Peace of a cello

My neighbor took up the cello.

At least, I think it's the cello. It's a bit hard to tell, honestly. Her forays into the delightful dulcet tones of a piano fell....how to put it nicely?......rather along the lines of cattle in the agonal stages of death. Perhaps after having been hit by a truck. Her rendition of America the Beautiful, a song that always gives me goosebumps of pride, eyes all misty, had my crying....for another reason entirely, so mangled was the piece.

Mag's had taken to loudly proclaiming "she's playing the fucking piano.....AGAIN?" near the open window; nary an effect. I'm pretty sure Lois decided to play louder. Longer. Much to my dismay.

Now that she's moved onto a stringed instrument? My non-barking, non-banging beagle, trained within an inch of her life, damn near covered her ears in protest, before trying to vocally outplay her.

It is not beautiful.

Either of them.

Certainly not alone, and definitely not together.

I am supposed to be working. Studying. Writing. Perhaps working harder on my floors, as a court date looms this Friday, and I'm nervous....my thoughts are preoccupied elsewhere, I'll give the pair of those two asses credit for that. Ability to focus on anything other than quieting the dog, or somehow ripping the strings off that blasted instrument? Nil.

Perhaps, this is payback: when dad visited earlier last week, he did put together the coolest (and I mean coolest) bookshelf for our upstairs library. (no, not the one with a sink in it, the one holding books, and Legos, thank you for asking) I've yet to paint it. My point? He banged away, hammer and nails (skip the quiet drill if at all possible) til nearly ten one night, beginning again at six-ish the next morning. We were under a deadline; he was leaving for the next stop on his driving trip through New England, wanted to leave around nine, once the traffic had cleared, so clearly we needed to get a jumpstart on our day. Finishing the bookcase? Rated way above making pancakes for breakfast.

I do so love my dad.

Since our library is in the loft, (read: upstairs) it shares a wall with her bedroom; whereas my bedroom, downstairs, shares a wall with her fuckingly loud obnoxious grandfather clock. I'm just spitballing here, but I'm thinking maybe, perhaps, you know, there's the off chance, it woke her.

Personally, while I applaud her desire to test drive various musical instruments, now that she has the time, and perhaps the cash flow to purchase her implements of torture - er- music, I do wish she'd built a hermetically sealed, totally soundproof room in her condo to conduct her experimentation into the world of classical music produced by her. I'm awaiting, rather feverishly, the little note, attached to my doorknob, after I've left to go regarding my "barking issue", a big no-no for the condo set. I'll put in a counterclaim, that had her attempts at becoming the latest virtuoso not clanged their way out her window, through mine, we'd not have had a barking issue, to start.

I have a feeling, a inkling, if you will, that the next condo association meeting?

Someone might want to attend. The comedic value alone puts this at a box-office sell out.

My arguments are quite clear, though the tend to fall along the lines of the Chicken Or The Egg, which comes first?

In this round, The Cello Or The Barking?

Prior to her taking up this newest monstrosity, my dog did not bark. She did not stand on the deck, banging away in horrific fashion. After the Cello Began? I had a barking, banging dog I could not tear off the deck. That's right. Pick up the cello? Complain not about barking in protest. Want peace with nary a peep from the deck next door?

Put down your cello. Walk away from the bow.

And while you're at it?

Move the damn clock too.

Resting, comfortably.....

It's raining...we so need the rain out here, so I'm thrilled. I'm double thrilled that it's raining, as I've pneumonia (how lovely to have some reason for being short of breath than Being Totally Out Of Shape!) and I'm supposed to be resting.

Resting comfortably, to be exact.

I was resting, I'll grant.

The comfortable piece? Less than ideal.

Pucker adores a good snooze as much as anyone does- under the covers, if you please, and thank you, for leaving a corner of the body pillow for me to put my nose on, right near your legs - she's all warm, toasty, throwing off lovely bits of heat.......waking me up when she sneezed. Right. On. My. Legs.

Not a gentle little sneeze either; a great whopping snot blowing sneeze. A sneeze so potent she broke wind at the same time.

That would be the part of her near my face.

It blew her tail up. I swear.

Thank God I can't smell anything (that would be the sinus infection I went for in the first place, totally annoyed they wouldn't simply send a z-pac script to the pharmacy - good thing I did go, the pneumonia thing would totally have screwed up the jaw surgical date if untreated) or I'd be resting, but Resting In Peace, Six Feet Under.

I did however, feel the breeze.

Not the cool one from the slightly open window.

The noxious hot one, the one so potent my eyeballs shrank. Before turning to stone.

I'm typing by rote, ps. Good thing they taught us that in the eighth grade. Otherwise, no one would know for sure that my idiot dog blinded me during the most luxurious morning I've allowed myself in years. (that could be weeks, but who's counting?!)

