Not so good in the neighborhood

About the family who used to live down the street....

They had at least four children. (I lost count)

The mom used to lock the kids outside when she was angry with them....all day long. They would come beg for lunch from the other neighbors.

Yes, DFS was called.

They were new in the neighborhood around the same time as us. One day the boys came over to play and I sent them down to the basement with my kids along with instructions to stay out of one corner. Just one corner. The corner where the sewing stuff is. That's all. One corner. The other three? Fair game. Full of toys. Approximately 3 minutes later, the two boys came upstairs with bloody fingers.

Me-Why are your fingers bleeding?

Boy 1-I was playing and I saw this thing and it looked like a toy so I went to play with it and it cut my fingers!

Me-Where did you find it?

Boy 1-In the corner.

Me-Which corner? The one I told you to say out of?

Boy 1-Yes.

Me-Okay. (to Boy 2) And what happened to you?

Boy 2-I saw him get cut so I wanted to see if it would cut me too. Can we have some band-aids?

Me-No. Here's a tissue. Go home.

One day I was returning home from....somewhere. I don't know. I'm driving down the street....I press my garage door opener....I realize that not only is my garage door going up AND down, there is also a small child dangling from it. I do a double take, look around to make sure it is indeed my house (it was). I pull into my driveway and hysterically question this child as to WHAT THE HELL HE THOUGHT HE WAS DOING! While I am actively having a conniption, the younger brother comes out from the garage. He had been stationed inside to press the button. Turns out the previous occupants of our house had not kept their garage code a secret from aaaanyone. As I am sending these children home, they point to some (not even slightly empty) LaCroix cans on my lawn.

"Your soda tastes disgusting," they inform me. At this point, they scurry off home. At least they knew to hit the road before my head exploded. Aaaand I changed the garage door code.

Another neighbor reported that she saw the mom and three of the kids driving down the street one day and they stopped to say hi. She looked in the minivan and said, "Oh is the baby home with Daddy?" The mother waved the baby monitor and chirped,"Nope! Home napping! We're going to the store!", as if this is the best idea evarrrr and she can hear the monitor from the frickin' grocery store.

Again, DFS was called on this family. A lot.

This family claimed to be very "religious". Most of the neighborhood preferred the term "weird-ass Jesus freaks". The kids would run up to us on the street and hand us Bibles that their parents had instructed them to distribute. Like we were all Godless wonders. Then the oldest one would come back later and beat up my son.

On Halloween, the boys dressed up like Abraham and Moses and trick-or-treated. If by "trick-or-treat", you mean "terrorize innocent children and steal their candy". Their house, on the other hand, was dark. Because they didn't believe in celebrating the heathen spectacle that was Halloween.

Then there was the out and out thievery. It's one thing to snag a Hershey bar from a terrified youngster or break into a garage and help yourself to a flavored fizzy water, but it is quite another to big fat steal a bicycle from a front lawn or a GameBoy from a stoop. Wait a minute....what the hell?!?! It's all thievery! What am I saying!!!! Those boys took KDHD's bike from our FRONT LAWN. We weren't sure it was them until two years later when we saw their little sister riding around on it. At that point I knew there was nothing to be done...I just wish she would at least wear the helmet they stole along with the bike. When they took another neighbor's GameBoy and sold it to an older kid, the mother of the victim confronted them with their mother. The conversation went something like this, I'm told:

Victim's mom- What happened to my kid's GameBoy?

Thief- I took it and sold it to a 16 year old.

Vic's mom (to thief's mom)- Your kid admitted he stole from my kid, on our front stoop. What are you going to do about it?

Thief's mom- I'm not doing anything. Your kid should take better care of his stuff.

Then the parents became professional bodybuilders and they all moved to a shack in Hawaii just in time for the boys to avoid getting busted for a huge vandalism spree. And we lived happily ever after.

DHS probably showed up the next day.

Christmas 2007....Canine Edition

Please to humor me as I get lost down memory lane. Thanks.
(yes, as a child I thought that was an actual geographical feature...a lane with pictures of old stuff--you know, like on street signs?...it made sense to me at the time....shush)
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Okay....my house,
Christmas Day-
Twelve Humans
NINE DOGS!
Only two of the dogs are actual inhabitants of the house. Their names are Maggie and Bailey, collectively known as MailBag. 'Cause, you know, sometimes you just have to yell a name without getting all bogged down with which name goes with which entity. The Old Dog is Maggie, an eleven year old flatulent Dalmatian. She will also answer to Best Dog Ever.
Bailey is the puppy, a mix of one quarter each beagle, chihuahua, Boston terrier and demon. Everyone thinks she's a pit bull. Whatever. We also have three incoming rat terriers in addition to four mixed breeds from various adoption/rescue scenarios with temperaments that range from sweet to skittish to Bad. The Bad Dog is named Maddie. It's not her fault she's bad. She was abused as a puppy before being rescued. This does not make her even one tiny bit less scary.


