A few years ago, Weird Michelle randomly asks me how long I've worked at Retail Hell. Then she asks me if I've ever worked at the Return Desk there. Then she asked me if I ever remember some of the odder customers I encountered there.
She then goes on to ask me if I remember a customer who was returning an air conditioner. There were issues with the return for various reasons...
OMG! She was talking about my first encounter with Weird Michelle...before I knew she was Weird Michelle.
Basically, there were issues with credit card because she was getting divorced and she was stressing out a lot (no, really, A LOT!) and she had Pre-Bonk with her while dealing with all this...and he had to POOP. LIKE RIGHT NOW MOM! NOW!
She tells me that I was the epitome of professionalism. Totally calm, totally great to her, even with her having to take Pre-Bonk to the bathroom RIGHT NOW to POOP. RIGHT. NOW.
I mention this today, because Weird Michelle texted me a picture of her dogs, in their kennel. She texted after I didn't respond to tell me the pictures were supposed to be how the one dog pee'd in the tray and then pushed the tray out of the kennel.
Yes. The woman I first encountered at the Return Desk while her preschool aged son yelled, "MOOOOM! I HAVE TO POOOOOOP. RIGHT. NOW." while she came as close as I've ever seen to someone having a total emotional breakdown from stress is now texting me random pictures of pee. I think she's the Queen of Bodily Functions.
Again, I ask you, WHERE DO THEY FIND THEM, AND WHY DO THEY KEEP BRINGING THEM TO ME?!
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighborhood. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Dayum!
The children who come to my yard only ever manage to find boxes of Cheez-Its in my cupboards.
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Why can't my neighborhood ever get this lucky?
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Why can't my neighborhood ever get this lucky?
Monday, April 30, 2012
Parent Problems
Here's the thing. I knew years ago with the Toad that weird parenting would be part and parcel of what we're doing here. I just didn't know how weird that would actually be.
There are many many things you expect, as a parent, to have to explain to your children. Especially things that are wrong, and that they shouldn't do. You try to head some of these off, and clue them in before they actually do the wrong thing.
But sometimes, no matter how proactive you try to be, you still find yourself explaining to your 10 year old daughter that it's inappropriate to hit other people's grandmothers with dismembered body parts.
Okay, so you've scrolled down to get the full story: at some point last year, a disembodied doll leg appeared in my yard. From the length of the leg, I'd guess that this is one of those 3 foot tall "just like me" dolls. Like my sister had, that when she was left propped up in a corner, my mother would talk to it, thinking it was either me or my sister.
Anyway, leg appears last summer. At various times, the leg may appear to be abandoned in the yard, on the porch, or in the garden. I would giggle, step over it, and wonder who the leg belonged to.
Friday afternoon, Bonk's Grandma, Omi, was here at my house to meet the bus, as Bonk's Mom, and I both had to work until shortly after the bus would show up. The Howler, I'm told, was in rare form, and when Omi was leaving, the Howler brandished "the Widow Maker" and tapped Omi on the back of the head with the leg.
Is it just me, or is that image bizarre even for the Mumples?
There are many many things you expect, as a parent, to have to explain to your children. Especially things that are wrong, and that they shouldn't do. You try to head some of these off, and clue them in before they actually do the wrong thing.
But sometimes, no matter how proactive you try to be, you still find yourself explaining to your 10 year old daughter that it's inappropriate to hit other people's grandmothers with dismembered body parts.
Okay, so you've scrolled down to get the full story: at some point last year, a disembodied doll leg appeared in my yard. From the length of the leg, I'd guess that this is one of those 3 foot tall "just like me" dolls. Like my sister had, that when she was left propped up in a corner, my mother would talk to it, thinking it was either me or my sister.
Anyway, leg appears last summer. At various times, the leg may appear to be abandoned in the yard, on the porch, or in the garden. I would giggle, step over it, and wonder who the leg belonged to.
Friday afternoon, Bonk's Grandma, Omi, was here at my house to meet the bus, as Bonk's Mom, and I both had to work until shortly after the bus would show up. The Howler, I'm told, was in rare form, and when Omi was leaving, the Howler brandished "the Widow Maker" and tapped Omi on the back of the head with the leg.
Is it just me, or is that image bizarre even for the Mumples?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Bettys
This morning was Sunday School, which meant that Missy slept over. Last night, she & the Howler were all ADHD noise and disrespect.
This morning, they began bickering before their beady little eyeballs were open. I don't know what the bickering was about, I just know that well before we left for church, I wanted to beat them both bloody, and My Sweetie had begun referring to them as the Bickering Bettys.
They bickered on the way to church. When that didn't get them the results they wanted (Kidz Bop on the radio) they began bickering at me. As if! I called them both Betty all morning.
They managed to reign it in until after Sunday School. Then they decided to go all-out and actually FIGHT. As I tried to put the fear of God into each of them, the other Betty stood behind me, smirking.
Lovely.
On the way home, Betty A (the Howler) would just randomly bark orders...shut that off! No, not that one! And when I responded, they began howling like a pack of wild dogs on the scent of prey.
We weren't even out of the car, and they began demanding lunch. They were half nekkid changing into play clothes, bickering about who was wearing which tee shirt.
They were outside...and now Betty A is back inside, bitching about Betty B. Betty B is probably at her house, bitching about Betty A. Betty A wants the phone, so she can call Betty B and tell her off that way.
God help me. They're not going to survive the rest of today...
This morning, they began bickering before their beady little eyeballs were open. I don't know what the bickering was about, I just know that well before we left for church, I wanted to beat them both bloody, and My Sweetie had begun referring to them as the Bickering Bettys.
They bickered on the way to church. When that didn't get them the results they wanted (Kidz Bop on the radio) they began bickering at me. As if! I called them both Betty all morning.
They managed to reign it in until after Sunday School. Then they decided to go all-out and actually FIGHT. As I tried to put the fear of God into each of them, the other Betty stood behind me, smirking.
Lovely.
On the way home, Betty A (the Howler) would just randomly bark orders...shut that off! No, not that one! And when I responded, they began howling like a pack of wild dogs on the scent of prey.
We weren't even out of the car, and they began demanding lunch. They were half nekkid changing into play clothes, bickering about who was wearing which tee shirt.
They were outside...and now Betty A is back inside, bitching about Betty B. Betty B is probably at her house, bitching about Betty A. Betty A wants the phone, so she can call Betty B and tell her off that way.
God help me. They're not going to survive the rest of today...
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Summer's Over Dammit!
Yet another rant about the attack of OPK.
Yesterday, it was just annoying...today it is outright insane.
I got home from church to find My Sweetie beginning the Christmasifying of the house. And three little girls. Luckily (for them) the girls were not fighting, as they usually are. But then, they realized I was home, and demanded lunch.
I chose the menu, and the Howler promptly took issue with it. She actually stood in the basement arguing her case--to the dead spiders. I walked away fairly early, and yet, there she stood, still arguing. (no comments from the peanut gallery, please)
After they ate, they left. Thank you God! Outside. They're out there--and I can't hear them. Fighting and trouble I can hear through closed windows. Yippee! There's silence in the neighborhood!
