This morning my husband asks if I heard the Ding-Dong-Ditcher during the night.
We don’t actually have a doorbell, so the poor kid had to resort to banging on our door really loudly with his fist. But no, I didn’t hear him. Apparently my daughter saw a ghost of the boy jumping the fence, though.
Turns out this wasn’t just any run-of-the-mill Ding-Dong-Ditcher, though.
He left evidence: He traced his body on the driveway in chalk, and left an evidence folder that had the name of the victim (him) and something to the effect of “I’m dying to go to Homecoming with you.”
Apparently our house is the hardest house in the world to ding-dong-ditch: first he had trouble with the front gate. Then he realized that the doorbells do not actually “ding-dong” at all. (Would you hook up your doorbells and let a dozen toddlers loose?) At which point he pounded, and spying another gate with a more promising looking latch, he bolted–only to realize that that one is padlocked.
Which explains the fence hopping.
We designed it to keep toddlers in. Who knew it would be a potential date deterrent?
My sister-in-law suggested she design her own evidence folder, with all findings pointing to yes. And have a uniformed cop deliver it really early in the morning.
She didn’t think that was very original. Somebody got fake-arrested last year as part of their reply.
It’s amazing how creative they get in their asking/replying around here; it’s almost like marriage proposals. Yeeesh. I think we just all kind of showed up at the dance, when I was that age.
Now we just have to find a dress. In the next two weeks or so.
Obviously not in this town.
Am I really this old?