On the road to Crazyville

The neighborhood kids are driving me crazy.  Why?  Because they don’t know the meaning of the word “no.”  Let me explain.

In the last thirty minutes two boys and one girl have knocked on my front door asking “Can Sarah come out?” four times.  Actually it was five because the girl asked twice.   Do the math, that’s one kid every six minutes.

How many times can I say “No, she’s busy eating.” before it sinks in?  Maybe prepubescent kids are like toddlers in that they have to hear a direction twenty-seven times before it takes.

And one kid had the nerve to not only ask for Sarah but for a water bottle.  My dogs were barking at a pitch that causes the cochlea to go bald, so I asked him to repeat it.

“I wanted a water bottle from Sarah.”

“Why?”

“You know, in case I get thirsty.”

What does this kid think I am?  A vending machine?  Put in a request and my dishes fall out?  I told him that I never hand out my dishes.  Let the little shit go home and get one from his own cabinet.

The last straw was about five minutes ago.  The girl came up for the second time.  I saw her before she knocked; when I opened the door the storm door shook in its hinges.  She jumped an inch into the air.  As scary as I looked, as mad as I was, I could’ve made the Hulk wet himself.

Sarah’s outside, spreading the warning that Mom isn’t a person to make mad.

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