Ribbed, for her pleasure

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White trash.  It exists… Trust me.  I lived in a trailer for two years.  Of course, it was in the desert in the middle east, but even so, I am going to say that gives me license to use the term “white trash.” At least for a minute.

We  live in one of Money Magazine’s top family towns in the USA (see article). We wouldn’t actually be in the USA if there weren’t some white trash.  We have one house on our block that qualifies, because there just has to be at least one house, it’s some kind of law of nature.  Just like in the locker room.  There may only be two of you there, but your lockers will always be side by side.

In this house, there lives a Gramma, at least two to four teenage boys (who are probably mid-20’s, but I can no longer discern because I am nearing 40), a rottweiler, and possibly a few other tank-top sporting babes.  On the weekends it at least triples in population.

Like a virus.

There are five cars parked in front, on a given day, with at least two being worked on at a time. Sounds like I’m setting you up for a word problem, but I swear I’m not.  It’s Sunday, I am moving slow, and math is not on my brain.  Okay, it’s rarely on my brain.  You got me.

Two young girls were at the house yesterday.  It appears that one or two of the teenage-20-year-olds has reproduced (!!!!!).  They were walking around and around the block with a TOY stroller. I am talking a stroller made for a plastic two lb. baby doll.  In it there was not a doll.  There was a real live baby.  Probably six-months old.

I said, “WOE!  That’s a real baby in there?  I totally thought (hoped, prayed) she was a doll!”

They looked at me, like I was a crazy person.  Well, that may be accurate.  But, at least I don’t walk around with someone’s real baby in a toy stroller.  Or a pretend baby in a real stroller.  That too would be a bit over the top, although the pretend baby at least would be safe…

“So, is she one of your’s?”  I said, to the seven and the nine year old.  hehe.  snort.  Get it?

Again, not much response.  The older one slowly said no, while the younger one eventually said, “yes.”

Not that it would be THAT surprising, I’ve seen it all on Dateline.  But, I thought I’d give her the benefit of the doubt.

“So, she’s your little sister?”

“Yeah.”

End of conversation.  At least they don’t really talk to strangers.  I’ll give them that!  I was about to boost up their potential in my judgemental mind, when I saw them pass by my window again.  This time, the nine year old was carrying the baby.  And by the word ‘carry’ I mean, holding the real baby like a squirming feral kitten who is about to scratch her eyes out.  I kid you not, that baby nearly fell from her arms, on the sidewalk in front of my house.

And there, my initial judgment was reconfirmed.  I know, they’re just kids.  It is hard to escape the short, skinny, tank-top wearing, car-tinkering, budweiser drinking tree from which they fell.  I’m gonna cross my fingers and hope that in life they discover their own protective bubbles… and those bubbles have a thick lining, possibly ribbed, with a tip.   Maybe when those funny shaped bubbles surround them in high school, someone will insert a good education, some high quality beer, and a real baby stroller.

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