I had noble intentions of putting together a deeply meaningful—but also hilarious, natch—post for your enjoyment, yesterday, but my day was derailed by a multitude of more pressing matters.
True, probably the least of my worries was the subcontractor who is out on the deck painting (did I mention that we replaced our siding while redoing the deck? because we did, because why not spend every last penny all at once!) and BLARING country music all freakin’ day long.
Part of me feels like: Hey, this is my house, and not only that, this is my OFFICE, and I am trying to work, and therefore I am well within my rights to ask him to please turn his music down (or off).
But the other part of me feels like: Dude is probably being paid minimum wage by the contractor, let him listen to some music while he spends hours and hours moving a paint brush back and forth, and P.S. don’t be a dick.
So I haven’t said anything. The music continues to blare. And the dog continues to bark. I guess she doesn’t like country music, either.
And the thing is, I don’t consider myself a terribly easily-distracted person. I can usually tune out what I need to. But the radio is RIGHT OUTSIDE MY DOOR and there’s just… just… SO MANY BANJOS. So much TWANG. So much “And Iiiiiii looooooove yooooouuuuuuuu” and other crooning that sounds a lot like the guy who’s singing is currently undergoing a vasectomy without benefit of anesthesia.
Even the commercials on that station make me stabby. Lots of extremely southern accents telling you to COME ON BACK NOW, Y’HEAR! and GOLLY GEE WE HAVE IT ALL and who knows what else. I can barely understand what they’re saying, so I have no idea what these commercials are even for. [I can’t seem to tune them out, though, so I mentally determine the product for each commercial based upon how utterly hicks-ville the announcers sound. 1 redneck = commercial for a bar. 2 rednecks = commercial for a bar with country line-dancing night. 3 rednecks = chewing tobacco. 4 rednecks = ammo shop. I could be wrong, but the sad part is that this is probably not too far off.]
Please do not deluge me with your comments about how great country music is and how stereotypical and dismissive I’m being. I know. There is even some country music I kind of enjoy. But I swear this dude is listening to the all-banjo channel. My brain has been subjected to the TWANG CHANNEL for about 10 hours already, which is—by my calculations—10 hours too many.
I’m hoping he finishes painting today. Please.
So, while the painting and the TWANG-TWANGing was going on here, yesterday, I tried to get some work done, fielded various phone calls and emails, dealt with one very angry child trying to pick a fight with me from school (say it with me now: “But it’s NOT FAIR!”) (no need for said situation to be unfair to use that one, by the way), read entirely too much about the latest Political Crisis Du Jour, and tried to finish up everything I’m putting together for our Big School Event that is finally almost here.
Then after school there was one child in trouble for behavior at school and one child in trouble for behavior at home and Deep Discussions and stomping and slamming and then later, some more School Event work with a colleague who brought alcohol (that was by far the most pleasant part of the day, actually) (uh, not because of the alcohol, per se, just because I like her and her style) and finally after The Day Of Twanging and Awful Events and General Mayhem it was time to collapse into bed.
I began poking Otto the moment he lay down. “Turn over.”
“TURN OVER. I had a miserable day. I REQUIRE BARNACLE-ING!”
And even though my poor husband would rather not, he obliged. He turned over, and I snuggled up to his back and fell right to sleep.
I dreamed that angry rednecks were chasing me with banjos.
And then this morning the painter wasn’t here, so I settled down to work, but then he showed up. And now the music’s blaring, again. “People’re craaaaazyyyyyy!”