The Conga Line

It's always a tiring night when you have a lot of work to do. Take last night, for example. I had some amazing amount of yard work to do, and somewhere in the middle of all that a line of dancers from the next yard hopped the fence and started doing the conga through my yard. And while all of that was going on, the mosaic on my big, fancy barbecue pit (or something) started coming apart. At one point, a large sheet fell off. Fortunately, my neighbor -- looking very much like Paul Reiser's father on Mad About You -- was there to help out.

So I'm a little sore this morning. While there are those (there are?) who might claim that all the yardwork I did during the day probably has more to do with it than my dream activities, well, they're them. Those people. The ones who tell you things all the time. (And they know who they are!) They say that it never rains but it pours; they discovered a cure for the common cold. They don't want you to know.

They're always up to something, they are, and I'd have more to say about it if they'd let me. But they won't. They're afraid of what I might say, for some reason. As if they have any idea of what I'm going to talk about! But, you know, that's just the way they are. At least, that's what they say.

And still I wonder what they were doing, forming a conga line in my backyard, dancing as if they didn't have a care in the world, even though they seem to pop up anytime anyone has a thought about anything.