Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)
Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.
This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.
Friday, September 12, 2003
And as for all my running around last night...
Went off nearly without a hitch. Got to the stadium just a few minutes behind schedule--it's right in the middle of town along little two lane streets that quickly become one when everyone parks in the middle of the road, which make trying to get anywhere quickly sort of impossible, but Reba had the van standing there on the street waiting for me. I followed her around to the back of the school where we made our prisoner swap and grabbed a quick smooch. (One of the great things about being an adult is the ability to engage in Public Displays of Affection While on School Premises without fear of detention. Well, not much fear.)
Reba mentioned that happy little Malingering Boy was waving at me from inside the van--I turned and could see his wiggly little silhouette behind the glass and gave him the dreaded Angry Look of Disgust and turned without waving back. The CRUELTY!! The HEARTLESSNESS!! Maybe so, but I really doubt he's going to pull that little trick again on his mama. Vachon noted below that we shouldn't be too hard on him--rest assured, we're not--it's hard to REALLY get mad at him because he's such a charmingly sweet big-eyed little puppy of a boy. But if he thinks he's found a way to bluff his way out of school early by feigning illness, he's got another think coming.
After we all got home last night, we let him know that he couldn't just call Mom or Dad to come get him unless he was really, REALLY sick and running a temperature--I told him I would bite him if he did it again. And feed him to the wolverines. And make him wear clown shoes. He giggled and said he would make sure he was really sick the next time. I'm not sure that was what I was shooting for, but we'll see how it works out.
Anyway, got the girls in with me and headed off to drop Rebecca off at the park--the parents of one of her teammates run the concession stand, so I stationed her right at the window with instructions that she not be stolen and then hopped back in to run back to Catherine's practice and finally get a chance to sit in my folding chair and vegetate. Speaking of vegetate, it turns out that the parents of one of her teammates owns the Irondale Cafe, the inspiration for Fannie Flagg's book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe, which I hope means that they will be nice and fix us...I mean, the kids, up with lots and lots of fried green tomatoes. (Although, in fairness, tomatoes being a fruit means that my little comment about vegetating doesn't really work that well. But I didn't want to say that I sat in my folding chair and fruited.)
They ran and ran around, and Catherine giggled and ran the opposite way. I really have to wonder about her. Finished up around 7, right on time, then back over to see how Rebecca was doing and try to grab something to eat.
I mentioned the concession stand earlier--I have had my share of hot dogs from there, and they even make a pretty good burger. This season they've redone the entire menu with stuff like chicken sandwiches and chicken fingers, but the old reliable hot dogs are still there. And the hamburgers...sorta. Before, they would cook these up on the griddle while you waited, but now they seem to have been already cooked. I asked for one and got a largish lump of cool, somewhat brown, food-service grade ground animal parts on a bun. It came out of the same warmer the hot dog weiners were in. Probably not a good sign. I doctored it up with some mustard and ketchup, but biting into its tepid gristliness made me fear that it would come screaming back out down south in mere minutes. I managed to eat it all down, e. coli and all, justifying it by telling myself I was actually that hungry, but the entire time I was expecting to keel over and then wake up in the hospital surrounded by doctors saying it was a miracle I survived. Oddly enough, it has been a model citizen since then, and has graciously allowed itself to be digested with nary a whimper. Yet, at least.
Watched Bec practice until a bit after 8, then it was time to hit the road for home--drove by the stadium and saw that the Huskies were whupping up on Oak Mountain 18-0, and as predicted, hit the door at 8:30. Reba and Ashley came in a few minutes later, and then the homework detail started, along with some vittles for the various kids who hadn't eaten anything, then bathtime, then to bed.
BUT WAIT!! Everyone's lights had just gone off, and Miss Reba and I had just gotten settled down when she suddenly remembered something. Which is never a good thing. "ASHLEY!? Did you get your current event article for tomorrow?!" ::sigh::
Her social studies teacher (the one who actually makes them study GEOGRAPHY, too) has them get an article out of the Thursday news to talk about in class on Friday. Usually, Daddy is reminded to pick up a paper and bring it home to be butchered for fodder. But sometimes, he forgets. Which means that Daddy had to get up and fire up the magical Internet machine and help her find an article. Printed out the one about the Saudis and their trouble with all those evil Jew Barbies and gave her that one. She was incredulous that anyone could get that upset about a doll.
It's an odd world, kid.
Then to bed.
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