Can you tell me where the little children are?

On her blog, Cicada talks about her kindness to a door to door salesmen, an ex-con who can't get a job and has to try and make a living by selling magazines door to door. I replied, mentioning an experience I had recently.

I had an educational-book-seller come to my door last week. He said he was from Ukraine (they don't call it THE Ukraine in the Ukraine). I guess his limited understanding of the English language explains why he ignored the beautiful homemade "no soliciting" sign. He apparently doesn't understand time, either, because he said it would only take two minutes, and it took twenty. I did not buy the books, but I listened to his whole speil. I can't say that listening makes me a good person, because after a few minutes, I kept picturing his head exploding. It's a good thing for him that I've lost my magic powers.

I was talking about this with my adorable neighbor and babysitter to my children, Lynsey, who started laughing uncontrollably. Then, my kids started saying (in a really bad accent) "Can you tell me where the little children are?" Here's...the rest of the story.

Cute/Crazy Julie lives a couple of streets away from me and Lynsey. About the same time the salesman came to my house, Julie was home alone. She had just had oral surgery or something, and was hopped up on goofballs (I mean she was taking the prescribed dose of Percoset). She heard a knock on her door, and assumed that it was her friend, coming to comfort her. It was none other than our Ukrainian book salesman. Julie answered the door, looking pretty stoned. After a minute, he asked her if she was home alone. She said yes (HELLO! STRANGER DANGER, ANYONE?). He then asked if there were any children at her home. She said no, that she was the youngest. Then he asked the infamous question. "Can you tell me where the little children are?" She pointed out the houses on the street where small children live, and went back to bed. Thankfully, he was just a Ukrainian bookseller (I don't mean he sells Ukrainian books. I mean he is a bookseller of Ukrainian descent) with a poor understanding of social mores. Also, Julie should never be allowed to answer the door again. And, finally, 'social mores' should be abbreviated s'mores.

And I am reminded of another fun story (that also involves veiled threats to innocent children): Why I Am Not Allowed to Take Percoset. That'll be my next post. Stay tuned.