The Hobbit Lets Loose - Or Does She?

You have probably often heard me refer to myself as a Hobbit, mostly on account of my lacking social skills and fear of my neighbours. I love the solitude of reading books, writing my novels, and generally staying indoors where it's dry, safe, and absent of confrontation.
Don't get me wrong, I do go out occasionally. In fact, a few months ago I was out until two in the morning at the clubs, dancing until my feet hurt and sweating so much I slid all the way home and collapsed into bed by three.
I do have fun ... when I get there.
The problem for me is getting motivated. The idea of going out seems like a lot of work and I'm more of a button pusher than a doer. I keep thinking about how long it will take to shower and put make-up on, how long it will take me to choose an outfit after I scream and cry about my thighs for a few hours. And then of course, I think about the giant waste of money spent on watered down drinks, the too loud music aimed at deflecting any and all conversation, and the dirty old men that leer at your butt when you walk on by.
Alas, a colleague of mine finished up at work the other day and he decided to have good bye drinks at a local bar. After my sorry excuse for a showdown with my thighs, I finally bit the bullet, let my brother-in-law choose my outfit to negate drama, didn't bother doing anything with my hair, and lightly re-applied the make-up I was already wearing.
Two hours later I was in the car on the way home again.
It was too bloody hot, the music was too loud, and I saw Jesus ordering drinks at the bar - that just aint right. Oh, and I stopped for ice cream ... twice.
Needless to say that leaving the house is a fattening activity with little highlight. On the upside? I got to say goodbye to my friend and give him a sqidgy before he departed. I also got my sugar rush and a quiet ride home.
Yes. I am a sorry excuse for an under thirty.

Hobbit - out. :)

Weirdo Neighbours

This could just be one of those occasions where I am eternally grateful for being a hobbit. I leave my house to go to and from work, but once I'm behind closed doors, I tend to stay there. This of course means I have no freaking idea who my neighbours are.
Sure, I'm well aware there's a drunken twenty something on one side of the fence. He makes noise on Friday nights, plays Ping Pong until the wee hours of the morning, and can't seem to aim for shit when kicking balls in his own yard.
On the other side I have a young family with two dogs. I know they have two dogs because they never stop barking and they're basically walking manure factories. Their kid cries non-stop, and they think we can't smell the 'garden' parties they sometimes 'roll' into on a Saturday night.

Across the road I have the Brady Bunch, otherwise known as the Biggest loser contestants - family edition. We have grandma and grandpa, mum and dad, son and wife, the other teenage kid and the two dogs. They worry me the most if the Zombie Apocalypse ever occurs. That is one hungry family and I don't have a front fence big enough to keep them out.
Alas that just leaves the mysterious neighbours on the diagonal. I have lived in this house for over five years and it was only yesterday that I was eating breakfast, minding my own business, that I decided to peep out the window and have a look around. Let it be said now that I knew they had a truck, that I knew it often came and went, but I never bothered to figure out why.
So there I was, eating my low fat cereal and congratulating myself on not cracking open the peanut butter jar again, when I heard the truck doors swinging open and crashing loudly against the metalwork. Curious, I slipped my fingers between the Venetian blinds on my window and had a quick peek. Interestingly enough, the truck was backed right up in the driveway and was now surrounded by wads of black plastic. At first I thought nothing of it, but then there was the thud.
Two men, one of them I think was my neighbour, helped lift an over-sized package into the back of the truck. Said package looked heavy and suspiciously like a body.
So what did I do?
Naturally I laughed and then tweeted about it - the sensible thing to do.
Thus I am happy to reveal that although the nature of my weird neighbour's business does appear shady and somewhat underhanded on account of the rather large unmarked truck, his lack of general day-to-day friendly wave at the letter box, and his seemingly absent wife, he is not a serial killer. Black wrapped plastic and body-shaped packages could mean anything ... anything.
I'm told it's roofing insulation.
Anyway, what has this little experience of the neighbourhood taught me? Simple. Deadbolts are a necessity. Erecting a 6ft fence with barbed wire is not overkill if fat zombies want to eat your ass. And yelling out to my drunken neighbour 'you've lost your balls again' is not exactly productive.
Cheers to the freaking hobbits, I say. STAY INDOORS!

Kristy :)