My parents are visiting and my mother has offered to go with me to the grocery store. My husband has written out the list and one of the items is “baking sheet”. I go to the kitchenware aisle and pick up, well, a baking sheet: a flat metal pan with raised edges.

Mom: “That’s not on the list.”

Me: “Yes, it is. See? ‘Baking sheet.’”

Mom: “Well, clearly, that’s not what [Husband] meant.”

Me: “But it is.”

Mom: “Why would he tell you to buy a cookie sheet?”

Me: “Because we need one?”

Mom: “He must have meant something else.”

Me: “What else could he have meant?”

Mom: “I’m sure he means parchment paper.”

Me: “Then why didn’t he write parchment paper on the list?”

Mom: “You know how men are; they forget what things are called all the time and then they get grumpy when you bring home the wrong thing. Your father does it constantly.”

Me: “Dad might, but [Husband] doesn’t. And I’m buying a baking sheet because I had an unfortunate encounter with the barbecue last week and wrecked our only one, which is why [Husband] put it on the list.”

Mom: “You should still buy some parchment paper just in case.”

I did not buy parchment paper, and my husband was pleased to have a replacement for the charred remains of our last baking sheet.

My father has the rare talent of being intelligent while also occasionally being as dense as a concrete pole, which has lent itself to a number of frustrating yet amusing situations.

I’m fifteen or sixteen and need him to sign a driving log for me to work towards my driver’s license, which requires an initial by a parent. I’ve filled out the rest of the necessary information, so I hand him the pen and form. He takes the pen and goes to initial the form but no ink comes out. He stares at it for a moment, unsure of why it’s not working.

Me: “You have to take the cap off, Dad.”

The driving log form was initialed. Eventually.

I am eating out, sitting in a booth, when I suddenly feel a sharp pain on top of my head. I flinch and turn to look, and I end up dodging the second swing of a spoon being held by a toddler in the next booth over. He has evidently stood up and decided that drumming on my head with a spoon would be a lot of fun.

I look at his parents; both of them are fully engrossed in their phones and are paying absolutely no attention.

The toddler swings again. I dodge and then fix him with a direct stare and a frown, before sharply shaking my head.

Me: “No, that hurts.”

The smile he has been wearing fades, and he ends up turning around and flopping down on the seat. I turn back to my meal, figuring that is the end of it, when the mother speaks up.

Mother: “How dare you?!”

I turn to see her glaring back at me.

Mother: “It’s not your place to scold my kid.”

Me: “It’s not my place to be your kid’s drum, either.”

She scoffed and actually stuck out her tongue before turning back to her phone. Meanwhile, her kid had moved on to doodling on the menu with a couple of crayons.

I am ushering for the school play of “Into The Woods.” The end of the first act is notorious for being taken as the ending of the whole show. A father and his young son come up to me.

Father: “Is it half-time now?” 

Half-time is for sports; at plays, musicals, and operas, this is called intermission.

Me: “Uh… yes, it’s intermission, sir.” 

Father: “Okay.” *Turns to son* “It’s half-time!” 

Me: “…”

When I was a teenager, my dad and step-mom sent me to a Christian camp for a week, citing that my brother had loved his time there years ago and that I would have fun, too. A lot of kids from our church in my age group were going, too, but I don’t think my parents realized that I wasn’t really friends with any of them.

The week started off poorly when it turned out that the only bedding provided was sheets — no pillow or comforter — so I had to use about half of my spending money to buy a tiny and overpriced pillow to use. I have no idea how my parents missed that, as the other campers all had supplies, and I was never given any information beforehand outside of “You’re going; isn’t that great?!”

Days at the camp were filled with mandatory sports activities; anything that I actually found fun, like rock climbing or paintball, cost extra money per session that I now didn’t have due to the pillow problem. While I love being physically active, I hate being told how to be physically active, so I half-a**ed my way through the first day or two until life gave me a blessing.

Right on schedule, that time of the month arrived! I might have been a tad too gleeful telling the counselor that I wouldn’t be able to play flag-volley-fris-ball for the rest of the week, as they kind of squinted at me and asked if I was fine with telling everyone I was on my period, which I was.

The rest of the week, I was able to sit in the shade sketching, and I was only required to attend the daily church gatherings where over-excited twenty-somethings would tell us how important it was to make sure we brought all our friends to God so they wouldn’t end up in Hell. Fun for the whole family!

I finished up the week with a dozen sketch pages filled and a frown on my face as my dad asked me how my time was. I told him exactly what I thought about being sent to camp with no friends and people telling me to do things I hate all day. My dad got a thoughtful look on his face and then said, “Oh, yeah! [Brother] actually hated that camp! Sorry about that!”

While I didn’t commit patricide, I also didn’t get sent to camp again, so small victories, I guess.