Turns out Damien is out there with 'em, and he's learning to avoid me. Unless he's totally certain the Howler is 100% wrong. Of course, this means that he's on my porch, wailing that she *stole* his purple rock.
My first response is "WHY do you have a ROCK?" Seriously? None of these children have ever been allowed to gather, move about, throw, or otherwise have contact with rocks. And every time they do, they get busted. As adults, we're usually glad when the kids are busted, because if they aren't, something sure as hell will be. Like a window. That doesn't belong to me, but My Sweetie ends up fixing anyway. And Damien-the-Window-Killer's mama doesn't even thank him for fixing.
I spent most of the month of July on my porch, very loudly proclaiming how Damien's Mama needs to step outside her house and actually deal with her kid...and that if her parents are watching him, they need to sober up and do the same.
Today's idiocy also involved children in the garage. Which they're not allowed to do. And the Howler's leading the "hiding" there anyway. And I now have possession of the rock in question.
Damien, still yowling, wants his rock back. And I'm not giving it to him--he's NEVER had a rock in his hand that he didn't throw--again, I'm talking about the windows. Although sometimes, he's lobbing them at people, or vehicles. Regardless, he ain't gittin' his rock back.
Turns out, Grandma Barstool is at the corner of my house, shrieking that she wants the rock and that this is a lot of "bullshit" over a rock. She's wrapped in a blanket, and I'm guessing she isn't wearing much more than her pj's under that blanket. I gave Damien the rock, and watched that he gave it to his grandmother.
Although, now that I've written this entire thing out, letting him have a small rock is better than him running around the neighborhood with the knife his dad gave him (and the so-called adults in that house never bothered to frisk him for.)
Yesterday, it was just annoying...today it is outright insane.
I got home from church to find My Sweetie beginning the Christmasifying of the house. And three little girls. Luckily (for them) the girls were not fighting, as they usually are. But then, they realized I was home, and demanded lunch.
I chose the menu, and the Howler promptly took issue with it. She actually stood in the basement arguing her case--to the dead spiders. I walked away fairly early, and yet, there she stood, still arguing. (no comments from the peanut gallery, please)
After they ate, they left. Thank you God! Outside. They're out there--and I can't hear them. Fighting and trouble I can hear through closed windows. Yippee! There's silence in the neighborhood!
Turns out Damien is out there with 'em, and he's learning to avoid me. Unless he's totally certain the Howler is 100% wrong. Of course, this means that he's on my porch, wailing that she *stole* his purple rock.
My first response is "WHY do you have a ROCK?" Seriously? None of these children have ever been allowed to gather, move about, throw, or otherwise have contact with rocks. And every time they do, they get busted. As adults, we're usually glad when the kids are busted, because if they aren't, something sure as hell will be. Like a window. That doesn't belong to me, but My Sweetie ends up fixing anyway. And Damien-the-Window-Killer's mama doesn't even thank him for fixing.
I spent most of the month of July on my porch, very loudly proclaiming how Damien's Mama needs to step outside her house and actually deal with her kid...and that if her parents are watching him, they need to sober up and do the same.
Today's idiocy also involved children in the garage. Which they're not allowed to do. And the Howler's leading the "hiding" there anyway. And I now have possession of the rock in question.
Damien, still yowling, wants his rock back. And I'm not giving it to him--he's NEVER had a rock in his hand that he didn't throw--again, I'm talking about the windows. Although sometimes, he's lobbing them at people, or vehicles. Regardless, he ain't gittin' his rock back.
Turns out, Grandma Barstool is at the corner of my house, shrieking that she wants the rock and that this is a lot of "bullshit" over a rock. She's wrapped in a blanket, and I'm guessing she isn't wearing much more than her pj's under that blanket. I gave Damien the rock, and watched that he gave it to his grandmother.
Although, now that I've written this entire thing out, letting him have a small rock is better than him running around the neighborhood with the knife his dad gave him (and the so-called adults in that house never bothered to frisk him for.)
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sainthood
Our Sunday School meets once a month. We have, on average, 2 children (today we had 4!) each class. The Howler desperately loves her some Bible stories, and on Friday, Missy began harrassing us to ensure she would be going to Sunday School also.
Today's lesson was about Saints of God. You know, those people, from the Bible, or the past, or even today...even people we actually know, who spread God's Word. The children discussed several well-known Saints (Francis, Patrick, etc.) and even freely acknowledged people they know personally who would be considered Saints under this definition.
When asked, the Howler named My Sweetie as a Saint of God.
Missy asked the Howler, "What about your Mom?"
The Howler shrugged her shoulders and said, "enh."
Today's lesson was about Saints of God. You know, those people, from the Bible, or the past, or even today...even people we actually know, who spread God's Word. The children discussed several well-known Saints (Francis, Patrick, etc.) and even freely acknowledged people they know personally who would be considered Saints under this definition.
When asked, the Howler named My Sweetie as a Saint of God.
Missy asked the Howler, "What about your Mom?"
The Howler shrugged her shoulders and said, "enh."
Saturday, October 2, 2010
OPK Ranting
I hate 99% of the kids in my neighborhood.
The mob mentality isn't attractive, and the OPK are chock full of it. And it's worse when the Urchins have an Import with them, because that girl is a big bag of bitch. Dolly & Waif are annoying as it is, and with the Import around, they are insufferable, and I want nothing more than to take a stick to their asses.
Apparenlty, last night, while playing tag, Damien, Bonk, Waif, Dolly, & the Import decided to say that the Howler punched Dolly in the back and Waif in the head. Bullshit! Those girls get threatened with a Howler punch and they bawl like they're been hit by a truck, yet the Howler was the only one crying.
My Sweetie sent them all home. Then, they came back, and were playing in my yard, without the Howler. He said, "I don't know if you're stupid, or just rude, but you're NOT playing in my yard. GET OUT!"
I wish I'd been here, because he was a lot nicer than I would have been.
The mob mentality isn't attractive, and the OPK are chock full of it. And it's worse when the Urchins have an Import with them, because that girl is a big bag of bitch. Dolly & Waif are annoying as it is, and with the Import around, they are insufferable, and I want nothing more than to take a stick to their asses.
Apparenlty, last night, while playing tag, Damien, Bonk, Waif, Dolly, & the Import decided to say that the Howler punched Dolly in the back and Waif in the head. Bullshit! Those girls get threatened with a Howler punch and they bawl like they're been hit by a truck, yet the Howler was the only one crying.
My Sweetie sent them all home. Then, they came back, and were playing in my yard, without the Howler. He said, "I don't know if you're stupid, or just rude, but you're NOT playing in my yard. GET OUT!"
I wish I'd been here, because he was a lot nicer than I would have been.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Eenie Meenie Freak-a-Reenie
This happened a few weeks ago, but it still seems rather full of strangeness, so I'm sharing here in an effort to get it out of my head.
As we all know, my neighborhood is polluted: polluted with OPK; polluted with more than my fair share of whackjob neighbors.
Case in point: It was Saturday, late afternoon. OPK were, of course, filling my front yard with their usual annshinnegans, and my Trailblazer was sitting in the front yard, having recently been emptied of my new furniture (purchased in an abandoned parking lot.)
