All About That Bass And There's Going To Be Trouble

After threatening for days via dark skies and hyperactive meteorologists, rain has finally arrived, bringing some cooler temperatures. Windows are open where covered and protected from the showers, and it's a wonderful and welcome change from the summer tradition of The Running of the Air Conditioners.

Someone nearby has been running their car, blasting their woofers and tweeters for well over an hour. My house and nerves are shaking from the constant "thump thump" rumbling. When I was able to drive I blasted my music like the teenager I once was but never parked in a residential neighborhood for over 60 minutes, volume cranked to maximum power.

I have thought about going out on my porch and glaring at the offender, but the fact is I couldn't see the vehicle no matter how much it was vibrating, and I wouldn't want to unknowingly give sweet Mr. Johnson the stink eye while he has a cigarette-induced coughing fit. Seriously, Mr. J, give 'em up already!

The even bigger reason preventing me from marching out front? Fear of being branded as the block's resident curmudgeon. All that's missing are rollers in my hair, an ancient bathrobe, a hairnet or curlers and gnarled pointed fingers. I do admit to the cup of coffee in my hand and slippers on my feet.

All hope is not lost for me though. As I distracted myself from the rocking and rolling, tidying up the house and getting laundry started, I began to sing the Meghan Trainor song used in the title of this post. I may be only a few years from a replacement, but I'm still hip.

A Normal Story

On a TV show we were watching, someone asked others to tell one story about themselves that would provide insight into who they are as a person. So I asked my husband what his story would be.

There was dead silence and since I am unable to see his facial features unless we are very close, I told him that I couldn't see his face but I was guessing there was a vacant look in his eyes. In his defense, the poor guy was just trying to watch a reality competition program. He didn't realize he'd be asked to participate.

Finally, after I said nothing more but stared him down, at least I think I was looking at his face but I could have been locked on his left shoulder, he said "normal?"  Yes, there was a question mark after that one lone word.

I pointed out that that was a word and not a story and then I realized and said, "That's your story."  My husband is a man of moderate words (opposites attract, Raindrops), a good man who loves me enough to indulge me in such ridiculous questions I sometimes ask when I forget I am not with one of my girlfriends but with a kind-hearted guy just trying to relax and enjoy some silly entertainment.

I write stories about my life at least five times a week and as in this post, sometimes I tell his anecdotes for him. I always ask his permission first, even though he has given me carte blanche. After twenty-six years together, his stories are mine, and my stories are his. And we're sticking to them.

Code Red

For the epitome of having just enough knowledge to be dangerous, let me introduce you to:

Hell
To
My
Life

The good news for you is that it's only a threat to me and my already precipice-dangling sanity and my beautiful new iPad Pro. Must go search for app that will allow the device to fly and land without damage.


#notaprogrammerjustplayoneinthisblog