I miss frocking up.

In a discussion about class times for next year, I pointed out that finishing class at 8.45 on a Friday night really wasn't all that grand for me. I work 9-5 on Saturday, so do the math on that and let me know how my social life is going to fare. My mother pointed out (not unreasonably) that she'd done it for plenty of years.

Hm.

Yes.

Hang on. Me too, because when YOU started teaching Friday nights my class was the last class on Friday night... so I would sit at the desk and deal with the griping and the moaning and the rude parents and the snotty teenagers and do my classes... and go home and go to work for a 9.00-5.00 day at ballet dealing with the griping and the moaning and the rude parents and the snotty teenagers and do my classes...
I actually think I have it easier being the teacher than the desk slave.

BUT, my point is that I have been doing this for years too. Yeah. Take that. And I don't think it's going to suck any less this time around.  Today is one of those days where I think I could quite enjoy living in a cave. With wireless, and meals delivered on a tray. I've devolved to my ground-base state of jeans and top, although I'm incongruously typing this wearing black pointe shoes. Well, they needed some kind of breaking in, and I figured that we have floorboards for a reason. Plus, it's funny watching the pug go into high alert every time the box knocks against the floor.
OOH! Post!
If there's one thing I like more than toast (although maybe not as much as caramel popcorn) it's getting stuff in the mail. This is why online retailers are simultaneously my greatest joy and very, very dangerous.

[one letterbox expedition later...]

Wow. Now my new across-the-road neighbors think I'm certifiable too. Let me set the scene:

It's a beautiful sunny day. A council truck idles on the side of the road. The yellow rose bush beside the house is in full, glorious bloom. A girl comes out of the house with a pug under her arm. She is wearing a grey top, jeans, and carelessly-painted-black pointe shoes. She tiptoes across the driveway and then walks on pointe up the sidewalk to the letterbox. 


At this point she realises that the discussion between a couple of burly council workers and her neighbor has ceased. She looks around curiously. They're looking at her in a very puzzled way. She waves and nearly drops the pug, recovers, stomps up to the letterbox and finds it empty. She's tempted for a moment to put the pug inside the letterbox, just to really give them something to look at, but that's probably not a nice thing to do. Besides, the pug's a little too rotund.  Frick. 


Oh, and that's before I get started on the next-door neighbor, who has a WEIRD obsession with his nature strip. What are your neighbors like?