I was walking past an alley last night, when I heard, “Help! Help!” coming from behind a dumpster. Two thugs were trying to steal an old lady’s handbag, but she was putting up a heck of a fight and wouldn’t let go.
I wondered if I should get involved, or keep walking and pretend I didn’t see anything.
I finally decided that I should help.
She was one tough old lady, but the three of us finally got that handbag.
To prepare for my daughter’s First Communion, I called the church in the town where we used to live to get a copy of her baptismal certificate.
We lived there for only a short while, so I didn’t know the clergy well. When the secretary asked me the name of the father, I told her that I couldn’t remember.
After a brief silence, she said, “Ma’am, I’m talking about the name of the baby’s father.”
My husband and I decided to take our two children, then ages seven and three, to our favorite “adult” restaurant for the first time. The younger child refused to stay in her seat and danced around our table. Her sister, tears rolling down her face, laughed loudly at the three-year-old’s antics and pounded the table.
Beet-red with embarrassment, my husband warned them through clenched teeth, “If you don’t start behaving, you’ll never eat out with us again!”
The man at the next table leaned over to his wife. “Look dear,” he said. “Quality time!”