Since it's nearing two, I suppose it's quite bad form to pick up my son from the bus stop, seeing all the same parents this morning when I dropped him off, in the same jammies, only with slightly more fucked up hair.

And burn marks, from Fucker Up and Gas Me.

I must admit: I just adore the new Burberry glasses I picked out - I'd love to say they make me look intellectual in any given situation, allow me to pull off any outfit, at any time, with any hair - but.................they don't.

Not even Burberry is that talented.

However. In the good news department, they may well indeed be able to draw attention away from skin I'm sure is blistering right as I write, great welts amid bright red burn marks, I could be disfigured for life.

Hmmm. Upon closer inspection, now that the eyeballs are slowly returning to normal? I think those welts are pillow marks, that white stuff possibly drool (clearly not my own drool) so okay.

I can work with this.

I'll shower. Find Other Jammies That Look Like Real Clothing, let hair curl, slip on glasses -

better yet?

I'll drive down to the bus stop. Showered. I'll even get out to prove it, right as the bus pulls up, for maximum other parent notation that I'm not in the same jams as this am, and since it's raining, I will, finally, with the assistance of Burberry no less! rest comfortably until Fox's arrival.

Look at that. Me. The Ultimate Non-Compliant Patient. Being Compliant.

Resting. Comfortably.

Sunday.....

Sunday morning. 9:05am.

I should be at football.

Foxy's late night foray into the ER on Monday night however, resulting in essentially an obstructed lower intestine (something I'd expect, frankly, from our resident goat, not the one child that actually chews with his teeth) along with a possible hot appendix, has kept us off the football field entirely this week. He's blown hot and cold, literally - with a temp, without a temp, icky tummy, not icky tummy - so I've sort of okay with skipping out on a game where he takes the majority of the hits right in the abdomen.

If not at football?

Well.

There are a myriad of various tasks on the list, most of which fall under the Required heading; by that I mean, I've family coming, quite a bit of it, so all of it should fall under the Required heading. I left off the things I can do when they're here...like scare them senseless while cleaning out my microwave. Since I do still have a tendency to over-steam the innards, I've had several (ahem) more Microwave Bombing moments in this house. Could be fascinating for my step-mother to see; then again, I'm not totally sure her constitution is up for that sort of thing. Watching my father's eyebrows hit his hairline as the door popped open (or, um, off)? Priceless. He's a man of few words, my dad, so most likely he'd limit his response to Holy Shit, or OMG, eyebrows hitting his hairline, one sort of forced sounding laugh (which it's not, he has the best laugh) before asking me if this happens a lot.

I'd love to say, nope, it's a one-off....but I think my blase' attitude would give me away. Or, say, had he read the other entries I have on exploding things in my house. My guess is going to be that he's beyond thrilled I've left the dehumidifier in the basement he set up alone. In the sad news department, my drill has suddenly gone MIA....I swear, this house eats things like drills. Or socks. Not the important things I'm welcome to let it eat...dust, perhaps.

I've done the Big Cleaning already - the skid marks are indeed missing in all three bowls (at least for now, I'll check just before they arrive....I do have an eight year old multi-bowl enthusiast, as well as all his buddies) the downstairs floors are coming along nicely. The howling dog, accompanying any noise made by any machine to attack her fur snow storm? A tad overwhelming, especially this early in the morning, so perhaps I'll stick to lesser frightening things to face: the Sunday paper, perhaps.

I should read it before it goes in the recycling bin...the one in the new cleaned out garage, so I could perhaps, place my car in it again. One, it's great to not have to run through rain to get in the car, two, especially if I've left the windows down (.....again) so I'm not resting my backside in a lake while dropping (or is it dripping?) my little guy off at the bus stop. Also? It's a great way to hide out at home, with no one knowing I'm there. Sort of like sneaking off for the day....but more like a sneaky stay-cation.

I've yet to face the 3000 Lego's gracing the floor upstairs in the loft, and while I'm putting cleaning off the carpet with Karen's Little Green Floor Cleaner in the Plus category, I am SO putting the fucking Lego's in the OMG, Ive Got To Pick Those Up category. I thought briefly, about putting the train together, displaying it lovingly, up on the wall, on these shelves I bought...but I tried to hang one of the shelves yesterday, and I think I've figured out why they were at Home Goods, in the clearance aisle: they don't, no matter what you do, hang.

Disappointing in a shelf. I do expect them to, gee, I don't know, hang.

Either way, I'm sitting outside, on possibly one of the last truly gorgeous Sunday mornings we may have, as Fall air has begun nipping it's way in at night, dew sparkling on my flowers, still sort of alive, Pucker laying in the sun, for once not either attacking me for using machines she detests, or, attacking me to walk her; paper, at the ready.

Cleaning can hold off. For Pete's sake, they're family. If they can't handle a bit of dog fur and not judge you for it, who will?