Miss Sassy Pants

We had a neighbor, when I was growing up, a young teen-age girl who was very boy-conscious. She was a bit conceited, too. Brimming with self-confidence, she'd find a way to make herself available for a coy introduction to whichever Dreamboat caught her fancy at the moment.

My siblings and I used to watch her sassy strut as she paraded around the neighborhood in her cute outfits, hair carefully teased, and pale pink frosted lipstick four layers thick. We couldn't stand her behavior, I'll go ahead and say it. We could be bratty, I'll go ahead and say that, too.

One day, we were out playing in our front yard. Across the street was the back entrance to a small grocery store, where a new boy had recently been hired, and, you guessed it, he was 'dreamy'! Well, she thought so. To us he was just another kid.

This day we watched from our perch in a Chinese elm tree as Miss Sassy Pants sashayed down the street towards the back door of this shop. Today she was wearing crisp clean white pedal pushers, and a white short-sleeved sailor top, complete with a long wide collar down the back. She wore brand spanking new white canvas tennis shoes, and had immaculately turned her snug white bobby socks down once. Her hair was perfect. Frosted pink lipstick? You bet! She even had a pretty silver watch, which she checked frequently as she haughtily strolled down the street. In her hand was the loop end of a bright red leash which secured a little, short-legged, long-haired lap dog, who skimmed the street beside her like a centipede in a hurry.

"Ah," we surmised, "she'll say she's just out walking the dog and, 'Oh, what a coincidence, Dreamboat, that you and I should meet!'"

We watched as the dog bit at the leash and she scolded him with a controlling, "No! Bad dog. No!" The dog kept biting, and skimming, the way little doggies do. Miss Sassy Pants positioned herself directly to the right of the door Dreamboat would have to enter to report for work. She glanced at her watch smugly, and waited.

Right on cue, from the other end of the street, came her latest target, Dreamboat. He rode his bike up to the back of the store, and, oblivious to Sassy's presence, proceeded to lock it up to the bike rack. There Miss All Dressed in White stood, revving up her engines. She began to talk to him as he went about his bike routine. He didn't look up at her. Still, she flirted like a pro. Her hands waved sensuously, her head tilted back, her throat let out a tittering giggle, she leaned in toward him, and fluttered her eyelashes.

"He doesn't stand a chance," we sadly muttered as we peeked out from behind leafy branches.

Bike locked up, Dreamboat finally stood up straight, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked straight at her at last, just in time to see the agitated little doggie lift its leg, and jet an eternally long yellow stream directly at the perfectly folded white bobby sock on Miss Sassy Pants' slim right ankle!

Dreamboat stared at the dog, gazed at Sassy Pants, shrugged, and headed for work.

Sassy Pants? With crimson cheeks she looked down at the warm rivulets of running yellow which seeped into her shoe, avoided Dreamboat's gaze, turned abruptly on her heels, and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, while jerking the leash and saying, "No! Bad dog. No!" Squish, squish, squish.

My siblings and I? We were absolutely cracking up, tears pouring from our eyes, while maintaining our hiddenness in the elm tree.

Does God have a sense of humor or what?