St. What? Oooooh… right.


This week has been hectic and full, and my realisations that St Paddy’s day was coming up, and then actually ‘today’ were few and far between.  It was like trying to catch a tiny wriggly green eel one-handed.  I’d have it for a moment – heading out the door yesterday morning, I thought, oh… St Paddy’s day… I should be wearing green… but I’m not, and I’m late, meh, and didn’t think of it again until sometime later that day when a co-worker wished me happy St Paddy’s day.  “Oh… right.  You too!”… and then the little bugger of an idea twisted out of my grasp, and I forgot about it entirely.  I remembered it again when a friend texted me the same wishes, but the eel was slippery and wormed its way out of my grasp again.  I’ll admit, I didn’t attempt to make plans with friends to go drinking… this week has been one of those always-exhausted weeks, and taking precious sleep time away to go to a loud crowded place didn’t sound appealing. 

Helping my sister house-sit for my neighbour’s not-so-friendly dog has been part of the hectic-ness of this week.  Mostly, it just requires me to go walk him at about 10 at night, because my sister isn’t comfortable dealing with the ‘keep him away from other dogs’ game at night.  It’s harder for the other dog walking people to recognise him as ‘That Dog’, and therefore harder to avoid people at enough of a distance that the dog doesn’t explode in angry barking and growling.  He’s got about a 30 foot radius of anger… once the other dogs crosses that line, you’d better have him on very short leash, because he’s in full berserker rage.

So… without any inkling of the slippery green eel of thought, I headed out at about 10 to walk down my street, pick up the elderly dog, and take him on a short walk up and down my street.  Because of the exhaustion I’ve been feeling all week, and because they are enormously comfortable, I was already in my flannel PJ pants.  My pale blue flannel PJ pants with little penguins on them were what I was wearing when I crossed the path of a crowd of drunken college students all doing their best to pretend that they’re not completely tanked. 

Nothing like animal print pants to make you feel like you're 5 years old again!

Ooooh… RIGHT… St. Paddy’s Day, I’m thinking, as the first drunken girl ignores her friend’s advice to be quiet, and gives me a huge faux-sober “HELL-LO, Nice Night”, while giggling hysterically.  Her other friend joins in with a “Pleasant evening for a walk, isn’t it?” to ensure I’m positive that they’re smashed… and probably underage, because only underage people try that hard to hide drunkenness.  I hope they don’t puke on my lawn, I’m thinking.  And why the hell did I have to be wearing flannel, tonight, of all nights?  Oh my god, I’m SO OLD!

How is it that I’ve come to this?  Being flannel-clad and bound-for-bed at 10pm on St Paddy’s Day?  Where was my green clothing?  Where were my green crepes?  Why the hell aren’t I drunk?  Why couldn’t I have run into these people AFTER I picked up the dog?  Then my pj-pants would at least make more sense!

These are the things I pondered while trudging down the road with the dog, scanning the area outside his ‘anger bubble’ to make sure no innocent-bystander-dogs are headed towards us. 

Who the hell takes their entire posse on a late-night-dog-walk?! Why the hell didn’t I change into my jeans again before coming outside?  Is what I’m thinking when I run into (well… across the road from me, because the dog is too violent to be on the actual sidewalk, when other dogs are on it) a group of 6 people (all older than me, and all doubtlessly with more plans for the night than I had) walking two dogs.  Just in case they didn’t notice that I’m clearly not dressed in grownup-and-outdoors clothing, I bend over, back to the crowd, to try and stop the dog from entering full berserker mode and starting every other dog in the vicinity barking.

Hope everyone had a happy St. Paddy’s Day.

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