"Hey miss, give me your mother-f***king cart!" The male voice again.
Keep walk- oh, screw that noise. This is my neighborhood, too.
"Are you speaking to me?" I used my good bard voice, the one supported from the diaphragm, as I turned around and headed back for the townhome.
"Oh shit, she's coming this way! She's coming!" I almost have to laugh. I must really be an adult now, or something, because heaven knows I'm not physically imposing.
One girl has retreated to behind the screen door to watch. Two young men, early high school maybe, or big for junior high, are trying to look unconcerned and cool and mostly hitting embarrassed. The other girl is giggling uncomfortably.
"Was someone speaking to me?" I asked, firmly but politely.
"That was my grandma," the girl told the sidewalk, and laughed.
"Mm-hm. Well, your 'grandma' should watch her language," I replied evenly, gave them all a mom-glare, and went on my way.
I wish that was the end of the story. Unfortunately, I had to hear the girl informing her friends (who were right there) how she'd told me it was her grandma and - I lost the rest of it, but I suspect she was mighty pleased with her clever lie.
Americans have never been able to do irony up to British standards; we excel at sarcasm. If the youth of American are now unable to recognize sarcasm as well, it's a sad, sad day.