We were sitting on the couch, eating dinner and watching “Jack Van Impe Presents” when, amidst the flurry of late rush-hour traffic and its honking and screeching, I heard it: squeaking. Not rhythmic, like a squeaking instrument, or tiny, like embarrassed mice caught in the act, but random, like an ADD’d rottweiler with a rubber toy. Squeak! Squeeaaaak! Squeaksqueaksqueak.
For some reason, the randomness of this noise and its pitch made me itchy with insanity. I twitched while SA patted my head. A few minutes later it ended.
Just 10 minutes ago, before the blessed rain started, I heard it again. Insistent squeaking. Attitudinal squeaking. Squeak! Squeaksqueak! As I was at my desk, which is by the window, I stood up to take a look. And who was squeaking? A small child, perhaps two years old. With SQUEAKING SNEAKERS. (which is almost as fun to say as “designer vagina”) She hopped from one foot to the other; she jumped off the curb and back up; she ran a little way down the sidewalk and then back again to her father who, I’m thinking, has to be on Valium to not be seriously considering just walking in the other direction, at a good clip, and they’ll never find him, oh no, because toddlers have notoriously poor senses of smell. Or perhaps he was just distracted by the other small child who looked to be the same age as squeaky, as well as the raggedy terrier who accompanied them.
Here are two of the many things I’ve learned over the years:
1. The internet is an interesting place that sometimes makes me giggle.
2. Children make noise. They come pre-installed with noise. Aside from pooping, noise is the most consistent thing they do. So why, in the name of all that is right and just in this world would you put a noisemaker in a child’s shoe?
Yes. Curmudgeonly. Currrrr.
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