(I am about ten. The furnace in my parents’ house has a problem in it. For some reason, it diverts hot water away from our showers if we run any other water, and what we get when nothing else uses water isn’t too much. Should we take a low-flow shower with warm water, the heat lasts about seven minutes. Once the water runs out, showering is tantamount to being pelted with ice. It takes at least thirty minutes to recover. As a result, even though we have two showers, we never use the one in the basement, no matter the rush we are in. My mother, the main breadwinner, insists that we don’t have the money to fix it. I am able to figure out that if we play with the nozzle just right while we shower, we can draw it out to about 15 minutes, which makes the situation manageable for my dad and me. My mother, however, can never figure out the trick, even after I draw little marks on the shower wall indicating which way the nozzle should point. Instead, she elects to soak her hair in cold water from the sink and scrub in the shampoo before she turns the shower on. However, our sink is not made for washing hair, so the lengths it takes to accomplish that stunt increases her bathing time to about twenty minutes. I am enrolled in a study program on Saturdays that meets at nine am. The school is about a fifteen-minute drive away, so my dad and I work out a schedule for Saturday mornings. I wake up at six am, have breakfast, and shower around seven am. That gives him the opportunity to shower at about 7:45, and we’re on the road at 8:30. We figure we don’t have to talk to my mother about this due to her work schedule. Monday through Friday every week, she has to be awake at four am so that she can get to work at seven am while still having breakfast, and she keeps to these hours even on the weekends. On said weekends, she usually does one of two things: she lounges around the house before showering at 11 am, or jumps in as soon as she wakes up like it’s a weekday. Either way, we should be covered. The very first Saturday of this program, my dad and I work our butts off to have a nice pancake breakfast and eat up the whole hour. At seven, I find the bathroom door locked. Figuring my mom just needed the toilet and this won’t take long, I go to sit on my bed for a moment. That “moment” lasts over ten minutes, and ends when she turns the shower on.)

Me: *knocks*

Mother: “Yeah!”

Me: “Why are you showering now?”

Mother: “I wanted to shower!”

Me: “Let’s go! I have to get to [Program] today!”

Mother: “You’ll have to wait!”

(Just to put this into perspective, her shower doesn’t end until about 7:20. I can’t shower until 7:50, so my dad won’t be able to shower before he drives me to the program.)

Dad: “[Mother]? Could you drive [My Name] to [Program] today?”

Mother: “It’s my day off!”

Dad: “But I haven’t showered. I’d rather not drive him while I stink.”

Mother: “I worked hard all week! I deserve a f****** break!”

(My dad sighs and agrees to drive me, despite the fact that, due to the divorce settlement of his previous marriage resulting in him owing alimony and child support, he actually works longer hours than she does, even before factoring in that he also works Sundays. After the program, we finally talk to my mother about the schedule we need to keep. She continuously insists that she understands, but this weekend plays out again every weekend for the first month of the program. For some reason, she suddenly decides to change her schedule, and refuses to make allowances for either of us. At that point, I get creative. Rather than a big breakfast like we’ve been trying, I just have scrambled eggs one weekend; it’s quickly made, quickly eaten, and I can do the whole thing myself. As a result, my dad instead showers at 6:00 while I make breakfast for myself alone. At 6:45 on the dot, I jump into the shower. As expected, I immediately hear banging on the door.)

Me: “Yeah!”

Mother: “GET OUT!”

Me: “I’m washing!”

Mother: “I NEED THE SHOWER!”

Me: “I’m using it!”

(This exchange continues for a while until she finally figures out I am going to use every last second of those fifteen minutes. She won’t speak to me for the rest of the day, but I figure it will send the message across. Boy, was I wrong. My dad and I try for a big breakfast again next week, and next week my mother decides the bathroom is hers at 7:00. So, the following week, we go to back to scrambled eggs and fighting. And we do that every week if we determine she hasn’t showered before we woke up. Amazingly, it never occurs to her that she could avert the whole thing by simply showering when she wakes up at 4:00. Even more amazingly, we suddenly have the money to fix the boiler, with some left over for those shower caddies most people buy when they go to college.)

Mother: “From now on, we’re going to carry our own soaps, shampoos, and other personal stuff out of the bathroom and only have communal stuff like toothpaste and mouthwash in each bathroom. Now, who has which shower will be decided on first-come, first-served.”

(It was an agreeable arrangement, so I had nothing to say at first. However, the very first Friday night of this deal, after my mother went to sleep, I noticed her toothbrush was by the sink. Upon closer inspection of the shower, I also found her shampoo, conditioner, soap, and razor. First-come, first-served, indeed. Naughty person that I am, the following morning I had scrambled eggs. It wasn’t until she ran into this shower that she even realized I had refilled her caddie. Every Friday until the program was over, I’d find the bathroom restocked with her stuff, and every Saturday until the program was over I’d pull the same stunt. Never once did she use the basement shower. Never once did she think to shower as soon as she woke up.)

(My husband is prone to explaining things at length to our ten-year-old daughter, even in reply to simple questions. We’ve called the phenomenon “Dadsplaining.” Tonight, he’s snacking on chips after dinner and the dog starts to beg for one.)

