The previous owner of our house left us a nice little card telling us when garbage is picked up, how the dryer squeaks terribly when you first turn it on but settles down after a few minutes and other such useful information. One of the points nearing the end of the note said that she let some neighbourhood kids play on her porch and in the backyard and advising that we’d have to decide what to do with them. "They’ll probably be quite forward but I told them to take it easy on you," she wrote.
One day last week, after a day running around getting new locks and other odds and ends for the house, we pulled up on the street and we saw these two kids wielding icicles at each other on someone else’s porch. "OH GOD I BET THOSE ARE THE KIDS," I calmly stated and Kevin said, "For fuck’s sake Les – can you relax?" (Answer: No. No I cannot.)
Everyone who was here on the day of the move felt the kibosh had to be put on these kids playing in the back yard. The porch was a bit more of a gray area. I tended to agree with them while Kevin felt it was not a big deal. At any rate, because my heart is cold and black, I scurried into the house with our bags, leaving Kevin to talk to the kids, who had followed us across the street to our house.
Kid: Hey, can we pet your dog?
Kid: How old am I in dog years?
Kev: Well, how old are you?
Kid: I’m 11.
Kev: Okay, then you’re 77.
Kid: Pointing to sister. How old is she? She’s 9.
Kev: She’s 63.
Kid: Bwhahaha! She’s OLD!
Dude. Listen, Boy, you’re a full 14 dog years older than your sister. Honestly, kids? Wtf? Then a couple days later, when Kevin came home from getting lunch provisions:
Kid: Hey, look at my staff! Kid holds up some kind of pole with a hook on the end of it.
Kev: Um, nice!
Kid: Yeah, my dad just has to take this hook off the end and then it will be a REAL staff. Kid twirls staff, looks at Kev expectantly.
Kev (by telepathy): Les! Hurry up! Open the door! I can’t find my keys!
I think I’m winning this one.