A woman with a large bowl of tomatoes appears between the Slum House and the tumbling down garage. She asks if any of us would like some tomatoes. In all honesty, accepting any kind of food from a person I've never slapped eyes on before in my life, who appears from that particular direction ranks as high on my Bucket List as licking the purple acid.
Anyway, being up to our own eyeballs in our own tomatoes, we decline.
She suddenly points a finger at me, begins coming at me, wading through the OPK, yelling, "YOU! ARE YOU THE WOMAN WHO JUST WALKED INTO MY HOUSE THE OTHER DAY?!"
Er, uh, NO. (But thanks for asking)
"Are you sure? Some woman just walked into my house and woke me AND my kids up, saying that my daughter was playing in the road. Are you SURE it wasn't you?"
Uh, Yup. I'm sure it wasn't me. I don't know where you live. I don't know who you are, and I don't know what your kids look like. I also don't just walk into other people's houses.
She continued telling her story--not that I was listening, as I was busy unrolling my eyeballs from the back of my head. She eventually wandered back the way she came.
When telling this story recently, I was told that I was "Goon Bait." Personally, I'll stick with the Weirdness Goddessness.
As we all know, my neighborhood is polluted: polluted with OPK; polluted with more than my fair share of whackjob neighbors.
Case in point: It was Saturday, late afternoon. OPK were, of course, filling my front yard with their usual annshinnegans, and my Trailblazer was sitting in the front yard, having recently been emptied of my new furniture (purchased in an abandoned parking lot.)
A woman with a large bowl of tomatoes appears between the Slum House and the tumbling down garage. She asks if any of us would like some tomatoes. In all honesty, accepting any kind of food from a person I've never slapped eyes on before in my life, who appears from that particular direction ranks as high on my Bucket List as licking the purple acid.
Anyway, being up to our own eyeballs in our own tomatoes, we decline.
She suddenly points a finger at me, begins coming at me, wading through the OPK, yelling, "YOU! ARE YOU THE WOMAN WHO JUST WALKED INTO MY HOUSE THE OTHER DAY?!"
Er, uh, NO. (But thanks for asking)
"Are you sure? Some woman just walked into my house and woke me AND my kids up, saying that my daughter was playing in the road. Are you SURE it wasn't you?"
Uh, Yup. I'm sure it wasn't me. I don't know where you live. I don't know who you are, and I don't know what your kids look like. I also don't just walk into other people's houses.
She continued telling her story--not that I was listening, as I was busy unrolling my eyeballs from the back of my head. She eventually wandered back the way she came.
When telling this story recently, I was told that I was "Goon Bait." Personally, I'll stick with the Weirdness Goddessness.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Absence Makes...
The Howler left to visit her far-away family this morning. She'll be gone all this week. She'll be busy, though, and everyone there is looking forward to seeing her. And everyone here (well, her parents) is looking forward to a relatively OPK-free week.
God help me, I am The Grown Up.
My phone rings, and it is another parent in the 'hood. She's calling because Bonk has just informed her that the other boys are peeing outside. Damien has peed on his shirt (deliberately) and thrown the now-wet shirt at him. The other boys (Dude Jr & Cutie) are trying to pee on the railroad tracks.
Nevermind that there are people living in, you know, the houses on the other side of the tracks. Nevermind that technically, where they are standing is visible from the street. Nevermind that it's just plain not a good idea to drop trou in a populated neighborhood.
While discussing the appropriate course of action, I am informed that Missy is now dropping trou also.
Missy & Dude go into hiding. Damien is crying as he runs across the yards. Dude Sr is not answering his phone and is apparently not home. Cutie happily informs me that it was "just pee" and that Damien dared them all to do it.
Nevermind the hell there was to pay when dares were exchanged last summer.
Did I mention how the Howler isn't even home? How is this MY thing? Why am I involved?
Because I'm a sucker. And evil, apeshit, OPK hater, but a sucker none-the-less.
Pray for me.
God help me, I am The Grown Up.
My phone rings, and it is another parent in the 'hood. She's calling because Bonk has just informed her that the other boys are peeing outside. Damien has peed on his shirt (deliberately) and thrown the now-wet shirt at him. The other boys (Dude Jr & Cutie) are trying to pee on the railroad tracks.
Nevermind that there are people living in, you know, the houses on the other side of the tracks. Nevermind that technically, where they are standing is visible from the street. Nevermind that it's just plain not a good idea to drop trou in a populated neighborhood.
While discussing the appropriate course of action, I am informed that Missy is now dropping trou also.
Missy & Dude go into hiding. Damien is crying as he runs across the yards. Dude Sr is not answering his phone and is apparently not home. Cutie happily informs me that it was "just pee" and that Damien dared them all to do it.
Nevermind the hell there was to pay when dares were exchanged last summer.
Did I mention how the Howler isn't even home? How is this MY thing? Why am I involved?
Because I'm a sucker. And evil, apeshit, OPK hater, but a sucker none-the-less.
Pray for me.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
In Technical Terms
Missy & the Howler have been doing a good job of trying to drive me crazy this summer.
They take turns contradicting each and every thing the other says. They bicker. They argue. They whine. They cry. They have even resorted to the time-testing method of parental head exploding of arguing about whether or not they argued about any particular thing last summer.
Nothing slows them down--oh, no, these two have the staying power of Dick Clark. If all else fails, they'll choose sides against each other, enlisting Damien's help.
After whining and arguing all weekend, this is the week Missy & her brothers are spending with their dad--so the whining and arguing can continue.
God help me.
By Monday, we've progressed to going to Damien's house (yes, inside) and the Howler stepping on Damien's face. She "had to" step on his face because they were upstairs, and he decided that they weren't leaving, and used his face to block the stairs (no lie.) When he & Missy came to tattle to me, he didn't have a mark on him, nor did he look like he had been crying.
But I still had to tell the Howler, "It's not nice to step on someone's face."
Never mind that the Howler is not to be in Damien's house. Never mind that he's a little asshole (even at 6 years old) and has already spent the better part of the week pulling shitty stunts on the Howler. Never mind that 2/3 of this fiasco is not mine, and I am still not happy that I am the adult in the neighborhood. (Hey, CandySandyMandyBandy or whatever the hell your name is--start watching your own kid, or tell your parents to stay sober long enough to watch him while you're at work)
My last nerve is long gone shortly after this.
By 8pm, I am ready to explode. Literally.
At 8pm, the Howler stomps in the door, with Missy & Blondie ringing the doorbell after her.
My Sweetie, God love him, tries to sort it out--by yelling at the Howler, even though Missy is now standing in my open door, arguing with the Howler.
I believe the technical term for what happened immediately is called, "Apeshit"
I went Apeshit. First, I took the thing they were arguing about. I threw it away. Then I stomped outside, in the rain, caught a raindrop, and yelled, "hey Missy, I got your raindrop. nyah nyah. Hey Howler. I have your raindrop, and I'm giving it to Missy. nyah nyah."
As Kevin is reaching for the blow gun so he can shoot me in the butt with a tranquilizer dart, I tell him, "I've ABSOLUTELY had it with this bullshit from ALL OF THEM!"
