soft-serve fireworks

I feel like I should go back in time and make this blog completely anonymous so I can really share all of the details of what I’m about to tell you.

We have these neighbors.  They are the purest form of garbage you can imagine.  I don’t know 100% of the background, but I know enough.  There are currently five adults (if you can really call them adults,) two dogs and a whole mess of children living in a house that is roughly 1350 square feet, give or take.  That’s okay.  Times are tough.  I get it.  Their babes run from about three to nine years in age.  Oh, and there’s an infant too.  They can be seen walking the streets of our neighborhood at any given time of day or night completely unsupervised (minus the littlest one, thank God.) and up to whatever they so choose.  I have only ever seen the smallest one wearing one pair of shorts sans shirt.  Ever.  That’s okay, we all have our favorite comfies.  All of the women are bottoming out somewhere in the 325-350 range.  That’s okay, we all have our fat pants days.  A couple of them have hot pink hair.  That’s okay, I rocked a maroon look for a good two months this winter.

One of the pinkies who my husband so aptly described as a “pink soft serve ice cream cone” chose to let one of my babes have it, straight up trucker style tonight in our park.  That is… not okay.

If you know anything about me at this point it is probably that no one, but no one, messes with my kids.  They might be acting the purest form of evil for all I care, but unless you pushed them out of one of your reproductive organs, you don’t hold the right to berate them.  That’s my reward from God himself for the hell they put me through on the daily.

I only saw/heard about 30% of what happened, but my little Princess of Tattling was on hand for 100% and she broke it down for me like this:

Little Man was showing off his broken femur/surgery scars for one of the other little hellions during a rousing game of toilet tag.  This is a game  where if you get tagged, you have to perch yourself in a “toilet prone” position with arm raised in a handle fashion and remain there until a team mate comes and “flushes” your handle.  If you’ve ever seen the Little Man in person or in photos, you understand that he is ass-crack-challenged.  That sucker is always showing.  Upon graduation, there is a solid chance he will move on to a lucrative plumbing career.  He’s just that advanced.  This game, with the lots of crouching and lunging, probably not a great idea for him.  Add to that, that at some point he felt the need to hike up the leg of his shorts to show off his sweet scars, and what we have is a recipe for a lunatic asshole mother to go batshit on my baby boy for “exposing himself” to one of her brood.

I won’t repeat the things she supposedly said here on the blog because this is a family show (bahahaha,) but I will tell you that not even I talk to my kids like that.  So, I did what any mother in my position would do.  I marched my happy ass over to her front door and confronted the lot of the meth-ed out drunken rabble rousers.  That’s what I do.  Jimmie rode shotgun and waited at the curb in case shit got real and he had to peal me off of anyone, but his services were not needed.

When I first went to the door, she said that no, she did not talk to my son.  It was the little boy in the white wife-beater that she was talking to.  So I kindly walked away and let it go.  Then,  as we were walking away, the mother of the boy in the white tank top marched her happy ass up to the door.  We stayed within hearing distance to see what went down. (She, honestly, looked a little more unstable than even I did.  We thought it would be good entertainment.)  Do you know what I heard?  Her telling that mom that she was talking to MY KID.  Oh no, hell no.

I marched back over there and said, “Excuse me?  You just told me you were yelling at her kid?!  I’m confused.”  She went on to tell all sorts of lies.  When I told her that I had it on good authority she was full of shit, she said “well I don’t know how YOU were raised, but around here…”  To which I replied, “oh honey,  I see the kind of garbage you have living in this house, please do not question my upbringing.”  Things went on, it was unreal and I am even embarrassed at some of the Arkansas Roots that may have come out of my mouth.  I do try so hard to overcome the fact that I was, in fact, brought into this world in a trailer park.  But sometimes, your roots just take over.
{Yes, I do see the irony here, what with the questioning of my heritage and all.  But not all Arkansas trailer folk are actually trash.  Besides, we were out of there long before the trash actually stuck.}

She thought it ended with me telling her that if she ever spoke to my children again, there would be a problem between she and I.  (To which she asked if I was threatening her, and I politely informed her she could just try it out and see.)

When it really ends, is when someone throws an M80 over their fence on the 4th of July when they head outside for their afternoon toke off of the crack pipe.