(I was assigned female at birth but am experimenting with gender presentation. I am currently trying to tie a tie as part of a formal business outfit. This is taking a while, as I keep messing it up. My mother sees me.)

Mum: “Don’t wear a tie. The older ladies will think you’re wearing a costume.”

Me: “I never thought of it that way. Should I wear a necklace, instead?”

Mum: “That would be perfect.”

(I ended up going to the meeting wearing a very pretty necklace, a chest binder, and a sock packer.)

(I work for a kids camp at a college. We are the typical rich kids camp, so we get a lot of stress from parents throughout the whole summer. But some parents just leave us with gem-like stories.)

Me: “Okay. Does your child have any allergies that we should be aware of?”

Mom: “Nope! Our little boy is like Superman! Nothing can hurt him!”

Dad: *stays quiet*

Me: “All right, then! I’ve got everything I need. I think you are good to go! Have a nice day.”

Mom: “Thanks!” *phone rings* “Oh. I’ll meet you guys outside. I have to take this.” *runs outside*

Dad: *to me* “Um… Can you actually wait a second?”

Me: “Yes?”

Dad: “My son is actually allergic to bee stings.”

Me: “Wait, seriously? How come she said he was ‘Superman’?”

Son: “She thinks it’s a ‘flaw’ and is embarrassed about it.”

Me: “Oh… well, no worries, man. I won’t tell anyone, but make sure you have your medicine with you.”

Dad & Son: “Thanks!” *leaves*

Coworker: “Wait… if she doesn’t like to admit he has an allergy, then how did they get medicine?”

Me: “I’m either gonna say in secret or the black market.”

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(My mother is treating me to lunch at a popular seafood restaurant. They are offering an “Endless Shrimp” where you initially choose two types of shrimp from a list of varieties. After receiving those, you can continue ordering additional shrimp plates of any variety until you’re finished. It’s a fixed price no matter how many plates of shrimp you get. We both order the Endless Shrimp and are several plates into it when I find a light brown hair in my shrimp. My hair is long and dark brown, with lighter highlights. Also, I am used to strands falling out here or there throughout the day, so I think it could probably be my hair in the shrimp. I’m not certain, though. I have some social anxiety and hate confrontation, so I set my shrimp aside, planning to simply order another plate. Unfortunately, this isn’t good enough for my mother.)

Mom: “What’s up? What happened?”

Me: *knowing how she would react if she found out* “It’s nothing; I’ll just order another plate.”

Mom: *grabs my shrimp, picks up the hair* “There’s a hair in your shrimp!”

Me: “It’s probably mine. I’m just going to order another plate.”

Mom: *yelling* “NO. This hair is blond. Your hair isn’t blond. This is ridiculous!”

(By now, the waitress has come over to see what the commotion is about.)

Mom: *loudly* “She found a hair in her shrimp.”

Waitress: “I’m sorry—”

Mom: “This is unacceptable!“

Me: *quietly, wanting to die* “It’s no big deal; it’s probably mine, anyway. I’d just like a plate of [different variety], please.”

Mom: “No! This is blond. My daughter’s hair is not blond!“

Waitress: “I’m very sorry, and we can certainly get you that other plate and a discount for the trouble. Our shrimp comes prepackaged from a different company, and the hair probably got in there during their processing. I will definitely talk to the people who order our food so they can let our supplier know.”

Me: “Thank you very m—”

Mom: “I want to see the manager!”

Me: “That’s not necessary—”

Mom: “Manager, now.”

(The manager came over and my mom loudly complained to him about the hair. He ended up comping the full cost of my meal plus half of hers and giving us free dessert! I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t eat more than a small nibble of the dessert. My mom paid and smugly dragged me out of the restaurant. I pretended to need the restroom so I could sneak back and leave the waitress a bigger tip. I hope she had better customers after us!)

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(My family is religious and typically goes to church every Sunday morning. This morning, I’ve been hit with some period cramps that hurt enough to make me opt out in favor of curling up with a heating blanket. While they’re gone, I realize that I’m running low on supplies, so I text my mother, asking if she can stop at the store to pick me up some more pads on the way home. She doesn’t respond for a while and I’m not sure if the message has even been delivered, even though I’m pretty sure the service is over by now. I text my dad with the same question and tell him that I tried to contact Mom but she hasn’t responded. When my family comes home, my mother bears the coveted supplies.)

Me: “Thank you!”

Mom: “You’re welcome. Sorry I didn’t see your text.”

Me: “It’s okay. What did Dad say when I sent the text to him?”

Mom: “He saw it and then just kind of shoved his phone at me and said, ‘Nope, you deal with this.’”

(I sometimes wonder how he’s survived this long with a wife and a menstruating daughter.)

When I’m fifteen, I have all four wisdom teeth out at once. I don’t see much point in whining or complaining about the pain, so I just set timers for when I can take my next dosage of pain meds — five total over-the-counter pills every six hours, plus an antibiotic three times a day — and distract myself with Disney movies and a Pokémon marathon.

The morning after the procedure, I’m drinking a smoothie and reading on my phone. My parents are having their own breakfast.

My mother turns to my father and says, “If you were in her place right now, you’d be bawling.”