I was at the store and overheard a woman talking to an older woman, her mother.

Younger Woman: “I need to find the baby monitors.”

Older Woman: “Oh, that’s not good.”

Younger Woman: “Why?”

Older Woman: “They’re not very ethical.”

Younger Woman: “Why?!”

Older Woman: “They’re an invasion of the baby’s privacy!”

Younger Woman: “Mom… you listened in on all my house calls until I moved out.”

The conversation seemed to end after that!

I’m watching a nature documentary on the BBC with my kids. One of the teenagers almost screams at the TV when he sees something.

Teenage Son: “Is that… a badger?!”

Me: “Yeah?”

Teenage Son: “But… how?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Teenage Son: “They’re mythical! Like narwhals!”

I turn to my daughter.

Me: “Can you hit pause, love? This is going to take a while to unpack…”

I am picking up my twin boys from kindergarten. I’m asking them about their day, and they’re excited about all the new friends and opinions that are now in their world.

Son #1: “Mom, how do girls pee?”

Me: “Same as boys, but we need to sit down while doing it.”

Son #2: “So, girls pee out of their butts?”

Son #1: “Don’t be stupid!”

I’m about to mentally praise [Son #1] for being the sensible one when…

Son #1: “Girls don’t have butts!”

I’m a dude, so a forty-nine-cent bar of Ivory soap is good enough for me, but my daughter likes the fancy soaps, bath bombs, and the works. She spends a lot of money at a fancy soap store in the mall. But then, one day, she mistook a little jar of cream for a sampler and touched it. The salespeople at the store made her buy it — $20, and she didn’t even want it.

She came home and told me the story. I checked [Soap Store]’s website and found that they have a very generous return policy: “You can exchange any product or gift that you’re not satisfied with — for whatever reason.”

So, I took the little jar of cream back to the store for a refund. I would have even accepted store credit; [Daughter] would surely spend it soon enough. But the salesperson and their manager (yeah, I asked for one…) denied it full cloth.

Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I started thinking, “This isn’t over.” I called corporate and related the story to them. They told me they’d look into it and call me back. I chilled in the car playing some Pokémon Go, and about ten minutes later, corporate called me back and informed me that they had spoken to the store, and that if I went back in now, I’d get my refund.

I walked back into the mall to the store, and the manager wordlessly tossed my money over to me and accepted the return. “Thanks,” I said, and as I turned to leave, the manager informed me that I was banned from the store. Like I care, I’m not a fancy soap guy. But then they said my daughter was banned, too. That didn’t seem fair; I was taking the bullet here.

My daughter was quite upset by the news, but she took the initiative to call corporate herself and get herself unbanned from the store. (I am, of course, still banned.) I was rather proud of her for that, to stand up to the idiot salesperson and manager. For a little $20 jar of cream, they were willing to throw away hundreds of dollars of future sales.

Anyway, that was years ago, and I’m sure the manager who banned me is long gone, but I’m honoring the ban and never buying anything from that store ever again. But I doubt I can get my daughter to sign on to my boycott.

About thirty years ago, after my parents’ divorce, I went to live with my dad. If it wasn’t a perfect era at all, there were some very good things, such as watching movies with my father, both at the theater and at home. Dad had to wait a few years to buy our first VHS player, which he did for Christmas of 1991. After that, he rented and bought many, many movies — I think he owned around a thousand copies — and he loved it when we discovered new ones together.

Around the spring of 1993, he came back with a new one and asked me to sit down to have a serious conversation.

Dad: “Check out that one.”

He showed me the cover, which I still think was a fascinating one: a very pale woman’s face with a large moth covering the mouth. You got it; it was “The Silence Of The Lambs”.

Dad: “I know you’ve already seen some scary movies with me, or at your mom’s…”

He was right. I’d started to watch flicks such as “A Nightmare On Elm Street” and “Halloween” sequels about two years before, and I loved them.

Dad: “…but that one is another level. I saw it already, a few months ago, with a friend.”

Me: “And?”

Dad: “And it’s pretty frightening. It scared her enough that she said she had to stay the next night wide awake in her bed, and then she constantly checked the closets and under her bed for about two weeks after that. It’s really excellent, though, and I already know you’re gonna love it, but you’re only ten, and there are a few scenes that really could disturb you. So, I want you to promise me one thing. I won’t hide it away — it will stay right in the middle of our movie collection, in plain sight — but we won’t watch it until I think you’re ready. So, don’t watch it behind my back when I’m not home. Are we clear?”

Me: “Yes, Dad!”

I think about eighteen months, maybe two years went by before, one evening, he went to the shelves and pulled “The Silence…” out.

Dad: “Enjoy!”

I sat and watched with utmost interest the first meeting between the rookie FBI agent and her terrifying ally/adversary/mentor, the interventions of the slimy asylum administrator, the autopsy, the abduction of the last victim, etc. Then, at the middle of the film…

Dad: “Oh, there’s going to be one h*** of a scene coming…”

Me: *Enthusiastically* “Yes, I know!”

And I pretty much gave him the detailed description of what was going to happen on screen in the next ten minutes. A bit puzzled, he frowned, then took the remote, paused the movie, and scolded me.

Dad: “That’s not cool, [My Name]. I thought we had a deal. You weren’t to watch it by yourself; you were too young for it.”

Me: “But I didn’t!”

Dad: *Annoyed* “Please, don’t lie to me.”

Me: “I’m not lying! Honest! I didn’t watch the movie without you, I swear…”

And as I was talking, I got out of the armchair and went to the bookcase.

Me: “…but you never said anything about reading the novel.”

He stared at me for a few seconds and then heartily laughed.

Dad: “When did you read it?”

Me: “About the same week you bought the VHS, I guess. And I think I have read it three or four more times since. By the way, you were absolutely right: I just love that story!”

Then, we resumed the screening.