Husband: “No, [Dog], I’m not going to give you chips. They’re bad for you. Plus, I already gave you dinner. You had a quarter-pound of minced meat, a boiled egg…”

Me: “Oh, my God, he’s Dadsplaining the dog now! [Daughter], pack a suitcase and run!“

(When my boyfriend asks me to marry him, his parents announce that they are going to throw us an engagement party.)

Me: “Thank you! Where would you like to have it? We could have it at our house…”

Future Mother-In-Law: “Oh, no. We’ll have it at our house.”

(Her house is in a town that’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive from where my fiancé and I live.)

Me: “Oh… That’ll be kind of a long drive for all our friends, though.”

Future Mother-In-Law: “That doesn’t matter; I’m not inviting them.”

Me: “Ah, who were you planning to invite?”

Future Mother-In-Law: “Family members, plus some of [Future Father-In-Law]’s colleagues.”

Me: “Um… Okay.”

(Cut to a few weeks later. My fiancé and I are driving to the party.)

Me: “It’s nice of your parents to do this, but I’m confused about why they’re inviting your dad’s colleagues. We’ve never met them.”

Fiancé: “I don’t get it, either.”

(We arrive at the party. There’s a big sign that says, “CONGRATULATIONS, [My Name], [Fiancé], [Additional Name #1], and [Additional Name #2]”.)

Fiancé: “Mum, whose names are on the sign?”

Future Mother-In-Law: “That’s are your dad’s assistant and his fiancée. They got engaged at the same time as you, and we wanted to throw them a party, so we figured we might as well kill two birds with one stone and have one for you at the same time!”

Fiancé: “…”

(That was one awkward event. We were pretty upset at sharing a special time in our lives with another couple, especially since we’d never met them before.)

A couple weeks ago a coworker of mine sold two kayaks and paged me from the loading dock to ask if I could help him load them for the customer. “Sure,” I replied, and made my way back to find the customer, his wife, and three screaming young children swarming around a minivan. The van did not have a kayak rack, only the roof rack it came with from the factory.

While my coworker and I manhandled the kayaks onto the roof, the customer assumed the role of “event coordinator.” He wanted them arranged a certain way — the most difficult possible, of course — and was never quite happy with the way we tipped, angled, and flipped the kayaks. Needless to say, my fellow worker and I spent a good 25 minutes with our arms over our heads, trying to steady the kayaks while the customer stood back, pondering his “vision.”

Not long into this ill-fated venture, one of the younger screaming children got out of the van, came over to where we were standing, and started poking at me. It began with a poke in the side. I’m not ticklish or anything, but it just wasn’t a comfortable feeling. I looked down at him and shook my head no. The fact that he was getting to me was intensely gratifying to him, because he escalated to punching me lightly in the side, back, and legs. With each hit, he became more bold and the blows began to pack on more force.

Inside the van, Mom made herself useful by being absorbed in her phone. Dad was too busy trying to craft a kayak Mona Lisa and paid the child no attention, either. After telling the kid, “No,” “Please stop,” and, “Don’t do that,” a half dozen times, I was getting pretty pissed.

Finally, while my attention was fixed upon yet another rearrangement of the kayaks, the kid tried to take my wallet and pocket knife out of the back of my pants. In a lightning-fast move, he then reached around front and gave me a hard sock right in the groin. That was it. I turned, gritted my teeth into the meanest scowl I could imagine and growled, “QUIT IT!”

Naturally, the kid started bawling and ran for the solace of his mother, who snapped out of la-la land and glared at me. Dad also gave me the stink eye, saying, “Thanks, but we’ve got it from here.” I forced myself to say, “Thanks, and you have a nice day,” before walking back inside.

You’ve got to love involved parents.

(I live with another girl in an apartment complex owned by our university. On the evening of Good Friday, I come in from classes to find that our toilet has backed up. There’s a good amount of icky water and it’s seeping into the carpeted next room, but it isn’t a serious flood. My roommate works in the campus security office, so she can contact the maintenance supervisor directly rather than using the online ticketing system. She contacts them. The supervisor calls me back and says that all personnel have already left campus for Easter weekend, but they will take care of it first thing Monday morning. He apologizes for not being able to get to it sooner. I assure him that Monday is fine. I decide to drive to my parents’ house for the weekend, which I typically don’t do, for various reasons. I go straight to class Monday morning and don’t get back to the apartment until the evening. I find the toilet fixed and the carpet cleaned, and I think that’s the end of it… until Tuesday, when my mom calls, and this conversation ensues:)

Mom: “Did they finally get your carpet cleaned?”

Me: “Yeah, it’s all taken care of.”

Mom: “Good. I called the janitor first thing Monday morning and chewed his a** out for not getting this taken care of immediately Friday night, like he should have!”

Me: “You did what?!“

Mom: “Yeah. I knew if I called and yelled at them, they’d get off their a**es and get it fixed right away next time.”

(My mom is the type of person they write phone-support horror stories about on Not Always Right, so I knew that some poor janitor had been screamed at and cussed out for a problem they were already working to fix. I yelled at my mom for interfering, and then wrote an email to the maintenance supervisor apologizing for my mom’s rudeness and thanking them for taking care of the problem so quickly. Thankfully, he was able to pass my email on to the poor janitor who’d cleaned our carpet after my mom screamed at him!)