I have a strange neighborhood...

So this morning, I kinda forgot that I had no football today. Which isn't very surpising, since I have it like every day except sunday for the next 80 months. Or something. But so I not only forgot that I had no football, but also forgot what time the football I didn't have was at. This was an unbearable state of affairs, I assure you. I attempted a mad dash up the stairs only to be brought startlingly short by the fact that my legs didn't want to listen to me. They decided to listen to someone else, someone completely unrelated to me and also quite invisible, who told them their time would be much better spent by spasming out. After all, what legs wouldn't want to just sorta quiver on the floor instead of actually sprinting?
This bodily mutany forced me to rely upon my trusty (and much more loyal) arms for my transportation out of my basement lair. All went well until I came to the door. Ever tried opening a door at the top of some stairs without being able to use your legs? It was quite tricky...in the end, I propped myself against it, leaned hard, then managed to stroke the handle enough for it to somehow pop open. Victory at last!
But with only one small problem...my football schedule is on the fridge. High up on the fridge. At what is normally eye level for my towering 6'2" frame. Having your eyes reduced to midgethood (at only 6" off the ground, I was small even for one of the little people) makes it rather difficult to read things on the fridge 6 feet above your head. Well, reading things 6 feet above your head on the fridge when they were made in point 12 font is always hard, its just most people don't have 12 foot fridges with football schedules on them, so I don't run into this problem every day. Again, my brilliant mind came to the rescue. STOOLS! No, not the kind you leave in the toilette or some turncoat mafia member (both of which have about the same smell, slimy skin, and high value on the street) but the wooden kind you normally would perch upon to dine at my luxerious countertop in the kitchen. With two of them placed the appropriate distance apart, I was easily able to lift myself up onto a sitting position upon a third. It was kinda like doing a really monsterous dip, only with dogs staring in shock and my legs still doing their own little dance. From this high and mighty vantage point I was shocked to assertain that practice had started a good hour ago. But wait, my mind screamed, today could not be the 23rd! It simply couldn't! I hadn't watched Casablanca yet, and I absolutely knew it was due by the 23rd! Faced with this cold, unforgiving logic, my brain was forced to admit, that no, today probably wasn't the 23rd. Furthermore, the phoney thing clearly said it was the 20th. But that couldn't be either, could it? There was no football practice on the 20th...and if there was no practice, there was no reason for my legs to be so badly misbehaving, nor for me to have to crawl upstairs to check when practice started.
At this point, my legs decided the invisible stranger had led them astray from the True Path which is a body part's only real hope to enter the Divine Heaven that is Sitting On A Lazy Boy With A Giant Glass Of Iced Lemonade Watching Bond Movie And Eating Ribs. Of course, my legs have never (and if I have any say in it, WILL never) eaten a rib, drunk lemonade, or even seen James Bond. However, they understand that this is a blissful state, and they certainly enjoy sitting in a Lazy Boy more than running. This leads them to beleive that this Divine Heaven must be a nice place to be, and hey, everyone else seems excited about it, so why shouldn't they?
This allowed me to return my arms to their normal role of hanging at my sides and occasionally turning doornobs and reaching for remotes and lightswitches. I decided the ordeal meant my entire body deserved a dip in the Semi-Divine Heaven that is a Warm Bath With Lots Of Bubbles And Soothing Music And Smelling Salts. Though I was pretty sure I was out of smelling salts, I figured I could fake my nose out with with some fragrant bubble stuff. Or maybe a nice candle. I again had to face a flight of stairs to obtain my goal, but for this one I could asend as humans do, and not the humans who have paralyzing back injuries and no elevators or kind people to carry them. However, as I walked past my front door, I looked out the window. Through that window, I could see inside my car. And through that window letting me see inside my car, I could see throught the window going out of my car. And throught that window going out of my car I could see into my neighbor's window across the street. And through THAT window across the street I beheld a strange sight indeed. For my 19 year old blonde streetmate was dancing some sort of weird macarana-like dance. And here I thought she'd already left for college, or at least moved in with some 24 year old hippie. Wow. People really should shut their blinds once in a while. I'm not one to talk, though. There are no blinds on the glass door in my basement. And I love dancing around in my skivies down there. But no one's dumb enough to risk peering through MY windows. Are they?