It's not a pretty picture, but I can't believe that anyone else wouldn't have also gone Apeshit when they realized that the arguement that rolled in their front door was over a BENT PAPERCLIP.
They've been relatively whine-and-arguement free since (although, in their defense, I've thrown away all bent paperclips, scraps of paper, fragments of popsicle sticks, and loose threads.)
They take turns contradicting each and every thing the other says. They bicker. They argue. They whine. They cry. They have even resorted to the time-testing method of parental head exploding of arguing about whether or not they argued about any particular thing last summer.
Nothing slows them down--oh, no, these two have the staying power of Dick Clark. If all else fails, they'll choose sides against each other, enlisting Damien's help.
After whining and arguing all weekend, this is the week Missy & her brothers are spending with their dad--so the whining and arguing can continue.
God help me.
By Monday, we've progressed to going to Damien's house (yes, inside) and the Howler stepping on Damien's face. She "had to" step on his face because they were upstairs, and he decided that they weren't leaving, and used his face to block the stairs (no lie.) When he & Missy came to tattle to me, he didn't have a mark on him, nor did he look like he had been crying.
But I still had to tell the Howler, "It's not nice to step on someone's face."
Never mind that the Howler is not to be in Damien's house. Never mind that he's a little asshole (even at 6 years old) and has already spent the better part of the week pulling shitty stunts on the Howler. Never mind that 2/3 of this fiasco is not mine, and I am still not happy that I am the adult in the neighborhood. (Hey, CandySandyMandyBandy or whatever the hell your name is--start watching your own kid, or tell your parents to stay sober long enough to watch him while you're at work)
My last nerve is long gone shortly after this.
By 8pm, I am ready to explode. Literally.
At 8pm, the Howler stomps in the door, with Missy & Blondie ringing the doorbell after her.
My Sweetie, God love him, tries to sort it out--by yelling at the Howler, even though Missy is now standing in my open door, arguing with the Howler.
I believe the technical term for what happened immediately is called, "Apeshit"
I went Apeshit. First, I took the thing they were arguing about. I threw it away. Then I stomped outside, in the rain, caught a raindrop, and yelled, "hey Missy, I got your raindrop. nyah nyah. Hey Howler. I have your raindrop, and I'm giving it to Missy. nyah nyah."
As Kevin is reaching for the blow gun so he can shoot me in the butt with a tranquilizer dart, I tell him, "I've ABSOLUTELY had it with this bullshit from ALL OF THEM!"
It's not a pretty picture, but I can't believe that anyone else wouldn't have also gone Apeshit when they realized that the arguement that rolled in their front door was over a BENT PAPERCLIP.
They've been relatively whine-and-arguement free since (although, in their defense, I've thrown away all bent paperclips, scraps of paper, fragments of popsicle sticks, and loose threads.)
Saturday, June 26, 2010
My Cell Has a Camera, and I Intend to Use It
Maybe I'm over reacting, but at this point, I've come to the conclusion that the digital age really isn't helping people be more aware of their own creepiness.
Our castle here in Mumpledom is a duplex--that means, for those too self-involved to notice, that it is 2 houses smack up against each other. We share a wall, and about 3 foot of my basement is actually under the other house. There is at least one way into the other side of this duplex (short of creating a new one through the shared wall) that remains locked, unless the drain backs up. The other side is currently vacant, awaiting new tenants.
Anyway, as I've previously reported, my yards (front & back) are generally filled with children--those who live here, nearby, and those who are bussed in.
My Sweetie & I are putting in a garden out front (was a garden years ago; was useless area of lawn; is now a garden again.) My Sweetie is actually out in the yard with the sundry children and I am on the front porch ignoring most of the commotion.
The Howler comes up to me and says, "Mommy, LOOK!" and point to the young couple walking down the alley/driveway. One is pushing a stroller, and the other is trying to contain a very excited by all the children running around golden lab. They smile, obviously seeing My Sweetie and I. She pulls out a cellphone, holds it up, and takes a picture.
Holy Hell, Batman! I don't know these people! And they're taking pictures of my house! I ask them what they're doing. (and no, I'm not very friendly about it) She says, "is this the house that's for rent" I tell her (still with the not friendly) to call the number listed on the sign. "oh, I'm going to" she says. "we just wanted to take a picture of it"
Still with the children running to and fro, and still with the not friendly, I basically tell them that it's rude to take a picture of someone's house without asking. She counters with, "oh, I didn't know it wasn't vacant." I tell her, "It is vacant, but that's not the point. It's rude to take a picture of someone's house without permission."
Now we're talking vacant--vacant stares of total incomprehension. I go further--"Would you like it if someone you didn't know walked up to your house and started taking pictures without talking to you first?" She said, "No."
She put her camera away, and they left.
I can't imagine approaching a house and just taking a picture--especially if I see children I don't know in the yard (you may find yourself arrested and explaining how you're not a child molester); I can't imagine approaching what is obviously someone's home, with them milling about in front of it, and just whipping out a camera and snapping a pic. I'd ask first--especially if there a children all over the place, much like a prison riot or lion breakout at the zoo.
Just because your cellphone has a camera does not mean that it's okay for you to take pictures of whatever-the-hell-you-please. It's called common courtesy, and it doesn't hurt when you do it. (and yes, with a yard full of children, any stranger is a possible danger)
Our castle here in Mumpledom is a duplex--that means, for those too self-involved to notice, that it is 2 houses smack up against each other. We share a wall, and about 3 foot of my basement is actually under the other house. There is at least one way into the other side of this duplex (short of creating a new one through the shared wall) that remains locked, unless the drain backs up. The other side is currently vacant, awaiting new tenants.
Anyway, as I've previously reported, my yards (front & back) are generally filled with children--those who live here, nearby, and those who are bussed in.
My Sweetie & I are putting in a garden out front (was a garden years ago; was useless area of lawn; is now a garden again.) My Sweetie is actually out in the yard with the sundry children and I am on the front porch ignoring most of the commotion.
The Howler comes up to me and says, "Mommy, LOOK!" and point to the young couple walking down the alley/driveway. One is pushing a stroller, and the other is trying to contain a very excited by all the children running around golden lab. They smile, obviously seeing My Sweetie and I. She pulls out a cellphone, holds it up, and takes a picture.
Holy Hell, Batman! I don't know these people! And they're taking pictures of my house! I ask them what they're doing. (and no, I'm not very friendly about it) She says, "is this the house that's for rent" I tell her (still with the not friendly) to call the number listed on the sign. "oh, I'm going to" she says. "we just wanted to take a picture of it"
Still with the children running to and fro, and still with the not friendly, I basically tell them that it's rude to take a picture of someone's house without asking. She counters with, "oh, I didn't know it wasn't vacant." I tell her, "It is vacant, but that's not the point. It's rude to take a picture of someone's house without permission."
Now we're talking vacant--vacant stares of total incomprehension. I go further--"Would you like it if someone you didn't know walked up to your house and started taking pictures without talking to you first?" She said, "No."
She put her camera away, and they left.
I can't imagine approaching a house and just taking a picture--especially if I see children I don't know in the yard (you may find yourself arrested and explaining how you're not a child molester); I can't imagine approaching what is obviously someone's home, with them milling about in front of it, and just whipping out a camera and snapping a pic. I'd ask first--especially if there a children all over the place, much like a prison riot or lion breakout at the zoo.
