Say Mr. Possumblogger, what’s on tap for the weekend?
I hope to goodness nothing like last weekend. I don’t think any of you can stand another towering 3,700 words devoted to the minutiae of life lived in my roomy and unfashionable pants.

As always, the grass needs to be cut, the laundry needs to be washed, and the Reba needs to be kissed—and often—by someone who knows how (since Clark Gable’s rather dead, that leaves just me, and ONLY me!) Saturday is going to be interesting—we are going to take the kids back to Camp Coleman for horseback riding and then we have a wedding to attend. These two events are separated by an amount of time only slightly longer than the amount of time required to take them home, scrub the horsiness off of them, dress them in suitable clothes, and get to the designated matrimonial location. One missed step, one delay, and we’ll be unfashionably late. And knowing The Demolition Squad, uncommonly loud.

There is also the issue of decorating the Large, Sturdily Built Plastic Playhouse. The children have had a wonderful time abusing it, and have claimed the entirety of the Non-Structure, Non-Outbuilding, Plastic Fun Article. The other day there were all sorts of frightening posters of N*Sync and large plastic purses and a nekkid Barbie and two radios and a long piece of string inside. They have also managed to construct what my wife calls a “pretend campfire” outside the doors. This consists of a small ring of stones filled with pine straw and hickory nuts, with an adjacent pile of pine straw and hickory nuts, apparently for use when the non-flames consume the stuff inside the rocks. Of course, were I the more suspicious sort, I would think that this looked an awful lot like some sort of Blair Witch/voodoo thing. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about such stuff. (I’m sure it has nothing to do with waking up in the middle of the night and finding all of them standing around the bed with upraised butcher knives and glowing eyes.)

Jonathan decided that having to share with the girls was too much of a chore, and suggested that one half could be for boys, and one half for girls. “Two problems there, Squirt—there’s one of you, and three of them; and on top of that, there’s one big one of ME.” Since Daddy nearly coughed up an aorta putting the thing up, Daddy seems to think he should have some say in the spatial allotment. I mentioned about the lawn mower that needed to go in there. “But Dad, I read on the ‘structions on the inside that you couldn’t put anything hot in there!” Remind me grind off incriminating warnings dealing with “tools” molded into the plastic. “Well, son, Daddy will be sure to let the lawn mower cool off before putting it inside.” He said okay, but I know he’s still trying to figure a way to get more space for HIS toys. I may have to throw a mad crying fit. Show ‘em all how it’s REALLY done.

Sunday, I have no idea what’s supposed to happen. I’ll just let it be a surprise.

Maybe I’ll tell you about it Monday…(I promise it will be no longer than War and Peace)
posted by Terry at 2:07:00 PM