So. Here is what we know for sure-

• Bailey does not get along with two of the rat terriers.






• The Bad Dog gets along with one and a half humans and no canines.






• Maggie is too old to give a rat's or any other kind of ass and will just lie around and occasionally bark or fart.

Organizing these dogs takes more effort than the seating plan at a shotgun wedding. When it's time for the Bad Dog to go outside, the proclamation is made,

"Maddie is coming up!"

Suddenly the humans put down their beers and spring into action-each has a dog to grab and corral until Maddie gets outside. The grandma who is NOT a dog person (God love her) barricades herself in the bathroom until she hears the all clear.

When Maddie is once again safely ensconced in the basement (yes, it has furniture and carpet-shut up) WITH a baby gate blocking the stairs just in case, Dog forbid, someone should forget and OPEN THE DOOR!!!!, the dogs are released into a swirling vortex of canine glee that could only be enhanced by the addition of raw meat.

Of course, every time Maddie comes up there is a different mix of dogs available to react to her since the puppy and the rat terriers can't seem to share air space without getting snappish, so they have to take turns in the box.

The one constant is Maggie...sitting on her little bed....reigning from on high (ummmm, well, low) with an air of studied indifference. Tooting.

Oh yeah, the humans? I guess they got along just fine. No one noticed.

The End

So there I was, serenely having a snack, and suddenly all hell broke loose. Among the cacophonous sounds of my friends screaming I suddenly realized I was being chased. Before I knew it I was being half-dragged and half-carried by my ankles, restrained by all my appendages. It was terrifying. It all happened so quickly there was no time to think, no time to formulate a plan.

Some say that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Others speak of a tunnel with a light at the end. It turns out that I am an out of body kind of girl. Frankly, from the atrocities I witnessed upon my body, the tunnel sounds really really good. But you know, it turns out we don't get to choose. Out of body it was. I watched as I was stripped, disemboweled and enclosed in a bag. Into refrigeration I went with the rest of my friends in a giant vile morgue. Eventually we were separated, which didn't matter at all, really. It's not like there's any camaraderie among the dead. If any of them were out of body, they weren't visible to me. They probably got the tunnel. Lucky bitches.

The atrocities that followed our separation were truly unspeakable. My corpse was pummelled and mangled beyond belief. I can't even recount the heinous acts performed upon my former self. If it had been possible not to watch, I would have stopped. Alas though, it was not. But eventually it all became clear. As I floated over the unrecognizable pile of bones and flesh and viewed the happy consumers of, well....me, I realized my purpose. And it made me feel content for the first time. Suddenly I felt warm and happy and there was a light and a tunnel and all that stuff they tell you about when you die. And I went.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Maybe at that OTHER discount store.....

One day a few years ago, on my regularly scheduled trip to Target, I made my regularly scheduled trip to the bathroom in said Target. I don't know about you but there are certain places that just make me have to go to the bathroom. My basement, my garage and quite often, Target. But anyway.

Upon entering, I noticed three girls huddled around the sink. As a mom, my first instinct was to demand to know what they were up to, but I reminded myself that none of these girls are on my mothering list, so...no. As I entered a stall, I did register their general look--mid-teens, a Marilyn Manson t-shirt, jeans cut a little too tight and a lot too low, wacky hair colors with three inches of roots and a whole bunch of visible ratty bra straps.

Sadly, I did kind of judge them by their appearance, then harshly reminded myself that I have known many spectacular girls who presented themselves in a not so spectacular fashion at that age. So, mental hand-slapping on my part.

At the sink I could hear the rustling of paper and some random comments:
"Here, use this part."
"Yeah, it's right here."
"Don't worry, there's more than one."

Then the closing of a stall door and:
"I can't pee."
"Well, don't waste it. Let's go get you something to drink."
"No, she can't drink a lot. It won't work."
"She can drink a little. It'll be okay."

As I washed my hands, the girls packed their paraphernalia into purses and moved towards the door. The last one smiled at me as she held the door open. I thanked her and wondered how many teen aged girls find out they're pregnant in the bathroom of a Target store.