(My sister-in-law’s car dies. My brother texts me to let me know, but thanks to autocorrect, he sends me the following:)
Brother: “[Sister-In-Law]’s cat died yesterday. She traded it in for $100.”
Me: “I didn’t even know she had a cat. And why did someone give her cash for a dead cat?”
Brother: “Huh? What do you mean?”
(Pauses for a second and obviously looks at his other message.)
Brother: “Oh, no! Her car died, not her cat!”
My friend has talk-to-text and it is generally okay. Or at least, we’ve all become good at translating. One day we had a limping duck that had a swelling on her foot. Knowing it could be bumblefoot, which is possibly life-threatening even if treated aggressively and quickly, we took a picture of it and sent it to the vet with the following text…
Text: “Dr. [Vet], the following picture is our duck’s foot. We are concerned it might be bumble f***. Please advise treatment. We can get her to the office this afternoon, if needed.”
(My mother and I are preparing to make plum jam while my dad and sister sit nearby. My dad is hard of hearing and we all have a twisted sense of humour.)
Mum: “That should be enough jars for the bottling.”
Dad: “Did you say, ‘bottoming’?”
Me: “Wrong containment vessel. We’re using glass, not a**.”
Sister: “Yeah, Dad. Plums, not bums.”
(This is my first time at a clinic with more than one doctor, and we’re not sure which one will see me.)
Me: “This is going to be fun. Who’s going to be my doctor?”
Dad: “Doctor Hu?”
Me: “Yeah, who?”
Dad: “You can say you saw Doctor Who when you actually mean Doctor Hu!”
Mom: “I’m sure Doctor Hu is sick of this. He has to know by now.”
Dad: “He’s Chinese; he’s not going to know.”
Mom: “I’m sure he does.”
(I do end up being seen by Doctor Hu.)
Dad: *big grin, with a singsong voice* “Doctor Hu.”
Doctor Hu: *frowns* “No Doctor Who jokes, please.”
Mom: “Exactly.”
Me: “Sorry.”
This story is part of the Struggles With Names roundup!
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(My boyfriend and I have been dating for a few weeks, but things are getting serious, fast, so it’s time to have the “please tell me we aren’t related” discussion, before we move ahead. As we’re both clearly of northern European descent, it is a slight worry. Names have been changed, but the sentiment is the same.)
Me: “Do you have any Webers in your family?”
Boyfriend: “No.”
Me: “Any Kleins?”
Boyfriend: “Nope!”
Me: “Mayer?”
Boyfriend: “Nuh-uh.”
Me: “Lamberts?”
Boyfriend: “Nope, the only Germans I have are Fischers.”
Me: “Okay, well, that’s my dad’s family back to the great-great-grandparents, so I think we’re good there. How about Petersen?”
Boyfriend: “Uh… Yeah.”
Me: “Well, crap. Who’s a Petersen?”
Boyfriend: “My mom.”
Me: *disappointed, because this guy was really something special* “Dang it! My mom’s a Petersen, too.”
(We both kind of mope for a minute, before a thought strikes me.)
Me: “Wait, with an ‘en’ or an ‘on’?”
Boyfriend: “’On.’ I mean, it was ‘en’ before we came through Ellis Island, but that was like four generations back, at least. We’re Norwegian.”
Me: “Oh, thank heaven! We’re Danish! And that line came over three generations back.”
(Cue a round of relieved laughter before we continue, and ensure that we’re not related for at least four generations on all sides. We’re fine, and get married only five months later. So, of course, at the wedding reception, my new brother-in-law gets clever.)
Brother-In-Law: “Hey, Peterson!”
(A good portion of the crowd turned, some rising halfway before they realized what was going on. My uncle smacked him lightly upside the head.)
