Neighbors moving!

Hi! My name is Medrith O'Tally, and I'm seven years old. I love inventing, and I--meh, I'll save it for the profile--I'm not good at writing a profile about myself. It seems so . . . selfish. Anywho, I'm writing today because Mother FINALLY let me get a blog! Actually, I got it about a week ago, but I didn't write at all, because I was super busy. Why? Because of the neighbors! They're moving out, and Mother INSISTS I help them. INSISTS! So far, I've helped paint the walls, pull up the carpet (mind you, we pulled up all the carpet in the five rooms that had it so stubbornly pasted to the floors), mow the lawn, install two sinks (one in one of the bathrooms, the other in the kitchen), uninstall the cabinets in the kitchen, help plant rose bushes for curb appeal on the front lawn (I still have the scratches to prove it) AND tend to their nine-month-old baby with Strep throat (miraculously, I did not catch it). So you could say I've been busy. And where were Mother and Daddy when all this happened? I can't tell you; the list would be too long. The neighbors, the Quimquats, were at work when all this was going on. They both work at an organic restaurant in the city that caters to rich people, so our labor has been payed with by lots of sushi wraps, black olive ice cream, and asparagus casserole topped with lemon zest. Needless to say, Mother has not been pleased by the payment, but doesn't want to hurt their feelings when she doesn't have hardly any time to patch up hurt feelings, especially with all the work they shoved on us (I snuck down the hall and heard Mother telling Daddy last Thursday. I'm not supposed to know). However, I've also snuck downstairs and seen Daddy devouring a few sushi wraps on tuna macaroni casserole night. But not the point. The point is, the Quimquats moved this afternoon, taking everything except the house and the rose bushes in two fat moving vans. I could hear their baby's fussing echoing back to us in the distance. The new folks are coming this Tuesday, Mother said. Or maybe she said Thursday. Oh well. I don't care, as long as they're 60% better than the Quimquats. And they'd better not have a baby with them.