Just because your cellphone has a camera does not mean that it's okay for you to take pictures of whatever-the-hell-you-please. It's called common courtesy, and it doesn't hurt when you do it. (and yes, with a yard full of children, any stranger is a possible danger)
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Insummerty
Summer makes me crazy in our neighborhood.
This year, Damien (one of the Damiens moved over the winter) has moved from the Barstools' home to the house immediately near my front yard.
The kids, generally, play various kinds of ball games across 3 front yards. A certain number of balls into the street is expected, and with few exceptions, the children understand that they are not to enter the street to get them. (It's a section of Rt 219 in PA, and at our house, the cars fly up a hill immediately before entering our residential 'hood.)
One of the smallest children, Cutie of the Wolf Clan, has yet to figure out that all the rules that apply to the taller, older children also apply to him. He is, apparently, under the impression that he is 6 ft tall and baseball bat proof. Today, he tried to retrieve a swiftly disappearing into the intersection ball from the road.
The loveliest part of this summer is that Damien's mother and her boyfriend allow Damien and sundry children to turn on the water to Damien's sprinkler water fountain. The fountain sits in my yard (their yard consists of a strip of green weediness about 3 ft wide.) Not really a problem, except that I end up being the supervision for the next generation at the fountain, AND my front yard where the fountain sits is now, literally, a mud hole. As in, HOLES dug into the lawn.
I don't think I'm so wrong in thinking that I should not have to babysit a child whose proper adult supervision is sitting inside, with the AC on, doing God-knows-what-and-I-don't-want-to-imagine (although, I do imagine that they are practicing at making more Damiens. Ewwwww.)
Damien Mama needs to bring her perky 34Bs & tight 22 year old heiney out into the sunshine and supervise her own child--and sundry others she allows to have access to gallons of water. I'm not getting paid for this gig, and I'm very soon (as in already today) not going to do it any longer.
This year, Damien (one of the Damiens moved over the winter) has moved from the Barstools' home to the house immediately near my front yard.
The kids, generally, play various kinds of ball games across 3 front yards. A certain number of balls into the street is expected, and with few exceptions, the children understand that they are not to enter the street to get them. (It's a section of Rt 219 in PA, and at our house, the cars fly up a hill immediately before entering our residential 'hood.)
One of the smallest children, Cutie of the Wolf Clan, has yet to figure out that all the rules that apply to the taller, older children also apply to him. He is, apparently, under the impression that he is 6 ft tall and baseball bat proof. Today, he tried to retrieve a swiftly disappearing into the intersection ball from the road.
The loveliest part of this summer is that Damien's mother and her boyfriend allow Damien and sundry children to turn on the water to Damien's sprinkler water fountain. The fountain sits in my yard (their yard consists of a strip of green weediness about 3 ft wide.) Not really a problem, except that I end up being the supervision for the next generation at the fountain, AND my front yard where the fountain sits is now, literally, a mud hole. As in, HOLES dug into the lawn.
I don't think I'm so wrong in thinking that I should not have to babysit a child whose proper adult supervision is sitting inside, with the AC on, doing God-knows-what-and-I-don't-want-to-imagine (although, I do imagine that they are practicing at making more Damiens. Ewwwww.)
Damien Mama needs to bring her perky 34Bs & tight 22 year old heiney out into the sunshine and supervise her own child--and sundry others she allows to have access to gallons of water. I'm not getting paid for this gig, and I'm very soon (as in already today) not going to do it any longer.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
"Not Helping"
My neighborhood seems to be an extension of the Weirdness Magnetism I exhibit. And, of course, the nuttier the thing, the more likely it is to be at my house (or on my phone.)
Case in point: Bonk's Mom, likes animals, and was the proud and happy owner of a rat, a dog, and a mole.
Domestic pet rats have a limited shelf-life, and of course, this rat is coming up quickly on his expiration date. She calls me and tell me that the rat is sick, and do I know anything about rats? I tell her, honestly, my sum-total experience with pet rats is that they make college girls scream when used in speech class as a visual aid. (There's a direct correlation between poundage of face makeup and shriekiness.) "Not helping," she says.
She finds a vet in the area who treats pet rats. The rat's expiration date is up. While the rat is dying, the mole moves in. Tit-for-rat, I'd say, but she doesn't think I'm funny.
Now she's on the phone, calling to ask me what I know about moles. I tell her they get married to Thumbelina. "Again with the Not Helping," she says.
She calls back to tell me it's an Eastern mole, as if this helps ME. She knows it's an Eastern mole because it's noticeably lacking a hat-and-shitkickers in its tiny little luggage. But what do they eat? (obviously not BBQ, since it's an Eastern one) How does she catch it? (lasso? corral? nope.) I think she should just charge it rent, but she says that this, too, is "not helpful." What does she expect from me--there are way fewer references to Eastern than to Western in our culture, and this is my fault?
And the Saga of the Rat continues. The rat needs to be buried. Luckily she doesn't ask for my help. She calls me, after the supposed burial, to tell me that rat is currently presiding over the popsicles in her freezer, triple wrapped. I crack a rib laughing, and resolve to make excuses if she ever invites me for lunch.
While she's discussing her freezer-burnt rat, Bonk begins sneaking up behind her, whispering, "it's the mole and he's gonna get you!" Again with the cracked rib. Tit-for-rat, like I told ya.
She spends the night with a bowl of live mealy worms as bait for the uninvited mole and a dead rat in her freezer. I won't go for dinner, either.
And I thought MY family was weird.
Case in point: Bonk's Mom, likes animals, and was the proud and happy owner of a rat, a dog, and a mole.
Domestic pet rats have a limited shelf-life, and of course, this rat is coming up quickly on his expiration date. She calls me and tell me that the rat is sick, and do I know anything about rats? I tell her, honestly, my sum-total experience with pet rats is that they make college girls scream when used in speech class as a visual aid. (There's a direct correlation between poundage of face makeup and shriekiness.) "Not helping," she says.
She finds a vet in the area who treats pet rats. The rat's expiration date is up. While the rat is dying, the mole moves in. Tit-for-rat, I'd say, but she doesn't think I'm funny.
Now she's on the phone, calling to ask me what I know about moles. I tell her they get married to Thumbelina. "Again with the Not Helping," she says.
She calls back to tell me it's an Eastern mole, as if this helps ME. She knows it's an Eastern mole because it's noticeably lacking a hat-and-shitkickers in its tiny little luggage. But what do they eat? (obviously not BBQ, since it's an Eastern one) How does she catch it? (lasso? corral? nope.) I think she should just charge it rent, but she says that this, too, is "not helpful." What does she expect from me--there are way fewer references to Eastern than to Western in our culture, and this is my fault?
And the Saga of the Rat continues. The rat needs to be buried. Luckily she doesn't ask for my help. She calls me, after the supposed burial, to tell me that rat is currently presiding over the popsicles in her freezer, triple wrapped. I crack a rib laughing, and resolve to make excuses if she ever invites me for lunch.
