Friday, February 22, 2008

eighty three percent of my neighbours think I'm absolutely insane

Friday, February 22, 2008
This morning I left my house at the usual time (late-ish), in my usual state of frantic disarray, wearing my, er, not usual Friday ensemble. Those pricey tights really opened up my wardrobe options.

They're putting up another gigantic house on my street. Another house with a triple garage, big enough for eighteen people, but probably home to 2.3 and a dog. They were hooking up the water line today, a crew of 12 digging and drilling and whatever a crew of 12 does when they hook up water lines.

So I turned the key and locked the door, nearly slipped on the ice on my walk- and then I heard it.

A catcall.

I never. Ever. EVER. Get catcalled. I inherited this awesome look from my mother, the Kindergarten teacher, that is one part "don't mess with me" and one part "or I'll eat your soul"- it tends to deter ungentlemanly come-ons of all kinds.

But seriously? Seriously. It's 8am-ish on a Friday morning, my un-flatironed hair preserving the environment but looking rather unfortunate, my newest pair of glasses propped on the bridge of my nose because I was too bleary-eyed to stick in those contact lenses, and I get catcalled?

God, I need to get out more.


PatZ said...

only 83% hey?

Lady Rose said...

I encourage you to enjoy those catcalls while you're still young enough to get them.

sigh. I can't remember the last time I was mistaken for a prostitute.

Meg said...

Well, the other 17% feel that the people three houses down are more insane than I am. But I'm working on a full conversion of my street by June 1.