Butt...

It seems that I am doomed to look at ass crack the rest of my life.

The crackorama at work has finally (knock on wood) ended, but now, in the neighborhood, there's crack.

The Urchins are back (Waif & Loser Lover moved out last fall...then came back in late winter) and the Urchins are officially not allowed in my house. Two weekends ago, they were rooting through my cupboards and 'fridge, helping themselves.

Now, I do not begrudge a child food when they're hungry, but these two have taken to showing up "just in time" to ask "can we eat with you"? In other words, they ain't getting fed at home, and it's now my responsibility to feed them, since last summer's free-for-all has ended.

So, they come to my house, and help themselves. A bag of chips lasts minutes, and short of using the stove, it's anything goes. It doesn't help that they've helped trash my house with toys, then disappeared. And Sunday evening, began systematically emptying the sand box into the parking area for the tenants.

Oh, I so do not think so.

Anyway, Dolly is now wearing pants that don't fit--they're too big. I'm guessing that Loser Boy is too cheap (and too busy at the bar) to buy his daughter clothes that fit. Her butt hangs out of them almost continually. She's not wearing panties with them either, so I have choice A) they're dirty and laundry ain't getting done, or choice B) those don't fit her either, or choice C) both A and B.

It's frustrating. Because it's the Howler who is sharing the 411 on what it's like at the Urchin's home, not them. If it were them, I could reasonably document and deal, but since it's my 7 year old spilling the beans, I can document, but there's not much anyone can, or will, do about it. It's also sad to think that even this kind of neglect is low on the Needs-Investigated scale, since, they attend school, get infrequent meals, and have a roof over their heads and clothes on their bodies.

Some bleeting heart will probably tell me that I'm too harsh, these are children. But you know what? I'm not responsible for opk. That's why they're OPK--they're not mine, and it's not my job to raise them. And, I don't think I should have to put up with the disrespect and mouthiness I'm now getting from said OPK.

If I am feeding you regularly, and you're not actually blood related to me, then the least you can do is not trash the stuff I paid for, follow the rules at my house, and speak to me with a minimum of respect. Don't shoot me dirty looks when I tell you about it, either.

So anyway, now that the majority of my wise cracking (HAH! Get it?) is handled at work, I now get to come home and look at it.

The only difference is, I can tell this one to pull her pants up as often as I want.