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.