The Chair Cracked

I love my neighborhood.  It's a delightful, sprawling tangle of "cookie cutter" houses.  I used to think I'd hate living in a place like this, but there are kids everywhere for my kids to play with, a fantastic neighborhood school, and plenty of anonymity for someone like me who tends to prefer observing from the outside.  That is, when I'm not center stage singing or acting.  I admit, I'm a conundrum.  

I love mornings in my neighborhood.  They're so peaceful and quiet.  Most of the neighbors are still preparing for their days.  Cars pull out intermittently.  You hear the occasional happy bark from a dog who has finally been freed from the house.  Joggers pass by.  You can hear the trees rustle and the birds fill their branches with squawks and squeals and occasional songs.  Is it any wonder that I enjoy taking my coffee out to my front porch to just bask in the charm of it all?  It's also a good way to gird my loins for a day of chaos that comes with three kids, two dogs, and a cat, even if the cat's completely perfect and never bugs anybody.  

This morning, as is my norm, I threw on a sweatshirt over my pajama top (yes, I was wearing pants as well, but I didn't put a sweatshirt over my pants) and headed outside.  No one ever notices me on my porch, and that's the way I like it.  I stood for a bit, breathing deeply and enjoying watching a cat across the street prowl after some unseen prey.  Then I pulled up my blue adirondack Target special and sat down.  

That's when it happened.  The chair cracked.  The peace of the morning was broken as snapping plastic rang through the air, loud as gunshots.  Even the kitty across the street jumped into the air and turned 180 degrees as it tried to process this interruption to its hunting.  Perhaps the crack would have gone somewhat unnoticed, but when I sat, the plastic that cracked also managed to pinch my nether regions.  As you can imagine, this is both startling and extremely painful, and the only proper response is a guttural yelp.  So, loud crack followed by distressed yelp is apparently enough for some of the neighbors to come out and see what's happening in Utopia.  

On the one hand, it's nice to know we all look out for each other.  On the other hand, I had to explain that I just broke my chair, which is embarrassing enough in itself, but I had to do it in pajama pants with bed head and no bra.  So much for anonymity.  I believe I just catapulted myself into the annals of "Crazy Neighbor Lady."  

Moral of the story:  run a comb through your hair and hike up the ladies before going outside because you never know when you'll have to explain yourself to the neighbors.  

Side note:  it's still painful to go potty.