11 Aug 2006


I appreciate that people have things they like to do when they aren't working, eating or sleeping.

I really don't have a hobby, unless you count that glorious flop I do onto the couch while simultaneously turning on the television. That and gaining weight by thinking about Dairy Queen treats.

To my shagrin, Patrick has picked up a hobby. A hobby I thought I left far, far behind in my parents' home. A hobby no person who shares a small space with another being should have. Alas ... Patrick is learning how to play the guitar.

Growing up, my dad played the guitar. I often heard the intro runs of "Blackbird" by the Beatles or "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. Over and over. And over and over. And over and over again. Every fuck-up would ring and echo throughout the house. Over and over.

Even if my dad were a master of the guitar, it would be annoying. There is just something about someone playing their instrument in your home in the middle of the day that makes you want to KILL THEM. I recall all three of us (me, my mom and my sister) SCREAMING at my father to close a door, go outside or JUST BLOODY STOP IT when he would play the guitar. It was like musical bugs crawling on your skin. I'm convinced the reason my parents bought such a massive home in their retirement-phase was so that my dad could have his own sound-buffered music zone and not drive my mom completely mental.

So, as life would have it, I am living with my father, Version 2.0. Patrick has suddenly taken on the desire to learn the guitar and I have been transported to the angry place of listening to half-pressed-down strings, fumbling to make chord changes. I just can't wait until we move into the condo, a shoebox of a space, where escape will be nearly impossible.

Pray for me.

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I have no shame

Need words? I'm a Toronto-based freelance writer who injects great ones into blogs, websites, magazines, ads and more. So many services, one lovely Jen (with one 'n').

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