While she's discussing her freezer-burnt rat, Bonk begins sneaking up behind her, whispering, "it's the mole and he's gonna get you!" Again with the cracked rib. Tit-for-rat, like I told ya.
She spends the night with a bowl of live mealy worms as bait for the uninvited mole and a dead rat in her freezer. I won't go for dinner, either.
And I thought MY family was weird.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Mumple Mitten
I worked today. 5:45am comes awful early, and even when the day goes quickly, it's still very tiring to deal with Black Friday shoppers, regardless of which side of the retail hell you're on.
But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.
Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.
Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"
Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"
Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"
Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.
The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.
But when I got home from work today (still mostly functional) I was still dressed as the Great Pumpkin--L&G opened at 7:30am. That's how deranged Black Friday is.
Anyway, the Toad was flopped on the couch. The Howler was all Christmas Conipption. My Sweetie had begun the Christmasifying of the Mumple Mansion.
Add in Missy, who said, "Can I come to your house and play?"
Then came Blondie, who rang the doorbell and said, "Can I come in and play?"
Urchin came in, and whispered, "Can I come in and play, too?"
Of course, we already have three cats--one black grumpy cat; one sleepy kitten; and one hell-bent-for-leather kitten leaping about the room. And the Great Pumpkin. And the Christmasfying Sweetie.
The doorbell rang, and My Sweetie and I had visions of someone tickling Toad's nose. He'd sneeze and all the little woodland creatures, er, ah, little girls and kittens would be flung out onto the neighborhood lawns, instead of being snuggly warm inside the Mumple Mitten.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
More OPK Ranting
So, last weekend, we finally had it out over the OPK.
The Howler, yet again, invited upteen children to eat at Mumple's Restaurant. (Never mind that there's no such place.) And, of course, Dolly, yet again, decided that since she couldn't choose what I'd be serving, she wasn't going to eat. She promptly disappeared, until serving time.
During the course of the previous two days, Dolly and Waif were a-coming and a-going through my doors much like the fabled Grand Central Station. I was livid, to put it mildly. When I turn around in my kitchen, I expect to NOT see their weasely little faces in my house. Especially when I never got even the slightest chance to utter "come in" in any language.
So, anyway, I'm not happy with what's going on (and coming in) my house; but the Howler, being the Howler, invited them to lunch anyway. I made it clear that I would decide what was for lunch, and, as I said, Dolly announced that she wouldn't be eating at my house. (Can I get an AMEN! to that?)
So, Waif, Blondie, and the Howler come in for lunch. Dolly, just walks in as they're finishing eating. She doesn't say anything--no, she just stands there, already INSIDE my house, waiting for me rush around and act like the thing I've most been living for is to hand feed her with a golden spoon.
Well, anyone with half a brain knows that isn't going to happen. I ask her if there's something she wants. She shakes her head "no," so I tell her to get out. She goes outside on the porch, but continues to stare at me. So I ask her again. She shakes her head "no" again. I walk into my house.
Next thing I know, my phone is ringing, and it's her stepmother. She's calling to find out why Dolly is at their house, crying and saying she got in trouble.
Needless to say, I'm fed up, I'm cranky as all get out, and I'm about done with walking on eggshells because of two children who aren't even mine. I let it all out. I tell her that since May, I have had to be on constant vigilance because her children are in my house, rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves to whatever strikes their fancy. I've caught them going through MY STUFF--in my bedroom AND my basement, dragging out to play with whatever strikes their fancy. And, that, on at least two occasions, Dolly has turned her pert little chipmunk nose up at what I'm serving for lunch...to show up and ask for some anyway. My house is NOT a restaurant or a free-for-all for these children. They're about a hair away from being told to never come back.
(for the record, I refuse to lock my doors when my daughter is outside playing--something that the Urchins' parents don't seem to have qualms about, btw)
The Urchins come up and apologize. I accept their apology, but, in all honesty, I'm not overly hopeful that any real change will be made.
And I was right--to a point. The Urchins decided over this past weekend, to prove just what assholes 7 and 9 year old girls can be. They invite Missy over for lunch (which didn't happen, of course--if their parents don't feed them, what makes anyone over the age of 3 think anyone else will get fed either?) and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in it.
Then, later, they invited Missy over for an ice cream, and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in that. Oh, wait--it gets better, and proves just what an evil and horrible person I have turned into: The little snots came up to my house and got fudgsicles.
When I found them with fudgsicles, I took the sweet treats right out of their hands. The looks on their faces was priceless--it ranged from mad (Waif) to hurt (Dolly). The shock on the Howler's and Missy's faces was pretty, too.
I told the Urchins that there's NO WAY they're going to be such ignorant rude little snots to the Howler then come up to my house for treats.
They admitted what they did. I told the Howler, with the Urchins standing there, that these WERE NOT her friends. Friends don't treat you that way, and that she is NEVER EVER EVER to give them so much as a stale goldfish cracker again. EVER.
They wandered home, and when My Sweetie asked me what just happened, I think he was one part happy I did it, and one part mortified and worried that lightning would be striking me dead any second.
Missy was staying for dinner, and going to spend the night. She insisted that she was going to go to the Urchins for dinner, though, because they had invited her. I was still raging (not entirely quietly, though) and asked her how her lunch was. She said they had invited her, but she didn't have any lunch. I asked her if she thought she'd get supper from them then? She didn't have an answer, but was still insisting that she was going to their house for supper. I told her that she could see if she could spend the night with them, then.
She stayed for supper, and the night.
Today, though, we are Urchinless, but instead of being a waitress, I am a butler. The Howler has a CD player on the front porch and all I ask is that they shut the wooden door when they're listening to music. The Howler rang the door bell and pounded on the door, yelling "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" when the screen door was locked (she and I had just gotten home.) So, I opened the stupid door, and she shut the wooden one in my face.
Before two minutes was up, she was ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door again. Why? I don't know. All I know is that I spent 15 minutes opening and shutting the door, on demand.
I lost it. I yelled. I screamed. At my child and at other people's kids.
Am I having a bad day? Not entirely. I just know that at the time, I was able to walk back to what I was doing, only to be noisily summoned again. For no real reason.
The Howler is going to find herself grounded to her room for the next restofthesummer if this crap keeps up.
The Howler, yet again, invited upteen children to eat at Mumple's Restaurant. (Never mind that there's no such place.) And, of course, Dolly, yet again, decided that since she couldn't choose what I'd be serving, she wasn't going to eat. She promptly disappeared, until serving time.
During the course of the previous two days, Dolly and Waif were a-coming and a-going through my doors much like the fabled Grand Central Station. I was livid, to put it mildly. When I turn around in my kitchen, I expect to NOT see their weasely little faces in my house. Especially when I never got even the slightest chance to utter "come in" in any language.
So, anyway, I'm not happy with what's going on (and coming in) my house; but the Howler, being the Howler, invited them to lunch anyway. I made it clear that I would decide what was for lunch, and, as I said, Dolly announced that she wouldn't be eating at my house. (Can I get an AMEN! to that?)
So, Waif, Blondie, and the Howler come in for lunch. Dolly, just walks in as they're finishing eating. She doesn't say anything--no, she just stands there, already INSIDE my house, waiting for me rush around and act like the thing I've most been living for is to hand feed her with a golden spoon.
