After a husband and wife have a heated argument, the wife calls her mother.

"He fought with me again! I'm coming over to live with you."

"No, no. darling," plied the mother.

"He must pay for his mistake. I'm coming to live with you."

 

 

I was presiding over a wedding when the best man asked if I wouldn’t mind also keeping an eye on the gift table. “There are a few people here the newlyweds don’t trust around all that money,” he confided.

“Then why on earth were they invited?” I asked.

Looking at me as if I were nuts, he said, “They’re family.”

 

I had finished my Christmas shopping early and had wrapped all the presents. Having two curious children, I had to find a suitable hiding place. I chose an ideal spot—the furnace room. I stacked the presents and covered them with a blanket, positive they’d remain undiscovered.

 

When I went to get the gifts to put them under the tree, I lifted the blanket and there, stacked neatly on top of my gifts, were presents addressed to "Mom and Dad, From the Kids."

I’d been secretly dating for several months, and it was time to break the news to my very protective father. My mother thought he’d take it better if she explained to him that my boyfriend was a Marine who had just returned from Iraq. This pleased Dad immensely.

"A Marine? Good!" he said. "That means he can take orders."

 

Unexpected guests were on the way, and my mother, an impeccable housekeeper, rushed around straightening up. She put my father and brother to work cleaning the guest bathroom. Later, when she went to inspect it, she was surprised that the once-cluttered room had been tidied up so quickly. Then she saw the note on the closed shower curtains. It read "Thank you for not looking in the bathtub."

Our 25-year-old son moved back home with an eye toward socking away money to buy a condo. We never bothered asking how long he’d planned to stay, but I got a pretty good idea when I walked into his room recently. In the corner was a milk jug with a few coins in it and a label that read "Condo down payment."

My wife is a by-the-recipe baker. But that attention to detail still hasn’t made her chocolate chip cookies taste any better. One day, after the cookies had been in the oven a while, I smelled a familiar odor. "They’re burning," I shouted.

"I know," she said nonchalantly.

"Aren’t you going to take them out?"

"No. They still have six minutes."