Before I even begin this evening’s rant, I feel as though I should tell you that it took quite a while to figure out how to spell courtesy. What’s more is that I couldn’t find the spell check button (pretty danged ironic after mentioning it in last night’s post, don’t you think?)
My neighbor just came downstairs to give me my mail (you know, the mail she could have, should have, left in the mailbox for me to get on my own) and while she was down here she thought she should mention the fact that they’re having a yard sale tomorrow and will try to stay out of my way. Sure, they live here too, and sure, they rent a larger portion of the house than I do, but you know it’s nice to tell people who share a house, yard and driveway with you that you’re going to have a yardsale. It’s nicer to tell them a little more than twelve hours in advance.
Honestly though, this won’t affect me at all. I’m just feeling particularly pissy tonight is all.
But here’s the thing (she says, continuing to be pissy): along with the notification of the impending yardsale, Neighbor X hands me a folded up piece of paper–an email–inviting me to a surprise party for her partner. Champagne and chocolates two weeks from Saturday. The clincher? The thing’s going to be nine to midnight. In the backyard. On the deck. Which is conveniently above my bedroom.
I don’t know these people. The encounters I have had with them have just reinforced my feeling that we should each just go about our business and stay out of one another’s way. I won’t go into detail, but I will say this: noisy, noisy, noisy. And irresponsible pet owners. I could have better neighbors than these, but I refuse to move in search of them.
Needless to say, I’m not altogether excited about the party. I don’t want to go, but I feel somehow obligated to. I mean, what kind of excuse can you give if you live downstairs and are home during the time of the party? So I could go (oh, and did I mention that the invite asked me to bring chocolates, champagne and/or Goldschlaeger?). Or I could hide out and be the evening’s jerk.
This, my friends, is a dilly of a pickle. Looks like someone’s gonna have to find herself something to do two weeks from Saturday.
This concludes this evening’s bitch session. Please return to your regularly scheduled whatever-it-is-you-do-when-you’re-not-reading-this.