Saturday night Kiefer and I went out for dinner and then…of course…dessert. As we walked toward the ice cream parlor, a young British chap on a bicycle stopped us.
Brit: Excuse me…
Such a polite young man.
Brit: Would you happen to know where Ice Street is located?
Kiefer: I think it’s by the courthouse. Go down 2 blocks and then turn left.
Brit: Thank you! I’m going to beat the f**k out of someone.
Thoughtsy: Good luck!
Kiefer and I exchanged glances as the Brit rode off into the sunset…to beat the eff out of someone.
Kiefer: What just happened? What the….
Thoughtsy: That…was…AWESOME! After we get our ice cream, can we walk down to Ice Street?
Kiefer: I can’t believe you said, “Good luck.”
On the walk back, we hoped to pass the bloodied Brit, so he could say something like, “You should see the other guy.” No such luck.
Favorite Comment From Last Post: “When Noah was really little – like 3 – he put his hands on either side of my face and said, ‘Don’t look Mommy. It won’t hurt as much.’ It didn’t.”—KimPugliano