Well hello. I'm not even going to ask how we all are because I'm in a mood. I'm feeling a bit touchy. To add to this I've just seen my Typepad account has been spammed with weird comments. Ugh I hate technology some days.
I am writing this to clarify an issue I have with living in New Zealand because everyone seems to think I'm a bit of a crotchety uptight old lady. Part of that might be true. But I have reasons for being crotchety and uptight. I can't help being old. It's in my soul.
As I have mentioned previously, it is quite common for Kiwis to just "drop by" over the weekend if they want to catch up with friends, family, pets, whatever. And I've gotten a lot of flack for being quite vocal about not liking it. "But it's because people like you that they stop byyyyyy..." That's great. I'm happy to catch up with people. IF I FUCKING KNOW ABOUT IT and have time to a) put on some clothes b) clean my tearstained face and blow my nose c) hide all my laundry in the closet and d) turn off the tv and open the curtains so I look like I'm actually doing something with my weekend. I really don't think this is too much to ask.
To better illustrate this, I have a concrete example to share to further demonstrate why people cannot drop by my house unannounced.
A few weekends ago, Shane and I were having our usual lazy Sunday lay-in. It's our one day where we don't get up early, and usually don't do much at all until after about noon. I love Sundays for this very reason. This particular Sunday, I could have done without. So Shane thinks he hears something outside and ambles to the kitchen to have a look out the window. And he's naked. And he is looking out the window and calls to me that there is someone on a motorcycle outside our house. And then I hear all sorts of shouting and swearing from Shane and a big OH. MY. GOD. So I jump out of bed (sans clothes) to see what's going on.
For whatever reason, our beloved dog Olive had decided to take a huge dump in the kitchen and Shane has stepped right in it. Hence the ohmygods and fuck fuck fucks. The whole house starts to smell of dog shit.
And of course, it is just at this very moment, there is a knock on the door. Shane and I look at eachother in absolute horror. I starts hobbling towards the bathroom while I'm left to contemplate hiding, grabbing a robe or cleaning up this awful smelling dog poo.
I decide to grab a robe. And answer the door. Because whoever is coming over unannounced is going to get a good whiff of why it is better to call before coming by. It turned out to be one of Shane's long lost high school friends who he hasn't seen in like 10 years. And it is here where they have their reunion, in a shit smelly kitchen with me, my hair standing up on top of my head, in a bathrobe, cleaning up my dog's accident. He hasn't been back since.
And I think I've proved by point.