Jane works Saturday mornings a lot, and most of the time her getting ready wakes me up. Not her fault, mostly it’s my body thinking something’s going on and that it should be awake for it. (Same reason I don’t sleep much while traveling either.)
I usually just ride it out lying down, and a little while after she leaves my body decides that more sleep would be nice. I then drift off and catch up on a few more hours of sleep that I’m not able to get during the week.
Most of the time.
Every few weeks or so, our neighbors decide not to go to their weekend house. Then, every Saturday just as Jane’s movement wakes me up, they like to listen to a radio show I like to call, “Some Guy Playing Bass Notes Slowly.”
I’m sure it’s some classical program of some kind, but by the time it done being blasted out their stereo, bounced off their large living room, and passed through the bedroom wall, it’s just long, drawn out, bass notes.
Oh, and then followed by some guy talking, which actually is the more annoying part. Your brain hears something that should be words, and tries very hard to figure out what they should be saying, but since it sounds like Barry White took a teaching gig at Charlie Brown’s school, it tries in vain.
I think if it was at least rock music I could take it. At least then I think I could accept what must be near deafening sound levels to listen to some rock. That at least make sense in my mind.
Only on the Upper East Side could you be banging against your wall screaming, “Turn that Vivaldi down, dick!”
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