(I’m a fairly innocent kid. When I’m in seventh grade, I’m ecstatic to get the part of a Lost Boy in my school’s production of “Peter Pan.” My character, Pans, wears a pot on his head at all times. My mother begins hatching a plot when I come home with the pot, and that night she springs into action.)

Mom: “Hey, [My Name]?”

Me: “Yeah?”

Mom: “Can you help me with something?”

Me: “Yeah, what?”

Mom: *grinning* “I need you to put on your costume, go out into the living room, and tell your father, ‘Look, Dad, I’m a pothead.’”

(This seems a little weird to me, but I don’t know if there’s a joke there or what she’s talking about. I trust my mother, so I do what she asks.)

Me: *walks into the living room* “Hey, Dad!”

Dad: *looks up from magazine*

Me: “Look, I’m a pothead!”

Dad: *puts his head in his hands and groans*

Mom: *dying of laughter*

(I didn’t fully understand what my mom had been laughing at or why my dad had been groaning until I was much, much older.)

(My parents and I are eating out at a restaurant with my mom’s best friend. Everyone here is from Louisiana.)

Friend: “I’ve always loved Creole gumbos.”

Dad: *a born and raised Cajun* “So, you’ve never actually had gumbo, then?”

(We’ve just finished watching a movie that had a main cast that was nearly all white. At the end of the movie, the main character says, “We can save the future, but we’ll need help.” They recruit people across the globe. None of the recruits are white.)

Dad: “I guess they don’t want white people in their future, huh?”

Me: *headdesks*

(A young girl around six comes in and buys a chocolate bar. Two minutes later, an angry woman storms up to the counter.)

Customer: *hands me chocolate bar* “I need to return this.”

Me: “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t take returns or exchanges on food products.”

Customer: “Why the h*** not? My daughter just came in here to get some food and you let her buy chocolate? What, you think she’s old enough to make a good decision to buy real food?”

(I continue to explain to her why we don’t accept returns/exchanges on food products. The customer gets progressively louder until my manager comes out.)

Manager: “What’s the problem?”

Customer: “This girl won’t let me exchange this! She let my daughter buy this candy bar instead of making her get real food!”

Manager: “Ma’am, maybe next time instead of expecting us to take care of your child you should escort her inside and do so yourself. Have a nice day.”

(The customer left in a huff, mumbling about “ridiculous rules.”)

(When I am 19 or so, my taste in books is a bit, well, trashy. I read “bodice-rippers” pretty much exclusively. My mother hates this and nags me constantly to “stop reading that garbage and read something good, instead.” I tell her to leave me alone; I enjoy those books and I am not harming anyone. One day, my dad approaches me:)

Dad: “My coworker is in the hospital, and she phoned yesterday to say that she could really use something to read. Do you think you could lend her some of your books?”

Me: “Really? Sure! What do you think she’d like?”

Dad: “How about those?” *points to my pile of romance novels* “I bet she’d like them.”

Me: “Well, I don’t mind, so long as she knows they’re just on loan.”

Dad: “Don’t worry about it. She’ll return them once she’s done.”

(I pack up all my trashy novels and give them to Dad. Weeks later:)

Me: “Dad, is your coworker done with my books yet?”

Dad: “Hmm? Oh. No, not yet.”

Me: “Really? It’s been ages. Surely she’s not still in the hospital?”

Dad: “No, she’s out now, but she’s still reading them.”

Me: “She does know that I want them back, right?”

Dad: “Yes, of course.”

Me: “Well, okay.”

(A few weeks later…)

Me: “Dad, can I have your coworker’s phone number?”

Dad: “What on earth for?”

Me: “I’d like to ask for my books back.”

Dad: *getting angry* “For Pete’s sake! I told you she’ll return them when she’s done.”

Me: “But–”

Dad: *loses temper* “ENOUGH!”

(This went on for months. I’d ask Dad to bug his coworker for my books, he’d make some excuse, I’d persist, he’d lose his temper and yell at me, and the cycle would repeat. I finally gave up when it had been more than a year. In hindsight, I can’t believe I was so naïve; there was obviously no coworker. This was a scheme cooked up by my parents to rid me of that “garbage” for once and for all. Joke’s on them, though; I now read Stephen King constantly, which disgusts my mother even more. Oh, well. I’m 55 now, and I’ll read whatever I darned well please.)