I had glanced at the clock in my car right before I pulled onto our street coming home from the barn. It was a few minutes before noon which I absently took note of. I let the dogs out, went inside, washed my hands, and spooned out some left-over chili for lunch. Punched in three minutes on the microwave and wandered away. I drifted past the microwave shortly after and glanced at the numbers.
"Hm. It's already 2:09. How did it get so late?"
And I totally thought nothing of it until the timer beeped and I opened the door to clear the "Food Ready" message. It's now 12:03? How....?
Should that story not impress you, or at least cause you to shake your head sadly, I have another one for you.
Yesterday morning, I was in the shower. (The is pertinent to the story, you guys. I'm not oversharing.) I heard someone knock on the door and the dogs sounded the Invader! alarm. I was basically like, "Uh...oh, well. I have one leg covered in shaving cream and half a pound of conditioner in my hair." But this knocking was fucking insistent! I finally relented by rinising off my leg, piling my slimy hair into a bun, and pulling on my ridiculous Chicago Bulls pajama bottoms and my hot pink bathrobe. Because I am classy and that's all I had in the bathroom with me. Judge all you want.
By then, the emergency that warranted such frantic knocking must have been over because no one was at either door. I jumped back in the shower, rinsed the conditioner out my hair, and resigned myself to having one wooly mammoth-like leg and one silky smooth one until the next day. I didn't want to be caught off guard should the neighborhood be on fire or something.
Finally, once I was dressed in my new normal people clothes (which included a t-shirt because it was so warm out yesterday), I checked the doors to see if anyone had left a note on the door. Erm, no, but there was a big Sears bag hanging off the front door. I looked warily out of the windows to see if anyone was lurking, and snatched the bag inside.
In it were several strands of white christmas lights. I knew instantly who the culprit was: our anal neighbor (AN). AN and his wife apparently think our four house road in rural Pennsylvania is a gated community. There are rules and traditions that must be followed, including only putting white christmas lights up on your house, and no earlier than Dec. 1st. Now, clearly I do not actually live in a gated community. I live in the middle of a fucking corn field. Literally. This ostentatious asshole is on some power trip to rule the community.
However, we did put up white christmas lights this year:
|on our fucking chicken house, dick.|
Well, apparently that does not meet gated community standards!
I promptly hung the bag back up on the front door and called Hubby to share in the complete absurdity of the situation. He suggested spelling out "Fuck you" in lights. I mean, in all honesty, what do you do? I am literally at a loss of what to say to this guy.
So the next day (being today) I went to the barn early and spent my sweet time there, relishing being out of the neighborhood. I came back, ate my chili at noon and not two, and then a sudden realization dawned on me--what do I say when he comes back? Because he will come back.
I grabbed a book and sought sanctuary in the bedroom. About an hour later, I heard it--a knock on the door. I froze as the dogs jumped off the bed and sounded the Invader! alarm once again. And then I did what any nonconfrontational, slightly anxiety-ridden hermit would do.
I pulled the covers over my head and thought up excuses on why I was hiding in bed when the person knocking on the door strolled into my house uninvited. Because apparently this was a real concern at the time.
I was not meant to interact with society.
I'll give you a riding post later.