On the way to go see my sister's newest baby so cute, does not make me want another one we stopped at What-a-Burger for lunch and a potty break. I should have been concerned when I had trouble closing the stall door. I really became concerned when I could not get the damn thing to open. After a few seconds of pushing, I called out to my eight-year-old for help. Desperate times. Instead, the sixteen-year-old girl waiting for the bathroom hears my cries for help. Between the two of us, we still can not get the door open. I almost start to cry. I am going to have to crawl on the icky floor. But then I gave the door one last kick, and it flew open. Safe at last.
Sunday, the weather was awesome. Like-shorts-and-a-tshirt-and-please-say-that-I-got-enough-sun-that-I-am-no-longer-ghost-white awesome. Kenny cleaned the garage. I read a book in a lawn chair. The kids ran around in the front yard. I even drank lemonade. It was good times. Until. My neighbor, the vacation home next door part-time neighbor, came over. To let me know that my kids ride their scooter in the street. And once walked in her yard. And climb the tree. The tree that is in my yard. The tree in my yard that I don't give a shit if they climb. And. And! Those hoodlum kids who lived here before us used to jump off of things. The audacity of those kids. And those boys in our neighborhood? They are always doing horrible, horrible things like playing football in the street. Fucking brats. It wasn't until after she stomped off that it occurred to me that I should have mentioned how much I don't appreciate her spying on me. We catch her looking in our windows. Often.
So in conclusion:
I got stuck in the What-a-Burger bathroom, which would have made for better rapping if it had been Burger King. Go ahead...name that song.
Once again, we have crazy fucking neighbors. Kenny is already packing our boxes.