Dale Carnegie We Ain't

After Squeaker's sidewalk profanity spewing incident and subsequent loss of front yard privileges, I thought maybe we might have a quiet week without appearing too freakish to the neighbors.

Yeah, right. What was I thinking?

Yesterday another neighbor showed up on the doorstep with her son in tow. Whenever the kids answer the door and I hear someone say, "Is your mom home?" I know it means trouble (or a salesman which is not any better).

Apparently, the neighbor kid was supposed to get the mail and asked Drama Boy to walk with him down to the mail boxes at the end of our culdesac. What was supposed to be a little mail-collecting jaunt turned into a federal-property-tampering crime spree.

Okay, spree might be a teeny tiny exaggeration.

Allegedly, one or both boys jammed a piece of wood into the lock on their mailbox. It will now cost the other boy's parents $30 to pull and replace the lock. They won't be able to receive mail until after Tuesday when the post office sends someone out to fix it.

Of course, both boys blame the other. Drama Boy is not exactly known for his honesty and his version of the story is not holding up. Ana reminded him that if he had been where he was supposed to be we wouldn't be in this situtation. He is not exactly known for being where he is supposed to be either.

So we haven't exactly impressed the neighbors with our polite, well-behaved children as of late. What else is new? At least there were only shoes on the roof this week, not children.

All the kids are hereby banished forthwith from front yard play except with direct supervision. I anticipate much backlash, drama, and whining about how they never get to do anything.

Boo hoo.

Win the crowd, Maximus, and you will win your freedom.