You know, when we moved into this house, I thought, with its solid, double-brick-walled construction and metal-lath plaster walls, that I would not be able to hear anything between floors.
I thought that were I in the kitchen, I would not hear the boys screaming at each other in their third-floor playroom. Or if I were in the shower, I wouldn’t hear H practicing the Same. Goddamn. Guitar. Riff. over and over and over again, in the dining room. Alas, I was WRONG. Due either to the layout of the house, or the lack of insulation, or perhaps both, I can hear EVERYTHING -- EVERYWHERE.
Except, marginally, in the basement, which is where I hide, ostensibly doing laundry, when I can’t take one more minute of three-thousand-decibel level noise. Or the whining.
But Santa obligingly brought Primo a REAL, junior-size drum kit. (I know I am a fucking moron, you don't need to point that out, thankyouverymuch.) And Primo’s parents realized the most logical place for it to live, to survive the maulings of younger brothers, is IN THE BASEMENT. My sanctuary.
The kid is really talented. Like, blow-your-socks-off talented, for a seven-year-old. And I like music as much as the next person. I even like most of the music THEY like (although I could do without this new Radiohead album, frankly. Thom, darling, you disappoint).
But oh my god, WHO or WHAT did I piss off in a former life, to be condemned to life in a household of hardcore musicians? (And don’t kid yourself, they may be only 4 and 7 (and 44), but they ARE hardcore.)
And then there’s me, as tone-deaf and rhythm-less as they come.
And with serious sensory-overload issues.
Why am I being punished like this? Was I a slaveholder? The tyrannical dictator of an oppressed nation? An amoral prostitute without the heart of gold? A greedy, consuming despot’s wife with nary a care for her poor countrymen?
Whatever it is, I am SO SORRY.
I didn’t mean ANY of it.
I’ll NEVER do it again, whatever IT is.
FORGIVE ME.
Or have Santa bring me some heavy-duty industrial earplugs.
*********************
*Thom Yorke, Radiohead
8 comments:
I feel your pain.
Literally.
Oh, and, if you want earplug advice, ask Middle...he drums with earplugs.
SO GLAD I did not marry any of the (multiple) musicians I dated.
However. I married a man as tone-deaf as I am, and we have one kid who's a freaking PRODIGY, like practically a SAVANT, and another who is ALMOST as tone-deaf as we are but VERY ENTHUSIASTICALLY MUSICAL just the same.
So yeah. Oy.
Like a moron, I bought B the video game Rock Band for Christmas, complete with little nerd plastic drums and a little nerd guitar. Which he is now saying he will use as a gateway drug to real drums.
So yeah. I feel your pain.
Or I will.
NOS is well on his way to being "hey, not bad" on the guitar (I guess it's all genetic?) but since I know better I got him a Rockman with some kickass headphones.
In your case: Bose Noise Cancellation headphones. AMHIK.
-J.
Two words to let you know that I've been beaten with the MORON stick as well:
WIGGLES GUITAR
Oh, and next year - Felix is taking up the TRUMPET.
I can already feel the depth of the headache.
I hear ya (pun).....I catch every sound in my house no matter who is making the noise nor how quiet they think they are being.
my girl got a guitar for christmas and she's already given herself blisters. she can't carry a tune, but at least it's not the drums...sorry.
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