(I go to a Catholic high school, and we have a couple of awesome priests who are science teachers. These teachers have some sodium metal — which explodes on contact with water — for demonstration purposes, but decide that it is probably getting too old to keep around, so they decide to get rid of it. One night it is absolutely pouring rain, and there are some huge puddles in the parking lot, which is under reconstruction. This seems like the perfect opportunity, and so the two of them have a marvelous time chucking pieces of sodium into the puddles and listening to the boom. Unfortunately, someone nearby hears the boom and thinks someone is doing something unsavory, and calls the police. When they realize the police are heading to them, one of them goes in and quickly puts on his priest collar. When they greet the cops, the following exchange occurs.)
Cop: “Sorry to disturb you Father, but the neighbors reported hearing something like an explosion over here. Have you heard anything?”
Priest: “We didn’t hear anything unexpected, officer!”
Cop: “Okay, sorry to bother you. Must be a false alarm.”
(The priests thanked them for stopping by and somehow kept straight faces through it all. It was totally the truth, though; they completely expected to hear explosions!)
(My boyfriend and I have a tricky arrangement where he works almost two hours away and stays there rather than commuting every day. He usually comes home for a long weekend, but something comes up and he has to stay for two weeks.)
Me: “I wish you were here. For snuggling. And smooching.”
Boyfriend: *laughs* “And other things that begin with S?”
Me: “Slow-dancing?”
Boyfriend: “No, the other thing.”
Me: “Supper by candlelight?”
Boyfriend: “Noooo…”
Me: “A sweet sunset stroll, holding handssssssss?”
Boyfriend: “Good alliteration, but no, try again.”
Me: “Wait, did I already say smooching?”
Boyfriend: “Yes.”
Me: “What about esssssssss-kimo kisses?”
Boyfriend: “Wow.”
(Growing up, my father always hated when we ate suckers and other types of food which made us have sticky hands and faces. I never understood the problem with it until I got older. My wife and I decide to allow our young sun to have his very first sucker candy. He really starts to go crazy on it, both because of the sugar and because of it helping with his teething. I’m sitting on the couch and I noticed the sticky, sugar spit all over his face… and his hands.)
Me: “Oh, God… He’s so sticky!”
Wife: “Yep! He’s going to get you, Daddy!”
Me: “Noooo… No no no no no! Keep him away from me! That’s gross!”
(My wife just starts laughing and goes to get the baby wipes to start cleaning him off when my son RUNS over to me, forces the slobbery and sticky sucker into my hand, uses my arm to climb up me with this sticky hands, and grabs the sucker back from my hand as I’m sitting there in stunned silence. He proceeds to worm his way behind me, put the sucker in his mouth… and run his hands from my neck into my hair, then pull the sucker out and drum on my bare back with it.)
Me: “EWW! OH, GOD! It’s all over my back!”
(My wife is howling with laughter, trying to get a picture just as my father arrives and sees what is going on, with my son still running the sucker up and down my back, while slapping me with his other sticky hand.)
Father: “YES! JUSTICE! Good job, [Son]!”
(We both got a baby wipe bath after that, and I decided he had enough of the sucker for the day.)
I was flying back home from an event in Florida, and a woman sat down in front of me with a screaming infant. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” I thought.
Right then another woman with an active infant sat down next to me. She looked at the woman in front, then leaned over and said, “I guess this is your lucky day!”
If had been drinking something, I surely would have done a spit-take, it was so funny. That comment alone would have made up for any annoyances due to the babies.
After take-off she found a seat surrounded by fewer people, while the other tyke stayed remarkably quiet through the rest of the flight.
(My dad is in hospital, so, whilst looking after my nieces, I have them make get-well cards for him. The following exchange takes place between the two youngest girls, aged seven and five.)
Seven-Year-Old: *pointing to the drawing in her sister’s card* “What’s that?”
Five-Year-Old: “It’s a monster greeting a spider.”
Seven-Year-Old: “Why did you put a monster on granddad’s card?”
Five-Year-Old: “Well, I don’t know! It’s wearing a party hat!”
(The five-year-old also covered her card with blue hearts, which she told me were for all the family members who have died; just the thing for a get-well card.)
