Yesterday, Hannah walked in the door, paused, and looked up with horror on her face. Instantly, I knew just what her problem was.
"WHAT. IS. THAT?" she asked.
"Oh, that. It's the man upstairs."
"WHY is he doing that?" she inquired, hands held tight over her ears in a vain attempt at protecting herself from the onslaught raining down from above.
Having endured the sound for the past several hours, I had been asking myself the same thing all day long.
What was this audible horror story come to life, you ask?
It's our drywall guy.
Apparently, he really likes the singing. And music from the 60s.
Both at high volume. (And very out of tune.)
This morning, I walked by the boys' room, hoping my presence would serve as a shameful reminder that he was not, in fact, alone in the house. Sadly, I am afraid it had quite the opposite effect.
He looked up at me through dusty glasses, grinned like a bobcat, and said, "Don't you just love Pandora radio?"
I smiled, nodded, and went back down to the basement --the only place in the house where the new soundtrack of my life is slightly muffled.
Frankly, I'd like to stuff that Pandora back into the box where she came from.
And possibly him, too.