Well, anyone with half a brain knows that isn't going to happen. I ask her if there's something she wants. She shakes her head "no," so I tell her to get out. She goes outside on the porch, but continues to stare at me. So I ask her again. She shakes her head "no" again. I walk into my house.
Next thing I know, my phone is ringing, and it's her stepmother. She's calling to find out why Dolly is at their house, crying and saying she got in trouble.
Needless to say, I'm fed up, I'm cranky as all get out, and I'm about done with walking on eggshells because of two children who aren't even mine. I let it all out. I tell her that since May, I have had to be on constant vigilance because her children are in my house, rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves to whatever strikes their fancy. I've caught them going through MY STUFF--in my bedroom AND my basement, dragging out to play with whatever strikes their fancy. And, that, on at least two occasions, Dolly has turned her pert little chipmunk nose up at what I'm serving for lunch...to show up and ask for some anyway. My house is NOT a restaurant or a free-for-all for these children. They're about a hair away from being told to never come back.
(for the record, I refuse to lock my doors when my daughter is outside playing--something that the Urchins' parents don't seem to have qualms about, btw)
The Urchins come up and apologize. I accept their apology, but, in all honesty, I'm not overly hopeful that any real change will be made.
And I was right--to a point. The Urchins decided over this past weekend, to prove just what assholes 7 and 9 year old girls can be. They invite Missy over for lunch (which didn't happen, of course--if their parents don't feed them, what makes anyone over the age of 3 think anyone else will get fed either?) and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in it.
Then, later, they invited Missy over for an ice cream, and pointedly rubbed the Howler's face in that. Oh, wait--it gets better, and proves just what an evil and horrible person I have turned into: The little snots came up to my house and got fudgsicles.
When I found them with fudgsicles, I took the sweet treats right out of their hands. The looks on their faces was priceless--it ranged from mad (Waif) to hurt (Dolly). The shock on the Howler's and Missy's faces was pretty, too.
I told the Urchins that there's NO WAY they're going to be such ignorant rude little snots to the Howler then come up to my house for treats.
They admitted what they did. I told the Howler, with the Urchins standing there, that these WERE NOT her friends. Friends don't treat you that way, and that she is NEVER EVER EVER to give them so much as a stale goldfish cracker again. EVER.
They wandered home, and when My Sweetie asked me what just happened, I think he was one part happy I did it, and one part mortified and worried that lightning would be striking me dead any second.
Missy was staying for dinner, and going to spend the night. She insisted that she was going to go to the Urchins for dinner, though, because they had invited her. I was still raging (not entirely quietly, though) and asked her how her lunch was. She said they had invited her, but she didn't have any lunch. I asked her if she thought she'd get supper from them then? She didn't have an answer, but was still insisting that she was going to their house for supper. I told her that she could see if she could spend the night with them, then.
She stayed for supper, and the night.
Today, though, we are Urchinless, but instead of being a waitress, I am a butler. The Howler has a CD player on the front porch and all I ask is that they shut the wooden door when they're listening to music. The Howler rang the door bell and pounded on the door, yelling "OPEN THIS STUPID DOOR!" when the screen door was locked (she and I had just gotten home.) So, I opened the stupid door, and she shut the wooden one in my face.
Before two minutes was up, she was ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door again. Why? I don't know. All I know is that I spent 15 minutes opening and shutting the door, on demand.
I lost it. I yelled. I screamed. At my child and at other people's kids.
Am I having a bad day? Not entirely. I just know that at the time, I was able to walk back to what I was doing, only to be noisily summoned again. For no real reason.
The Howler is going to find herself grounded to her room for the next restofthesummer if this crap keeps up.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Ring the Freaking Doorbell!
This is another OPK rant. It's the same OPK, but I'm still ranting, so get over it. I'm not, but someone should.
I've already covered the part where Waif's voice is the equivalent to dragging your fingernails down a chalkboard, right? And I've covered the part where these too urchins from Hell aren't all that nice, right? And I've covered the part about how, two months ago, I caught them rooting through my kitchen cupboards and 'fridge, right?
Yeah, well, now, they're back to JUST WALKING INTO MY HOUSE. Yep. No knocking, no doorbells, no nuttin'. Just walk RIGHT IN, and look surprised when I turn around and see them.
They also, at one point today, came in to use the bathroom. They were rooting through my stuff--MY STUFF-- while down the basement using the bathroom.
OMG! Not only am I declaring my house a whine-free zone, but I'm going to tell those girls tomorrow that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES will they enter my house, unless I--and I do mean I --tell them they can come in.
If they think I won't throw them out-out-out of my house, they're gonna find out. I hate that these two are the only ones for the Howler to play with during the week, and I hate to tell her that she can't play with them at all, but this is ridiculous. I shouldn't have to tell these children (especially considering that one of them is actually MINE) what the rules are...
Hell, didn't I just spend the winter doing this with a different one?
Kill me. Kill me now.
I've already covered the part where Waif's voice is the equivalent to dragging your fingernails down a chalkboard, right? And I've covered the part where these too urchins from Hell aren't all that nice, right? And I've covered the part about how, two months ago, I caught them rooting through my kitchen cupboards and 'fridge, right?
Yeah, well, now, they're back to JUST WALKING INTO MY HOUSE. Yep. No knocking, no doorbells, no nuttin'. Just walk RIGHT IN, and look surprised when I turn around and see them.
They also, at one point today, came in to use the bathroom. They were rooting through my stuff--MY STUFF-- while down the basement using the bathroom.
OMG! Not only am I declaring my house a whine-free zone, but I'm going to tell those girls tomorrow that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES will they enter my house, unless I--and I do mean I --tell them they can come in.
If they think I won't throw them out-out-out of my house, they're gonna find out. I hate that these two are the only ones for the Howler to play with during the week, and I hate to tell her that she can't play with them at all, but this is ridiculous. I shouldn't have to tell these children (especially considering that one of them is actually MINE) what the rules are...
Hell, didn't I just spend the winter doing this with a different one?
Kill me. Kill me now.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
No Soup for You
We're polluted with OPK again. It's not so bad, really, if we keep the kitchen windows closed. (God, the Waif's voice is sooooooooooo annoying. I just keep wanting to scream, "Shut the f* up!")
But anyway, the Howler arrived home yesterday, and today, we are, of course, overrun.
And, at lunchtime, it was clear that these chicklets think that my house is a restaurant, and I am the Head Waiter.
The Howler came in and asked if two of the four opk could have lunch with her--now, these two, I don't mind feeding so much. Their families reciprocate and nobody's grocery bills go up or down in the grand scheme of things. I'm about to say yes, when I realize that Waif and Dollie, are unaccounted for.
I ask. The Howler informs me that they're asking their parents, but haven't heard back yet.
Great. Just flippin' great. These are the children who spent 3 days at the end of May rooting through my cupboards and refridgerator. These are the children whose parents think that "reciprocate" means that you give-give-give and they take-take-take. They think that two birthday parties this year (one hot dog, one handful of chips, one juice box, a piece of cake) and two popsicles a year are "fair trade" for two dozen lunches, a half dozen suppers, unlimited snacks, and several s'mores.
