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“I can stand almost all of the changes,” my dad said, “but the music. I can’t handle the fucking music anymore.”
We were talking on the phone, and I could hear the music, as if his phone was right next to the stereo. It was ‘Lil Jon this time, and I could hear my mom yelling “shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, EVERYBODY!”
“She’s in the other room,” he said, “and this is with the door closed.”
My mother had begun blasting music, to the point that we could hear the music outside the house, or outside her car coming down the half mile-long driveway. What’s worse: it was everything from Pitbull and Ke$ha to Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash to contemporary country to Imagine Dragons. You would think that with so many artists, the music wouldn’t get repetitive.
But it did, because my mom would blare music at least Six. Hours. A. Day.
It didn’t matter what she was doing: getting ready, cooking, driving, working, reading, messing around on her iPad or laptop. The music was there, and it was constant. I know — listening to music during these…
