Happy Eleventh Day of BlogFestivus!
On the Eleventh day, we get Eleven Pipers Piping.
Honestly, I'm struggling where to go with this one without incriminating myself, so I'm going to plead the fifth.
A recorder is kind of like a pipe, right? Or maybe it is a pipe? A part of the same pipe family? Does it matter? In the end it's a piece of plastic that makes ears bleed.
One christmas, when I was very small and my siblings were even smaller, my grandma bought us each a recorder. Mine was ivory colored, my brother's was green, and I don't remember my sister's. They came with a little book that was supposed to teach us how to play 10ish songs. It had little diagrams for where your fingers were supposed to go, and which holes needed to be covered when. But we were kids, and we quickly discovered that it didn't really matter if you were playing it correctly, as long as there was noise coming out. And boy, was there noise coming out. We ran around with those things for days, blowing as hard and loud as we could (that's what she said) with no rhyme, rhythm, or reason. One morning we woke up and they were gone.
Now that I'm a parent, myself, I understand a few things. For the love of all things holy, DO NOT BUY MY KID A RECORDER. I swear, if one of those things ever shows up under our christmas tree, I will cut a bitch. It's like a Parenting Code. Why any parent would inflict that kind of pain on any other parent is beyond me.
Don't forget to check out the rest of the Festivusers!
Fix it or Deal Shouts from the Abyss Stevil All My Answers Tori Nelson A Few Clowns Short Grouchy Mom Rewind Revise My life: a constant work in progress Becoming Bitter PamBamBam Clan of the Cave Hair Words that Rhyme with Purple