(I am 16. I’d just gotten home from a two-day fishing trip with my best friend. I find my stack of adult magazines that I thought I’d hidden pretty well sitting on my bed. There’s a note on it that reads: ‘We need to talk. –Mom’. Knowing that I’m busted, and dreading the worst, I go see my mother and father who are in the dining room having dinner.)

Me: “Uh, you wanted to see me?”

Mom: “Yes. Mind telling me about what I found in your closet?”

Me: “Uh, yeah. Those… uh…”

Mom: “Honestly, you need to hide them a little better. I don’t like finding that stuff because, frankly, I don’t want to think of you doing ‘that stuff’ in your room. Imagine my shock when I opened the Candyland box. It felt a little heavy, and that was a dead give-away. I mean, what were you thinking? You know we keep all the board games in your closet.”

Me: “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ll… what? Hide them better?”

Mom: “Also, if you want a subscription or something, let me know. I noticed a lot of your stuff is pretty old and you probably paid somebody way more than they’re worth. Since you check the mail anyway I wouldn’t have to see them.”

Me: “What? No, I don’t need a subscription.”

Dad: “Honestly, we were both a little surprised. Your mother and I were pretty convinced you were gay.”

Me: “What?! I’m not gay.”

Mom: “We know, sweetie. I found your stash, remember?”

Me: “Well yeah, but you actually thought I was gay?”

Dad: “Well you do…” *air quotes* “…’go fishing’ with [best friend] almost every week, sometimes you’ll even go in the afternoons after school. We thought it was kind of suspicious. Especially since you almost never bring home any fish.”

(This is true: I generally fish catch-and-release, so I never bring anything back.)

Me: “But [best friend] isn’t gay either. We really do like to fish that much.”

Dad: “Well, just saying. Not that we weren’t going to be supportive, you know. You can always come to us with things like this, your sexuality doesn’t matter to us, as long as you’re not dating a loser. Actually, your mother was kind of hurt that you hadn’t come out to us yet. [Best friend] is really nice, smart, funny, and handy with tools; you two would have made a great couple.”

Me: “But, we’re not gay!”

Mom: “Yes, sweetie, we know. But if you were, he’s quite the catch. Even [friend's mother] thought you two made a nice pairing. We talked to her not last week about whether he’d said anything to her yet. She’ll be so disappointed.”

Me: “But… we’re not…”

Related:
Parental Misguidance

(I am about 6 years old, and just starting to get a handle on the ‘birds and the bees’. My mother has just told me to go clean my room.)

Me: “I don’t want to clean my room.”

Mom: “I know, sweety. But, it’s a rule.”

Me: “When do I get to make the rules?”

Mom: “When you are a mommy.”

Me: *thinks for a moment* “But, mommy, I’m a boy. I wont’ ever be a mommy. I’ll be a daddy.”

Mom: “Well, in that case, I guess you don’t ever get to make the rules. Now, go clean your room.”

(My brother is obsessed with zombies, so naturally my nieces are too. The youngest, only three, calls them ‘zalamies’ and occasionally pretends to be one.)

3-year-old Niece: “Auntie, grrr! I’m a zalamie!”

Me: “Oh no! A zalamie! Ahhhh!”

(I pretend to run away to her parent’s bedroom, where my sister-in-law is working on her computer.)

Me: “Run! Save yourself! It’s a zalamie!”

Sister-in-Law: “Oh no!”

(At this point, my niece catches up to me and starts nibbling my leg and growling.)

Me: “Argh! It got me! Help!”

(Suddenly, my niece bites down HARD on the back of my calf. I cry out in pain and collapse to the floor, narrowly avoiding landing on top of her. My niece stares wide-eyed at me clutching my leg and fighting back curses, realizing she’s done something bad, and bursts into tears.)

3-year-old Niece: “I DON’T WANNA BE A ZALAMIE ANYMORE!”

(I am a petite young woman who works in the meat department of my local grocery store. I get a lot of flak from friends (and strangers) about my job, and have become very prepared to deal with it. I am out to dinner with my boyfriend’s family. I have just finished telling a funny story about my job.)

Me: *explaining* “I work in the meat department at [store].”

Boyfriend’s Youngest Brother: “Oh, so you spend a lot of time working with meat, huh?”

(He gives me a creepy smile, looking pleased with himself.)

Me: “Oh yeah. I work the grinder. I also twist and cut the sausage.”

(He grimaced, crossed his legs, and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening. I got high fives from the rest of the family, because apparently, no one has ever shut him up like that.)

(I am married to a dairy farmer and, as a tomboy, have a long history with guns, knives, and other such implements. My older sister is the exact opposite of myself and literally is unable to even change a light bulb. We are opening Christmas presents at a distant country relative’s house and I have my good knife on me, an automatic double edged 5″ blade. I am using it to open tough plastic packaging.)

Sister: “Let me use your knife real quick.”

Me: *hesitating* “Are you sure? It’s really heavy, and both edges are sharp. I brought my whetstone with me and I was bored last night, so it’s… really sharp.”

Sister: “It’s fine. I know what I’m doing. Give! I’m older, so listen to me.”

Me: “Uh…okay. You’re sure? It’s really sharp. The blade is automatic and locks in place. The framing is metal. This isn’t a real forgiving blade here.”

Sister: “Give me the d*** knife.”

(I give it to her with the blade already extended, handle first.)

Me: “Make sure to cut away from your body and keep all your fingers away from the cutting angle.”

Sister: “I know what I’m doing!”

(Five seconds later, she cuts herself, and the knife plunges a good half inch into her hand. She screams, drops the knife, and blood actually spurts across the room. I calmly grab her hand, drag her to the kitchen, and run cold water over the wound while pulling up a local emergency center on my phone. Finding one, I wrap her hand and drive her there. She complains the entire time that my knife was too sharp, that I should’ve stopped her, that it was irresponsible of me, etc. The doctor asks her what happened. I find myself jumping in, exasperated.)

Me: “She decided to be a know-it-all dumba** and pretend she knew something about using a knife. So instead of listening to her tomboy, Smith and Wesson-toting, Winchester-loving, little sister, she thought she’d be a right cute city slicker and do everything the wrong way.”

Doctor: “Ah.” *looks at my sister* “We don’t look too kindly on stupidity in the country, missy. Listen to your sister next time.”

Sister: “But it was sharp!”

Doctor: “It’s a knife. It’s supposed to be.” *to me* “I know you’re carrying right now. Do me a favor and keep her away from it. She’ll blow her entire foot off next time.”