I gotta get out of this place

Today officially kicks off the three-day President's Day weekend (hooray for attending a public university) for me. These long weekends are a rare but extremely important luxury for me here in grad school, given that I have a lot more work and no Reading Week. But this quarter the Fates have been exceedingly kind by having the holidays in question fall on Monday, otherwise known as the day I would have to get up early and work seven hours. Instead, I can sleep late and have all that time to myself and my work this Monday. Not having to get up earlier Monday, I can also sleep exceedingly late this weekend without worrying about it wrecking my sleep patterns or cutting into my work time. Nope, just lots of guilt-free mornings that don't begin till midday.

Naturally, I've been looking forward to this for quite a while. About five weeks (the time since the MLK holiday), to be exact. I went to bed a little earlier than usual last night, mainly because I was feeling tired and knew the last couple of pages of my paper could wait. But I was also looking forward to trying to sleep till about noon, and then feeling fabulous about it.

Naturally, I got a wakeup call at 10:30 when the trumpet lesson my landlord/roommate was giving downstairs commenced.

Now, I'm a reasonable person. I realize 10:30 is on the late side to be sleeping, especially for all those working types. But it's also not atypical for even working professionals to sleep pretty late on the weekend since, after all, it's the only chance they get. Furthermore, my landlord should be well aware by now that I routinely sleep at least that late on the weekends. Even during the week, I'm never up before 10 (save for Monday). And I've lived her more than five months now, so you'd think this might have become noticed. It's a longstanding, regular, predictable pattern.

All of which begs two questions: Did he have to schedule his lesson at that hour on a Saturday? And if he did, would it have killed him to let me know, say, last night, that such a cacophony of dissonant sounds would be giving me a fine top o' the morn today so I could expect it?

Alas, it seems such courtesy is too much to ask. I'd say this pretty well epitomizes my living situation, except that I didn't also get accused (indirectly, of course) by my landlord of also running up some utility bill or not abiding by some stupid rule of his that he never follows himself. Par for the course, though.