Best neighbor award

It's nearly 9 PM and I'm making my daughter practice the piano.  Because I'm the most awesome neighbor in the world.  It's a bit of  passive-aggressive revenge (I despise passive-aggressive in others but indulge in it occasionally myself, I am sad to say) for the neighbor's setting up a basketball hoop six feet from my bedroom window on their side of the fence.  Their ten year-old grandson must be trying out for the NBA because he practices ALL.  DAY.  LONG.  (That's right, CAPS.)  They know I work nights.  A set of earplugs and a pillow over my head is not enough to drown out the THUNK THUNK THUNK inside my sleep-deprived skull.  I can only assume that they also know but don't give a crap that six in the morning on a Sunday is never NEVER the recommended time to host an NBA practice outside my window.

Coincidentally, today I noticed that our garbage bin, which is resting JUST on the other side of the fence from the spot in their yard where Lamar Odom Jr. practices his free throws, has a stench emanating from it that can only be described as maggoty.  I was horrified at first when I realized my mistake of throwing away raw chicken bits in a black garbage container in 106 degree heat.  Then - LIGHT BULB - I realized that Lamar is not going to be able to breathe over there with that smell.  I am now wondering if anyone has an industrial-sized fan I can borrow. 

You wish you were my neighbor, huh?

As if you couldn't already tell I'm going completely mental lying around here.  I desperately want to be back at work, with dopamine drips and babies shooting out of orifices.  Instead, I've reached season 5,672 of Rescue Me on Netflix and when I'm not watching that I'm doing this to amuse myself:

Skinny.

Fluffy!  (Your internal reading voice must scream that word.)

Emma and I both find this side-splittingly funny.  I think my insanity is contagious or genetic, or both. 

PLEASE LET ME GO BACK TO WORK.