What is it with kids and touching stuff? I’ve about worn out my mother’s saying. “You don’t look with your hands”.
I was up in my room the other day blowing the top layer of dust of my knick-knacks when the eldest grandniece strolled in. She asked me what I was doing. That ticked me off because it was obvious by my gasping and blood red countenance that I was strenuously exhaling toward my stuff. It’s not rocket science. As she stood there, she nonchalantly picked up a Rockwell figurine, looked at it and placed it back down a millionth of a centimeter from where it was.
Okay, I may have overreacted a bit, but dammit, now I had to walk all the way downstairs to get the furniture polish and clean the whole bureau. Is it too much to ask them not to touch my stuff? I mean, I don’t go down to her joint and pick stuff up and put it back down for no apparent reason.
The middle child took a shower in my bathroom and used my towel. I have given her strict orders not to remove ANYTHING from my bathroom that was there when she arrived, and to take OUT everything she brings with her. Does she listen? Nooooooo. My towel was located several days later when I noticed something pinkish on the stairs to the hot tub. When I confronted her, she whined that she thought I would rather have her wipe her feet on it before getting in the hot tub rather than have it just hanging up in my bathroom serving no purpose. What the hell kind of an answer it that?
The little guy is a real toucher. He walks in to the house and for some reason feels he has to drag his hands across every wall he comes in contact with. Then he has to jump flat footed and try to touch the ceiling with his filthy fingers to see if he has grown 1/16th of an inch since yesterday. He came into in my room and dragged his hand across my television screen. I asked him why he would do that. He said he was just looking. I brought the four greasy streaks to his attention and asked him again why he would do that. He shrugged and told me I’d never notice them once it was dark.
I spend hours putting up Christmas decorations, from the intricacies of the strategically positioned tree lights, 43 sterling silver bells, and 18 Austrian crystal figurines. What does everyone do once I get it done? They touch them. They just can’t stop themselves from ringing the bells or spinning the figurines around. Then they “look” at my Christmas Village that I have spent three days arranging and knock Scrooge over. What’s wrong with these people? AArgh!
I lined the two youngest up last week and interrogated them about the dustless ring on my nightstand. They both strongly denied culpability concerning the disappearance of my favorite coffee mug. Well, I can say with certainty that they both are still persons of interest, because they liked the saying on it that says, “Get Your Freakin’ Hands Off My Stuff”.
I don’t know where all this is going, but I am sick, sick, sick of people touching my stuff. There’s one of those little twerps in the other room right now, mocking me, saying “sick, sick, sick” in a really wise ass voice. Is it against the law to humiliate children? I think I’ll visit the school tomorrow and have the secretary call them to the office to get their big girl and big boy pants.
You know, just thinking about that makes me feel much better. Heh, heh, heh.