I consider myself to be a pretty neighborly person. I’ll return your dog to you if I find him wandering the street. I will water your begonias when you’re on vacation in Hawaii. I have even been known to drop off a plate of home made cookies now and then.
When it comes to neighbors, there are plenty of worse options than The Primamomma.
I think all of the good things I do should outweigh the occasional moments of… well, uh… over-sharing.
I mean, really, can you truly fault me for poor judgment in the fart-trusting department?
Anyway, this post is being written as a public apology to my late-bird neighbors that share my cul-de-sac here at Chateau Merrill.
I’m sorry. No one should have to see a sleep mussed mother of two parading around the neighborhood at 2:30 AM in nothing more than a tank top, and bikini briefs with “purrrr” stamped on the ass.
I can assure you it will never happen again! Probably.
Let me explain.
First, the underwear. No self-respecting woman in her thirties wears raspberry panties with hot pink trim, especially if the word “purrrr” is stamped across the ass of said panties. I think we are all in agreement on that point. Let’s pretend for a moment that I have self-respect. So, why was I wearing the above described undergarments?
In a word? Karis.
You see, it is a well known fact among handymen that the majority of my panties are long past ready for retirement. So, when I was trolling the aisles of Target the other day and happened upon a display of underwear, I decided to grab a few. Karis is always ready to offer up an opinion or two on what she thinks of my choices. My choices of black and nude colored panties were painfully boring, and she insisted I buy the pink ones. Ok, I thought, It’s not like anyone ever sees my underwear. I guess I can buy a pair of hot pink bikini briefs.
I had no idea they had writing across the butt until the next day when I grabbed them out of my drawer. Purrrr huh? Very classy.
Now that you know how I came to be in that particular wardrobe, let’s examine why I was wandering the streets at 2:30 in the morning. In a word? Tesla. Oh, and the garbage man. I guess that’s six words.
You see, today is garbage day, and the green yard waste bin gets picked up at the butt crack of dawn, so if I don’t put it out the night before, it gets missed.
Well, last night I forgot to put it out. No biggie, except that marked the third week in a row of forgetting to put it out, so it was in dire need of an emptying. I do not want to deal with the passive aggressive mutterings of my angry gardener, so forgetting to put out the green bin was a big no-no.
Around 2:24 AM Tesla decided that she had to
pee make an unholy racket until I let her out, even though she has no intention of relieving herself as I stand with her in the backyard.
After several minutes of competing in a staring contest with my dog, I put her in the laundry room which is right next to where we keep the big garbage bins. That’s when I remembered the green bin! I was already up, so I decided to run it out to the curb. I never counted on my stupid dog hearing me outside the door and barking like our family was being murdered. I also never counted on two of my four neighbors being up to hear all the ruckus. Really, who is up at 2:30 on a Thursday?
You can probably guess how the rest of the story played out.
My neighbors came out to see what was going on. They watched as I dragged the very heavy, overly full, green yard waste bin to the curb. I waved. They waved. I turned and ran back into my backyard, flashing them a hot pink Purrr as I went.
It was just like those nightmares you have in high school where you are in class naked, except I wasn’t dreaming. This is actually my life.