Exhausted, Annoyed, Amused: And that's just between 5:59 and 6:00 am.

Goofy guitar face. Google it. It's a thing.

Exhausted, annoyed, amused. That's how I woke up. The first two: The phone quacking at 6:00 am. A person I know and love, who had several strokes and who now calls every day, no less than 40 times, every twelve seconds, until I pick up to have the same conversation we had yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and the day before that. The ring tone: I changed to a quack so that I would find it less annoying when they call incessantly. I thought it would make me smile a little every time it rang. Instead, now I hate ducks. 

Next up, amused: The person who asked if we sing "Phil the Fluter's Ball."

Do we sing Phil the Fluter's Ball? Please do not ask this question of a sometimes-filterless person prone to explaining themselves on no uncertain terms. There is no way to answer without sounding like a total a-hole, even though they also are actually a very nice person who would never say mean things about anyone because they actually do love just about everyone. Are you like that too? God, I hope so.

Sigh. We don't sing that song! There are a couple of possible reasons for this. It may not be because we don't like the song. Perhaps we think that there is no such thing as a bad song, and everyone who is willing to sing out loud deserves worship! Because singing is what humans are meant to do.  So one reason we may not know it is that there are approximately ten billion Irish songs in the world and... there's only so much time. Plus, there is also the possibility that once, in our travels in Irish music, we knew a person who delivered it in a very corny way, who sang that song every single time we saw them, and maybe though they are a very nice person, we might have just a liiiiiiitle PTSD about that. It is possible that someone might have once made up alternate inappropriate lyrics to that song, as a peer-reviewed, research-based coping strategy, then used the new inappropriate refrain as a new nickname for said singer... and now maybe they can't stop thinking of those other lyrics every time that song is mentioned, even though they are a grownup who is sensitive and compassionate and who went to Sunday School every week from age 6-16, but the singing face of said singer, always tucked into the same corner of the same pub, replaying forever in said listener's simultaneously endlessly accepting yet possibly occasionally wrongfully judgmental mind... 

Honest Abe: I've never heard that song. 

But I'll look it up! And I will DEFINITELY learn it and sing it with great reverence at your funeral, if you ask me to. (I am not making that part up. It's a promise.) And, I'll thank you for it, because I'll be so busy thinking of how awesome you are that it will wipe that other guy clean out of my mind.