There’s nothing worse than having plans when all you want to do is go home and hide under the covers until spring – except maybe having boring plans that you can’t get out of. I’m having a pretty bad day, and I’m fighting a losing battle with my instinct to flee. I would cut a bitch to be able to go home, grab a cat or two and have myself a good old fashioned naked mopey evening complete with a tub of ice cream and sad songs, but I can’t – I have to go to a strata meeting.
This will be my first ever strata meeting. Everything I know about these things comes from TV – I will be sorely disappointed if there are no loud women in bedazzled holiday sweaters, small dogs in costly outfits, enraged bald men and old nosy women with lists of everyone’s transgressions. Perhaps there will also be cookies; the kind that come in the blue tin. We’ve been asked to bring our own chairs, which doesn’t bode well – our lobby is already kind of a sauna; I can’t imagine what it’ll be like after an hour or two of every tenant yelling about rules that they and no one else should be allowed to break. I would sorely love to skip the meeting and do something more constructive with my time, like nap or write letters to Santa, but instead I’ll be downstairs trying to look like I care whether the siding is pressure washed twice a year or three times.
Good times.
