Don’t Push Me ‘Cause I’m Close to the Edge


I’ve found myself in a state of righteous indignation the last few days. It began this past weekend when the neighborhood militant started his target practice. I could deal with a few “pop,pop,pops” here and there but this guy doesn’t slow down long enough to set up his Pabst Blue Ribbon cans again. It’s rapid fire succession for hours on end. It was more frequent over the summer, and when you’re at the neighborhood pool it sounds and feels like you’re under attack.To compound this my 4-year-old hits the deck and screams and whines the entire time as if she’s lived through a firestorm before and is having flashbacks. I had had enough and made a sign to post at the exit of the neighborhood stating that in case of a zombie apocalypse I wanted his address;until then, knock it off. A kind neighbor filled me in on where this man lives and that neighbors have called police about it in the past. Unfortunately this man is within his rights, we’re in the county, he has all his permits and although there is a street of housing that runs behind his property he has 3 acres adjacent to the woods. I decided not to post the sign because it turns out all this information was freely given by Billy the Kid when this neighbor was passing by, sounds like he’s the type of jerk that would just be spurred to further shooting by my not so polite attempt to shut him up. As G K Chesterton said “To have a right to do a thing is not at all the same as to be right in doing it.” If I’m a fire arms enthusiast looking for a home, I would buy one on 3 acres where I’m not going to have to worry about bothering anyone not in a suburban neighborhood full of children! My sign may have been a no go but I haven’t ruled out circling some more suitable dwellings in the Real Estate Guide and slipping it in his mailbox with a note “Dear Mr. Nugent….”

To add to my agitated state Brenna’s dance class wanted $85 dollars by yesterday for a costume for her dance recital. In May. First, another parent who asked flat-out what the requirements would be as far as uniforms and costumes was told matching leggings from Wal-Mart. This was when the place still smelled like wet paint and they were trying to enroll students in their brand new studio. Second, she’s 4. If she were 15 and committed to dance I may fork over $85 dollars for a costume after she’s cut the lawn and done the dishes X amount of times. If you want it, you work for it. But she’s four and this her first dance year (and shaping up to be her last).Third, she’s not tall enough to warrant $85 worth of any material. Fourth, it’s hip-hop class in which they’re dancing to a Justin Beiber song. If it were tap or ballet, while still astronomical I might be able to fathom that amount. Kriss-Kross didn’t need an 85 dollar costume to make you “Jump, Jump” they turned around the crap they were already wearing. I talked to the co-owner of the dance studio last night (after a telephone call to the other co-owner made me want to tap the phone… this thing on?). I told her points 1-4 and she said she could do a payment plan, and they’re comparable to other studios in the area. Totally missing the point. I suggested all the kids wear Justin Beiber t-shirts and that I was sure I wasn’t the only parent feeling this way. I want all the kids to be able to participate; it’s the first year for all of us and it being a hip-hop class there was room to explore other options. She said she’d talk to the teacher, so I walked out with hope that this could be resolved reasonably. Then I sat through the rest of class and watched parent after parent come and ask what their balance was, sigh and pull out a checkbook to make payment. I watched a young woman who wasn’t in the best of clothes come back after paying cash who said “I just paid some but I’m just gonna pay the rest while I have it and get it over with”. I watched a man receive a call from his wife while his card was being swiped for $205 dollars relaying the amount shaking his head saying “I know…I know”. I watched a Hispanic woman count quarters onto the desk. I watched all hope go down the drain.

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