book and trying to keep cool, I see my dad carry a gas camp stove outside. I hear lots of clattering and swearing for the next half hour or so, then he comes back inside and proudly sets a plate in front of me. On it are the charred remains of what looks like an entire package of hot dogs. One of them has broken open and appears to still be raw on the inside.)

Me: *disgusted look*

Dad: “Okay, I know it’s not as good as what your mom makes, but this was the best I could do.”

Me: “Oh, my god, Dad! You know I’m a vegetarian now.”

Dad: “Oh, right. Still? But anyway, do hot dogs even count?”

Me: *Of course they— Hold on, I thought we declared yesterday that all the food in the fridge was bad.”

Dad: “Yeah, but hot dogs don’t go bad.”

Me: “Uh, yeah, they do. Why do you think we keep them in the fridge?”

Dad: “Because that’s where the meat drawer is?”

Me: *face-palm* “We can’t eat this. We could get sick.”

Dad: “Well, other than this, we have ketchup and chocolate milk powder without the milk. And without water, for that matter.”

(We decided to drive around to see if any stores were open and selling food or water. We had no luck for a few hours, and then the sun went down. We saw a faint glow on the horizon and headed in that direction. It turned out to be a city with the power back on, and we found one fast food place that was open. We got some food and drinks and then decided to come back the next day to see if any grocery stores were open. Luckily, our power came back on that night. When my mom got home, she had a few words with my dad regarding food safety.)

(I work at a low cost retailer on the weekends to make some extra cash. The weekend before Father’s Day, my manager approaches me while I restock some shelves.)

Manager: “Can you work next weekend?”

Me: “Yes. Why?”

Manager: “Thank God! I’m having problems finding people willing to work on Father’s Day.”

(Before I can say anything, an older customer who is standing a few feet away speaks up.)

Customer: “You want to work on Father’s Day? How could you! Don’t you love your father? Don’t you want to spend time with him? What kind of daughter are you? Don’t want to see your own your father on Father’s Day?!”

Manager: *turns to Customer* “I’m sorry, ma’am—”

Customer: *turns her wrath towards the manager* “And you! How could you ask this poor young woman to work on the day made to celebrate her father?!”

(My manager looks flummoxed for a moment, so I jump in.)

Me: “Ma’am? My father has been dead for ten years, and really, he was an a**-hole when he was alive. I don’t think he really cares what I do on Father’s Day.”

(The customer stops and stares at me, her mouth agape. Then she turns and hurries away. I glance at my manager, sure I’m about to get yelled at for cursing at a customer, but am surprised to see him grinning ear to ear.)

Manager: “So… still available to work next weekend?”

(My family and I are sitting in the garden having a barbecue. My father is celiac, meaning that giving him gluten is the equivalent of laying his intestines out on a road of broken glass and going over it with a steam roller. He has just finished cooking some gluten-free burgers.)

Me: *coughs* “These aren’t very pleasant.”

Dad: *laughs* “Of course not! They’re celiac. It’s not celiac if it doesn’t get stuck in your craw.”

Me: “Dude, your life f****** sucks.”

Dad: “I know. It’s gotten to the point now that if I’m eating something nice I have to look at the box to double check.” *recreates a suspicious look*

Mum: “I can’t believe people who aren’t celiac eat this. Put something else on.”

(She chucks what is left of her burger on the ground for the dog.)

Dad: “Nope! If I have to suffer, you have to suffer with me.”

Me: *quoting someone I don’t remember* “I once knew a man who gave up smoking, drinking, rich food, and sex. He was healthy until the day he killed himself.”

(The dog then interrupts us by hacking in the corner, eventually sicking up the burger.)

Dad: “Well if the Labrador can’t stomach it, maybe I shouldn’t eat it either.”

Me: “If the Labrador can’t eat it, I think it technically counts as bio-waste.”

(The dog is fine.)