(For about six months after an accident, my husband and I have one car, forcing a lot of coordination between our schedules. For the most part, this is fine because we both work from home, most of our outings are with mutual friends, and we usually go grocery shopping together anyway. One night, he is crawling in bed when this conversation occurs:)

Me: “How’s your project going?”

Husband: “I need to go to the hardware store tomorrow to finish it.”

Me: “Okay. Just remember, I need the car at 3:00 for a doctor’s appointment.”

Husband: “Okay. I’ll just go in the morning, then.”

(The next morning, he’s working on his project in the basement. I ask when he wants to go to the hardware store and he shrugs. I go back to my work, thinking he’ll come up shortly. Around 2:00 I hear him coming up the stairs.)

Husband: “Okay. I’m gonna get my shower and then head to the hardware store. Do you need anything?”

Me: “Uh… the car?”

Husband: “What? Why? I told you I need to go to the hardware store today. What are you doing?”

Me: “Going to the doctor.”

Husband: “Since when?”

Me: “Since I set the appointment six months ago. It’s a checkup.”

Husband: “You never told me about this! Now I have to wait longer?”

Me: “Or you could have gone this morning, like you said you would last night, or you can come along and take the car while I’m at the doctor’s office and pick me up after.”

Husband: “They’re not in the same part of town. That’s not— This is ridiculous.”

Me: *deadpan* “Yes. Yes, it is. If only we had already talked about this at a previous time, like last night getting into bed.”

Husband: “Well, I— Oh. We did.”

Me: “Mmhmm.”

Husband: “And I forgot.”

Me: “Mmhmm.”

Husband: “So, I guess I’ll drive you?”

Me: *kisses him on the cheek* “Thank you, darling.”

(My mother is reading in bed while my father sleeps, when he abruptly sits up.)

Dad: “How many are there?”

Mom: “…how many what?”

Dad: “Lobsters.”

Mom: *realizing he’s asleep and knowing how much he loves lobster* “Thirteen.”

Dad: “Well, get them off!”

Mom: “What?”

Dad: “Get. Them off. The BED!”

(He then lay down and went back to sleep. This was one of my mother’s favorite stories for years.)

When I was young my dad had an IT job that could call him into work at any time, on top of his normal working hours. At least once a week he would a get a phone call in the middle of the morning and would have to get dressed and go to the office.

One night, my mom woke up and noticed that he wasn’t in bed next to her. She looked at the clock to find that it was past three am. Concerned, she got out of bed and walked into the living room to call him. She reached his office answering machine — this was before everyone had cell phones — and left a message about how it was late and whatever he was doing could wait until he got some sleep. She then went back to her room and slid into bed, only to find another person already in the bed. She screamed like a banshee until she realized it was my father’s panicked voice asking, “What?! What is it?!”

Turns out, while Mom had left their room to make the phone call, my dad was in their master bathroom brushing his teeth. He had kept the lights off and was trying to be quiet so as to not wake her and then climbed into bed before she got back.

(My wife and I have three dogs: two older ones that weigh 100 pounds and 80 pounds, and a younger one that is 55 pounds and not likely to get much bigger. Our small SUV has been great for carting them around, but I’m thinking of trading it in for a small truck.)

Me: “We can put a camper top on the truck. That way we don’t have to worry about them jumping out of the back, and the back won’t get too hot in the sun. Then, when the older ones have gone to the dog park in the sky, we can get rid of the top. [Young Dog] will be able to ride inside.”

Wife: “We might not even have that truck anymore when we lose the big dogs. We still have five to seven years with them. What if we’ve traded it for something else by then?”

Me: *looks at the SUV in the driveway that we’ve had for twelve years* “Really?”

(My sister-in-law went through a string of abusive relationships before meeting my brother, but my brother is very good to her. They are on vacation when we get word that a massive hurricane is headed for their home. I’m already planning to evacuate, but they call me and ask me to go to their home and get some of their most important possessions — legal docs, computers, etc. — and I agree. I’m on the phone with them while I’m packing up their stuff.)

Sister-In-Law: “By the way, there’s something important I need you to get, but you’ll have to search for it.”

Me: “Okay. What am I looking for?”

Sister-In-Law: “In our walk-in closet, in my sock drawer, there is a pair of purple socks. Can you go find them?”

Me: *wondering why she is having me grab socks, of all things* “Sure… Okay, I got ’em.”

Sister-In-Law: “Great. You should feel something inside. Can you open up the sock and get it out?”

(I do so. I find hundreds of dollars wrapped in a tight bundle.)

Me: “Jesus. Must be a thousand dollars here.”

Sister-In-Law: “Yeah, that’s my ‘running away’ money, in case things with [Brother] don’t work out.”

My Brother: *who has been married to her for seven years and has heard this entire conversation* “Oh, that’s a good idea. Too bad you’ll need a new hiding place when we get back.”

Sister-In-Law: *dejected sigh* “Yeah…”

(The rest of the packing was uneventful.)