So just the other day I ran out of clean underwear (which is basically the only thing that pushes me into doing laundry, eh). I've got Billy Idol's "Vital Idol" blaring at log vibrating levels because I'm alone and I need something to psyche me into doing housework.

I'm wearing the oversize tee that reaches about mid-thigh that I slept in the night before and a pair of sweat pants of such surpassing ugliness that they should be burnt in ritual sacrifice to atone for the sins of mankind.

Thus clothed, I'm doing all these incredibly dorky "dancing with myself" moves because hey, it's just me and the cats, right?

Have I mentioned that I go especially mental when I hear "Mony Mony" because it's a cover of the Tommy James and the Shondelles song that was a mega hit during my high school years?

Just so's you know.

I mean nobody can see me with this incredibly stupid looking ponytail on the top of my head and me doing all these 1960's dance moves like The Pony, The Jerk and dare I mention the timeless classic "Bend Over and Let Me See You Shake Your Tailfeathers"?

That day also happened to be the day the guy came to read our hydro meter.

.:Cough:.

The hydro meter which is on our porch beside my washer and dryer where I was busily sorting laundry, screaming along to Mony Mony and simultaneously proving that there are levels of dance dorkiness so profound that they can reduce a meter reading guy standing on the steps and looking in the porch window into a pillar of salt.

Beet red salt.

Not unlike myself when I finally heard him knocking.

Without a word I opened the door, he went over to the meter and punched the little numbers into his handheld computer and left.

I hope they have disability leave for meter readers exposed to such horrors.

It seems the least Hydro Qu�bec can do.