Die, yappy dogs, die, die, die

So, where was I? Oh yeah, saying I'd probably be perfectly pleasant to everybody.

There I was this morning, a tad hungover. What? You thought I wouldn't drink after my protestations of worrying about the slide into alcoholism? Umm. Yeah. Well, actually I haven't had any alcohol since then, and I have been almost saintly. Apart from a daily cappuccino and hot chocolate. Not bad huh? So, where was I? Yes, well, this girl from work who started over the summer and who I've been getting chummy with has been saying that she's got these friends that she thinks I'd really like and would get along well with, blah blah blah. And I've put her off a few times when she's asked me out for drinks to meet them, because I was cycling. But this time, I thought, screw it. I'm only on lupron, it's only an FET, and not drinking during cycles hasn't got me anywhere in the past. So I went out for happy hour. And I only had 2 glasses of wine, but they were quite generous glasses of wine so they made me a bit tipsy. But I had a blast. It was so good being out with nice, intelligent women, having fun, and not thinking about the usual crap that goes around my head.

And then I got some Chinese takeout and probably shouldn't have driven home as soon as I did. I should probably stick to beers or something because two beers is probably a lot more sensible when one has to drive home than two large glasses of wine. So, yet again, my apologies for that.

But, there I was this morning, trying to snooze and have some precious extra time in bed when the yappy dogs were yap, yap, yapping and not letting me sleep. So I grudgingly got up and put the kettle on for tea, noting that my nightshirt that was a gift from my parents about 10 years ago really should get trashed because I'm so fat now it rides up and barely covers anything, and also because there's a big old food stain on the front. And then someone knocked on the door. Great.

There were three very nice Haitian* ladies standing at the door, looking dressed for church. I figured they must be Jehovah's witnesses or something. I sucked in my gut hoping my nightshirt might cover a bit more of my upper thighs if I did so. The lady at the front said something that sounded like "ge-shur-shur". "Ah, sorry, what?" said I. "Ge-rar-shur?" said the nice churchy looking lady. This did not sound anything like "would you like to buy a copy of the Watchtower?" so it got me a bit confused. The yappy dogs were doing somersaults in their yard, and having a field day at People! On the street! People! Let's yap some more! OMG! People! My head started to hurt, and I thought longingly of the lovely tea I had been about to brew.

Churchy lady pointed at my house number. "Zees is one hundred twenty-see**? Ge-rar-ge-sur?" My brain clicked around seeking comprehension. She must be looking for 123 Greygoose Avenue, not 123 Greygoose Street*** which confuses everyone as they're parallel to one another. "Umm, this is Greygoose Street, Greygoose Avenue is one block that way" I said, pointing. She looked confused at how she could have managed to pick the house clearly containing the village idiot who couldn't understand anything. And then said quite clearly "Garage sale? Ze sign said 123. You have garage sale? Zees is 123, yes?" The other two ladies were nodding. They were all obviously very clear on what this sign had said, and started looking around the yard a bit, expectantly.

I don't know why my ears refuse to hear the obvious sometimes. But, in my defense I quite clearly don't have an actual garage, let alone any signs of a garage sale going on. Or a yard sale. Or any other type of sale. So it just was not computing there for a while that someone would imagine that I was hosting a secret garage sale in my living room while wearing my tatty old stained nightshirt and with the blinds closed.

"Umm, no, sorry I'm not having a garage sale. The sign must have meant another street if it said 123. Try Greygoose Avenue, which is one block that way. Sorry I can't help any more. Bye bye." And closed the door. And immediately ran into my bedroom to throw some clothes on in case hordes more people turned up for the garage sale that wasn't, noticing as I did so that my hair was sticking fetchingly straight up from my head. Great.

Why, universe, why? Why do you taunt me so when I am on lupron?





*information solely provided to aid the reader in imagining thick French-Caribbean accent.
**not my real house number.
***not my real street name, but perhaps more appropriate than the actual one, given the alcohol consumption.