(It’s Easter, and dad ends up buying an especially large-breasted chicken.)

Mom: “It’s the Dolly Parton of chickens.”

(I am at home on the computer, when I hear my dad swearing in the bathroom. I ignore him until he does it again, this time louder and angrier. I get up to look. I am worried, since he only uses really bad language when he’s hurt.)

Me: “What on earth is going on?”

(My dad silently hands me a bottle of mouthwash with the child cap on. It’s mutilated, but still firmly shut. I manage to hold back my laughter long enough to open it for him.)

Dad: “I’ll give you fifty cents if you don’t tell anyone about this.”

Me: “Make it a dollar and I might consider it.”

(My family of two younger sisters, our father, and I, have just sat down to dinner.)

Dad: “Hey, can you pass the couscous?”

Me: “You know, if this were made with a large waterfowl, it would be called goose-cous.”

Dad: “Or if it were liquid, it could be juice-cous.”

Me: “Or if it was made with coniferous trees, it would be spruce-cous.”

Dad: “In Canada, they’d have moose-cous.”

(By now both little sisters are rolling their eyes, but we keep going.)

Me: “Trains could have caboose-cous.”

Dad: “Batman has Bruce-cous.”

Me: “If you ate it while tied at tennis it would be deuce-cous.”

Dad: “If you hung it from a rope it would be noose-cous.”

Me: “If you added cocaine, you could call it substance abuse-cous.”

Dad: “If you put it in a channel that conducts water, it would be sluice-cous.”

Me: “The Greek gods had Zeus-cous!”

Dad: “Theodor Geisel eats Seuss-cous!”

Little Sister: “You guys have a few screws loose.”

(My brother, two cousins and I have just returned from a shopping excursion.)

Me: “So, mom, I’ve got bad news and good news. Bad news is, [cousin] bought the wrong coffee instead of the one that fits your coffee maker.”

Mother: “Why weren’t you paying attention? It’s always the same with you!”

(I stay dutifully quiet.)

Mother: “Well, and the good news?”

(I leaves, and come back with a huge box.)

Me: “The good news is [brother] and me took care of that.”

(We show her, her brand new coffee maker.)

Me: “Happy mother’s day!”

(I’m terrified of cockroaches. Unfortunately, they’re fairly common in my area, and will sometimes wind up inside the house. One night, paranoid after dealing with a roach in the bathroom, I find a second roach in the bedroom. I smash it with my sandal, but I can’t bring myself to get close enough to dispose of it. I leave my sandal on top of the dead roach, and eventually get to sleep at about 4am. The next day I post online about my dead cockroach dilemma.)

Me: “There is a dead roach under one of my sandals in the bedroom. I need my sandals. I do not know what to do about the dead roach; I don’t want to get close to it. Anybody wanna come over and dispose of a dead roach for me?”

Mom: “Cover him with a blob of wet paper towels. Put a zip-loc bag over your hand. With the bag on your hand, scoop up the blob of wet paper towels. Turn the bag inside out. Ta-daa!”

(I am about to thank my mom for the advice, when she continues.)

Mom: “Then toss the bag of wet paper towels out in the street as far as you can throw it, just in case the Reincarnation Fairy comes to your trash barrel and brings him back to life.”

Me: “OH, MY GOD! MOM! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!”