McGinn: A notice to the kids of Springfield ... I’m tapped out

McGinn

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By Andrew McGinn, Staff Writer 8:27 AM Friday, September 23, 2011

It used to be that I never answered the door if I looked through the peephole and saw what I assumed were Jehovah’s Witnesses on the other side.

And don’t tell me you haven’t done it, too.

“Oh, hell no,” I’d think, standing stock-still and momentarily worrying that they could see right through my door with some kind of highly evolved, extraterrestrial-human-hybrid vision.

“I faked sick today and I’m not about to waste a moment of that talking about the prophecy of Daniel and why I didn’t renew my subscription to ‘The Watchtower.’ ”

I always just hoped they’d assume nobody was home — and that everybody left the house with the windows open and “The Dr. Oz Show” going.

Anymore, though, the sight of Jehovah’s Witnesses roaming my neighborhood is almost a welcome one.

After all, they’re not having to sell anything for their school.

It’s now the sight of a little girl walking down the sidewalk with a box of candy bars that will send me fleeing inside the house with the same sense of panic that a gypsy might have had in the 1600s when news of a werewolf spread throughout camp.

Once inside, it’s easier to lie to my wife that the person now knocking on our door is that guy who always wants to know if we have any junk he can haul away.

If my wife learns the dirty, awful truth — that it’s a little girl trying to raise money for her school or some sort of activity by hawking $5 chocolate bars — we’ll have to buy something.

The woman cannot say ‘‘no’’ to kids and their fundraisers.

“Have you ever even been to North Hampton?” I’ll demand to know after the fact.

I’ll be honest. I’ve come to dread this time of year.

“It’s fundraiser time,” my wife announced at the dinner table the other night.

“Great,” I muttered to myself. “Why do you have to work with a bunch of women who are in the prime of their child-bearing years?”

It’s not that I’m that big of a jerk.

OK. I am.

But have you seen the prices that some of these little punks are charging?

My wife just gave $40 to the Cub Scouts for popcorn.

For $40, I want popcorn grown from soil fertilized with Orville Redenbacher’s corpse.

And on the same exact day, $32 was given to Lagonda School for “chocolate chunk” cookie dough that, a year from now, undoubtedly will be thrown out with half still left.

We’ve purchased malted milk balls that taste like votive candles, and those hanging planters that — either through advances in agronomy or an act of black magic — allow you to grow tomatoes on your front porch.

But remember when kids only had to raise money for special occasions, like a band trip?

I’m more than happy to buy a subscription to Golf Digest if it’s to benefit something grand.

“Lagonda School” just doesn’t cut it.

A few years ago, my wife was buying trail mix off of kindergartners.

“They’re now getting kindergartners to sell stuff?!” I exclaimed, outraged, one night. “Did you know the Viet Cong pressed their kids into service, too, out of desperation?”

I know what this is — it’s karma.

My wife knows that one day soon, our son will be that kid with candles or kettle corn to sell.

She’s banking that, because she bought the $40 popcorn today, a co-worker will buy our kid’s $60 caramel corn (hey, inflation) tomorrow.

Don’t believe in karma?

I’m now willing to confess to once stealing multiple Kit Kats back in 11th grade out of a classmate’s fundraising box.

The fact that we’ve now purchased those four stupid Kit Kats 20 times over tells me that karma is so real, I can taste it.

Contact this reporter at amcginn@coxohio.com.

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