(I am seventeen, working in a popular fast food place. Being a minor, there are restrictions on when we can work; we can work 28 hours a week, and not past midnight.)

Manager #1: “Hey, [My Name] can you work closing tonight?”

Me: “Well, I can work part of closing. But I need to leave at midnight.”

Manager #1: “Why?”

Me: “I’m a minor; I cannot work past midnight.”

Manager #1: “Oh. Well, what we can do is have you clock out at midnight, then, just keep working. Then I’ll make an adjustment to your time.”

Me: “Um… Well… It is a Friday and I have no school tomorrow, so… okay.”

(I happily work the extra hours. This repeats itself many times over the next couple of months; I have a ton of “adjustment” hours I get paid for and am happy with the money. Then, one day…)

Me: “Do you need me to work closing tonight? It’s a weekend.”

Manager #2: “You cannot work past midnight; you are a minor.”

Me: “Oh, [Manager] always has me work closing, then just puts the extra hours on my time card as an adjustment.”

Manager #2: “Um, they shouldn’t be doing that; it’s against the law. I need to look into it.”

(The manager who was doing that was demoted, and a very strongly-worded memo came out that stated very clearly that all minors must leave by midnight. Oops! I didn’t mean to get them in trouble; I was just happy to have the extra money!)

(I am 12, and I have scoliosis. This causes the spine to bend in unnatural ways and can even lead to full paralysis. I am lucky; my doctors catch it at an early curve, and I am moved to a specialized hospital where I undergo corrective surgery. Much of the family comes to visit, some of whom I’m not a fan of, specifically my older brother. During my time in the ICU just after surgery, I am hooked up to a press-button mechanism which delivers pain-killing meds to my system with an audible beep. While in the ICU I am constantly exhausted, surrounded by family and being annoyed by nurses and doctors. One day, I’ve had enough. I’ve been suffering traumatic nightmares and hallucinations, which leaves me spiteful, this morning especially. I have also forgotten that the machine which gives me medicine has a tendency to beep. My family walks in, led by the head nurse.)

Nurse: *gently* “[My Name], wake up; your family’s here!”

Me: *groans and glares at family*

My Brother: *teasingly* “So, [My Name], how are you feeling today?”

Me: *glares some more, presses button*

Machine: *BEEP*

Me: *startled and confused* “Huh?”

My Family: *laughs*

Dad: “Well, I guess that answers that question!”

(I couldn’t help but laugh, myself.)

(My wife and I have potted plants on our balcony, which have become infested with spider mites. We’re looking up remedies online.)

Me: *reading off a website* “‘Make your own miticide at home by mixing a tablespoon of ground cinnamon, a tablespoon of ground cloves…'”

Wife: “I’m not making glühwein for the mites!”

(Glühwein is mulled wine.)

Me: “‘…two tablespoons of Italian seasoning!’” *laughs* “Serve some tea to the mites; be a gracious host!”

(I have received a speeding ticket, and as it’s not my first, I need to attend a government-run “re-training” session at a local school to teach me about the consequences of speeding. I walk into the classroom, and bump into my brother.)

Me: “What are you doing here?”

Brother: “I could ask you the same thing!”

Me: “Did you get a ticket?”

Brother: “Yeah, did you?”

Me: “Yeah, I was told I had to attend this class.”

Brother: “Oh, man. Me, too!” *his eyes go wide* “Seriously?”

(I follow his gaze and see our mom walk into the room.)

Mom: “What are you two doing here?”

(We establish that all three of us have received speeding tickets recently, none of which have been our first. The class starts and the teacher is taking roll-call.)

Teacher: “[My Name] [My Last Name].”

Me: “Here.”

Teacher: “[Brother] [My Last Name].”

Brother: “Here.”

Teacher: “[Mom] [My Last Name].”

Mom: “Here.”

(The teacher looks up after reading the three names in a row, to see the three of us sat together. We all look alike.)

Teacher: “Are you related?”

Mom: “They’re my sons.”

Teacher: “Who taught them how to drive?”

Mom: “I did.”

Teacher: “Figures.”

(My parents have hosted Christmas Eve for both sides of the family as long as I can remember. Gatherings in my family are informal; a few people sit at tables for comfort or practicality, but many of us occupy couches or the floor around coffee tables. When I was growing up we lived in a large house, but my parents downsized about seven years ago. This year, for the first time since they moved, basically everyone is coming. Nobody is with in-laws, and some of the old “kids table” group have their own children now, so the total expected head count is larger than it’s ever been at their current place. Four generations will be represented. My mom can be rather uptight and is more of the planner than my dad, so I text her and ask if she wants me to bring an extra dessert, knowing we’ll have so many people. A few moments later my phone rings.)

Me: “Hi, Mom!”

Mom: “YOU AND [BOYFRIEND] CAN EAT IN OUR BED OR SITTING ON THE TOILET!”

Me: “Um… What?”

Mom: “THERE’S GOING TO BE AT LEAST THIRTY-FOUR PEOPLE, MAYBE MORE! I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I’M GOING TO PUT EVERYONE!”

Me: *laughing* “It’ll be fine! It’s always fine.”

(I can hear my dad yell to her from the background, “Nobody will care! There’s never enough chairs, anyway!”)

Mom: “WE’LL NEVER FIT!”

Me: “So, should I bring the bundt cake?”

Mom: “Yes, please! You can eat it in the bathroom, too!”