cello

The last week has been extremely difficult but also extremely rewarding. My business picked up a little too much a little too fast, which led to an impressive string of 14-hour days and the very weird sensation of feeling both self-pity and a sense of accomplishment at the same time. The good news is that I’ve made in a week what it took me a month to make at my office job, not that I have the time to deposit the checks, let alone spend it.

And even though I haven’t had the strength to update my blog for more than a few days, much has happened in our little world. I’ll start catching you up with an update from our freaking horrible neighbors - you remember, the Christian children’s performance artists who play a variety of instruments all day long very loudly and very badly?

On Friday night, our best friend Dan came over to hang out for the evening after a long week of work for all three of us. All we wanted to do was watch a movie and catch up. However, around 10 PM, the girl evil neighbor knocked on our door. I answered. I was told by the evil neighbor that we were being too loud. I nod and close the door.

For the next three days, I seethed and brooded (what I do best). How could three people be louder than a tuba? I could not, for the life of me, stop thinking of cooler scenarios than nodding and closing the door. It was as if God gave me this one chance to tell the evil neighbors off, and I let it slide by. I suffered deep, deep insult regret.

In one imagined scenario, she tells me that we are being too loud and I respond with, “Really? I’m surprised you can hear anything over that cello that you torture daily.”

Or I’d say, “Yes, we are being too loud. After almost two years, it’s our turn.”

Or, as soon as I opened the door and saw it was her, I would close it before she said anything.

Oh! Or I’d go the personal-but-unrelated attack route: “We’re being too loud? Well, to that I’d have to say that you are a simpering, mousy, tone-deaf troll whose hell will consist of eternally living next to an orchestra of monkeys attempting to play French horns.”

Then, on Sunday night, as both Ben and I were racing against any number of deadlines, the cello playing starts. Again, I’d like to remind everyone that when I say “playing the cello,” I don’t mean that she’s playing scales or songs. I mean that she is playing the cello in much the same way that I would play the cello if I were to go across the hall and try.

Now, while neither Ben nor I are the type of people to complain (we’d rather keep to ourselves) we are the kind of people that respond to an open attack. Ben walked over, knocked on the door, and told her to stop playing - they had been playing all day and it was ten at night. She agreed, but then, five minutes later, began playing again! I could tell that she was trying to play softly, but let me assure you that there is no way to play the cello badly and softly.

We have now openly declared war. And, since we are moving in about a month, we can alienate them even more than if we had a longer lease. What is our next step? I am open to your ideas. All I know is that I’m not going to just nod next time.