Part of me feels like a heel--I'm pissed because I'm now obligated to feed these children--children I KNOW probably aren't going to get lunch today. But on the other hand, I know that feeding them is like feeding the stray dog in the neighborhood. It's going to come back to bite me in the ass. Literally.
I end up deciding that lunch will be "on me," but it will also be entirely MY choice. Chicken noodle soup, bologna sandwiches, crackers, and water. Period. Sandwiches can be with or without cheese, and choices of condiments are available.
Dollie says she doesn't like chicken noodle soup, or bologna sandwiches and promptly disappears. Fine. That's one less I'm required to feed. Quoth my Sweetie, "Beggars can't be choosers."
So, two cans of soup, and sandwich "orders" are fixed. Dollie shows back up in time to eat, and asks for some soup. Bitch that I am, I've already divided the soup. No soup for you. I tell her she can have a bologna sandwich, which she rejects. Even after I tell her it can be with cheese, and condiments of her choice. No, thank you.
Waif then asks for crackers--even though she has a plate--a PLATE--of Goldfish crackers in front of her.
Apparently, beggars CAN be choosers.
But anyway, the Howler arrived home yesterday, and today, we are, of course, overrun.
And, at lunchtime, it was clear that these chicklets think that my house is a restaurant, and I am the Head Waiter.
The Howler came in and asked if two of the four opk could have lunch with her--now, these two, I don't mind feeding so much. Their families reciprocate and nobody's grocery bills go up or down in the grand scheme of things. I'm about to say yes, when I realize that Waif and Dollie, are unaccounted for.
I ask. The Howler informs me that they're asking their parents, but haven't heard back yet.
Great. Just flippin' great. These are the children who spent 3 days at the end of May rooting through my cupboards and refridgerator. These are the children whose parents think that "reciprocate" means that you give-give-give and they take-take-take. They think that two birthday parties this year (one hot dog, one handful of chips, one juice box, a piece of cake) and two popsicles a year are "fair trade" for two dozen lunches, a half dozen suppers, unlimited snacks, and several s'mores.
Part of me feels like a heel--I'm pissed because I'm now obligated to feed these children--children I KNOW probably aren't going to get lunch today. But on the other hand, I know that feeding them is like feeding the stray dog in the neighborhood. It's going to come back to bite me in the ass. Literally.
I end up deciding that lunch will be "on me," but it will also be entirely MY choice. Chicken noodle soup, bologna sandwiches, crackers, and water. Period. Sandwiches can be with or without cheese, and choices of condiments are available.
Dollie says she doesn't like chicken noodle soup, or bologna sandwiches and promptly disappears. Fine. That's one less I'm required to feed. Quoth my Sweetie, "Beggars can't be choosers."
So, two cans of soup, and sandwich "orders" are fixed. Dollie shows back up in time to eat, and asks for some soup. Bitch that I am, I've already divided the soup. No soup for you. I tell her she can have a bologna sandwich, which she rejects. Even after I tell her it can be with cheese, and condiments of her choice. No, thank you.
Waif then asks for crackers--even though she has a plate--a PLATE--of Goldfish crackers in front of her.
Apparently, beggars CAN be choosers.
Friday, June 26, 2009
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Thursday, June 18, 2009
Leetle Girls
Can be annoying.
Especially when there's two of them, and they're both shrieking.
We had promised the Howler that when summer came, and Missy was at her Dad's house, and I had the next day off (or went to work late in the afternoon) Missy could spend the night.
Last night was the night.
Of course, My Sweetie was not well--too many hours a week, too many years at a physically demanding job, too old...and he apparently pulled more than one muscle in his neck. He's in intense pain, and is not, in any sense, of being up to dealing with two seven year old girls. Which I happily do, if for no other reason than he deserves some rest, and I did promise.
It's now 12:06pm EST and they're still in pj's, with one wiggling a tooth incessantly and the other asking how soon is lunch.
God, but I'm a glutton for punishment.
Especially when there's two of them, and they're both shrieking.
We had promised the Howler that when summer came, and Missy was at her Dad's house, and I had the next day off (or went to work late in the afternoon) Missy could spend the night.
Last night was the night.
Of course, My Sweetie was not well--too many hours a week, too many years at a physically demanding job, too old...and he apparently pulled more than one muscle in his neck. He's in intense pain, and is not, in any sense, of being up to dealing with two seven year old girls. Which I happily do, if for no other reason than he deserves some rest, and I did promise.
It's now 12:06pm EST and they're still in pj's, with one wiggling a tooth incessantly and the other asking how soon is lunch.
God, but I'm a glutton for punishment.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Community Relations
Oh, I didn't fill y'all in on the new-and-improved neighborhood fun.
Blonde and Bully have been behaving, and there's been no abusive treatment of any one.
The girls get along. The boys get along, and if they have to pass each other on the green green grass of home, they do it peaceably. No tackling, no crying.
It's all good.
Sunday, the children also had a water battle in my backyard. At first, it was just the girls. Then the boys showed up. Cutie, the youngest, complained every time someone splashed him that his new shirt was ruined (it was water.) Bully didn't want to get wet, so I made the rules clear:
1) You don't want to get wet, you don't get to use a squirt gun or splash anyone else.
2) Don't shoot anyone in the face.
Waif apparently thought that rule wasn't for her, and I spent more time telling her to aim lower than I spent reminding anyone else of anything.
At one point, Bully was effectively shut out and wasn't allowed to load his weapon. Now, it's a water battle, and they're all nailing him right and left, and he's got no ammo? No fair (no matter what I think of the kid, it's still not fair)
I told him to meet me 'round front, and bring the squirt gun. (He arrived looking like I was going to kill him with his own weapon.) I filled the gun for him, and told him, Don't shoot in the face and under no circumstances tell them I did this!
He ran back around the house, shot them all and when the water was depleted, they all found other things to do.
With no fighting and no crying.
I'm not such a terrible wench after all.
Blonde and Bully have been behaving, and there's been no abusive treatment of any one.
The girls get along. The boys get along, and if they have to pass each other on the green green grass of home, they do it peaceably. No tackling, no crying.
It's all good.
Sunday, the children also had a water battle in my backyard. At first, it was just the girls. Then the boys showed up. Cutie, the youngest, complained every time someone splashed him that his new shirt was ruined (it was water.) Bully didn't want to get wet, so I made the rules clear:
1) You don't want to get wet, you don't get to use a squirt gun or splash anyone else.
2) Don't shoot anyone in the face.
Waif apparently thought that rule wasn't for her, and I spent more time telling her to aim lower than I spent reminding anyone else of anything.
At one point, Bully was effectively shut out and wasn't allowed to load his weapon. Now, it's a water battle, and they're all nailing him right and left, and he's got no ammo? No fair (no matter what I think of the kid, it's still not fair)
I told him to meet me 'round front, and bring the squirt gun. (He arrived looking like I was going to kill him with his own weapon.) I filled the gun for him, and told him, Don't shoot in the face and under no circumstances tell them I did this!
He ran back around the house, shot them all and when the water was depleted, they all found other things to do.
With no fighting and no crying.
I'm not such a terrible wench after all.
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