uncharitable thoughts

I’ve heard that as people mature, they often exhibit traits that were previously uncharacteristic of them; for example, those who are high-strung mellow out, and those who were mellow to begin with become more excitable. Well, it doesn’t seem to be working for me. In general, I would rank myself much closer to the high-strung end of the spectrum than the footloose and fancy-free pole. Until Friday, I was under the illusion that perhaps I had reached that point where I had loosened up and learned to appreciate a little spontaneity. Hah.

I was vacuuming the living room on Friday afternoon when I heard the doorbell. I couldn’t see anybody at the front door, so I suspected it was my little neighbors at the back door. I decided to ignore them. That lasted only a short time, since I soon heard unusual noises coming from the deck, and via the living room windows, I could see a neighbor watching through her patio door, fully absorbed in what was transpiring in her line of vision. I decided to satisfy my curiosity. Don’t you think I found Lina and Ferris happily coloring with their bucketful of sidewalk chalk on the floorboards of the deck, not a care in the world. Maybe if I had children of my own, I would have found this terribly amusing, creative, clever, or resourceful; however, I found it none of the above. I reacted exactly the way you’d expect someone high-strung to react.

Me (flinging open the patio door): What are you doing?
Lina (calmly): Coloring. I did this, too. (pointing to her handiwork, four or five stripes on the screen door)

At which point I really lost it.

Me (voice raising an octave): Noooooo!!!! You DO NOT color on my house! Go home! Go home right now! Go home and color on your own house, if your mom lets you! You take your chalk and you go home!

Lina (unfazed): But can we pet the kitties?
Me: No. I’m busy vacuuming. Go home. Do NOT color on my house!

What nerve! What gall! What cheek!

After reflecting on it, I am beginning to think that maybe I overreacted. I mean, it is only sidewalk chalk. I haven’t washed it off yet, thinking that it might mark my house as part of Lina’s turf, and thereby dissuade the hordes of other young hoodlums in the area from leaving their calling cards. Naw, actually, it just hasn’t been a priority. I’m sure it will wash off the next time it rains--or the pervasive construction dust will cover it in a week’s time. Oh, well, I’m sure I’ve now firmly established my reputation as the Chapman Mills grumpy cat lady. On second thought, I feel justified. If they’d got away with chalk this time, they might have tried markers next, and before you know it, they’d be working their way up to the spray paint.

And so ends September...