P.S. Pull Up Your Pants

Sometimes I forget that I'm an 82-year-old woman and blink in surprise when sentences like "Stop skateboarding, you little hooligan!" or "Get off my lawn, you good-for-nothing ruffian!" or "Put on some pants!" tumble out of my mouth.

Tonight, three 12-year-old punks decided that it would be funny to go to every door in the neighborhood and play Ding Dong Ditch. I wouldn't have even noticed except I was in my brother's room watching him play F.E.A.R. As the name of the game implies, it's fairly good at putting you on the edge of your seat, leaving you whimpering and clutching your blankie and crying out for mommy. I was in the midst of sucking my thumb when I saw shadows moving in my peripheral vision. I jabbed my teeth through my hand and jumped before I realized it was just the aforementioned 12-year-old punks.

Now, it was annoying enough to watch them attempt to pull the prank on our house while my brother shouted, "WE CAN SEE YOU," from the window. But it got even more annoying when they returned ten minutes later to do the neighbor's house. And then my office roomie's house. And then the house next to that. AND THE HOUSE NEXT TO THAT. Their giggling was so loud we could have shot them in the dark. But I'm all out of flaming arrows, and my Nerf gun won't reach that far. Instead, my brother and I spent fifteen minutes looking up realistic police siren noises online (which, holy crap, are hard to find).

We had everything planned out. The shouting at the kids, the cop noises, the setting off of the car alarm in our driveway . . . It was going to be beautiful. But those (apparently orphaned) hooligans stopped coming back, and I was left to my senile muttering and my thumb-sucking and my adult diapers. Grumblecakes.

Next time, my pretties. I'm gonna get you. And your little dog, too.