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.

Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Alrighty then--BORING STUFF!! Wheeeeee!

I have no idea what happened Friday. I think the laundry got started, and I think I helped, and I think we had pizza for supper. I think.

I do know that Saturday dawned dim and drizzly, and I really hoped that I would be getting a call saying that Middle Girl's soccer practice had gotten cancelled. No such luck. I puttered around and watched some of the Weekend Today show, and got Rebecca up so she could get dressed. The practice was scheduled for 10-12, at least on the marker board, but just to make sure, I figured I would call the coach--last week's was moved to 1:00, you know (or don't). Called--no answer.

That settled it, I supposed, so after it got around time to go we loaded her up with her ball and a bottle of Gatorade and took off. Driving down the hill, I asked ONE. MORE. TIME. to see if she had heard ANYthing different from her coach. "Are you SURE you're not going to meet at another time?"

Blank look. "I don't know. He said something about 11, or something. I don't know."

"What did he say about 11?"

"I don't know, I wasn't listening."

::sigh:: "Well, now you know why we tell you it's a good idea to liste..."

"I DID! I just couldn't understand what he was SAYING!"

No win on this one. Decided to go on to the park, just in case, because you just never know. Got there, and aside from several raindrops, we were totally alone.

Turned around and headed back out the drive--"Daddy? Why did we get here so early?"

::Ralph Kramdenesque slow burn:: I tried explaining that she didn't tell me anything about a later time until we were well underway, and further, she didn't seem too confident about that later time, and finally, that since we were already underway and she might have misheard and I couldn't get her coach on the phone, that we really had no choice except to go and see what was going on.

Which made for a very sullen child.

Bang-ZOOM, Alice.

Got back home, looked around the outside of the house a bit to see how it looked. Pretty good, certainly better than it has for the past few years. Once the paint on trimwork starts to go, everything looks tattered really quick. Amazing what a nice coat of paint can do. Helped fold more clothes, went through backpacks and pulled out old papers, and FINALLY, it was time to head back out for the 11 o'clock practice.

Loaded Middle Girl back up, ball, Gatorade, drive.

Met her coach driving the opposite way, just as he was coming into his neighborhood and we were leaving ours. Flagged him down and got him pulled over--"Hey, what time is practice?!"

"One o'clock!"

Went through whole story of miscommunication, turned around and went back to the house again. Decided to keep from getting out any more than required by registering the two littler kids for the upcoming season online. But not before tearing the house apart looking for Little Boy's birth certificate. Still couldn't find it, much to the chagrin of my parental counterpart, who seemed to take this news with much ill humor. I was able to abate her sense of my ineptitude by noting that by registering online, we would not have to have a copy of the elusive certificate right then, and could turn it in later. That bought me a few extra points. Which were quickly taken away when it came to pay the online registration fee and we found that there was a $20+ fee for online payment.

Well, fergit that! Off to the Academy sporting goods store with Rebecca in tow. The combined effects of laundry and rain had conspired to put everyone in a foul mood, and taking one of the players out of the game seemed the best way to help keep things quiet. Got Cat and Jonathan signed up, and found that I didn't need a birth certificate after all. Whew.

Looked around a bit, got a couple of pairs of cheap sweatpants for Rebecca to practice in, and hit the door with too much time to go on to the park, and yet not quite enough time to swing by the house. Finally figured it would be good to check in, so I dropped by the house, walked in, did something I can't remember, then headed out to the park for the third time. Which happened to be the charm, thus proving that old aphorisms are firmly rooted in fact.

Dropped her out, and seeing as how I had eaten neither breakfast or lunch, I decided to go visit my friends over at the Country Convenience Store (the factory-made log building housing a convenience store and a pool supply place). Pulled in and parked, and noticed a scrawny, rather countercultural-looking young man wearing a thin tee-shirt and some really kewl tattoos. He was driving a beat up red '64 Falcon four door sedan, and was talking in that loud, high-as-a-kite mode with a big fat blonde girl. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Walked in, grabbed a Diet Coke and some canned meat "food" product and an AutoTrader to look at while I waited.

"Would you like a bag for that?"

I allowed that I would, if it would be no trouble. "Oh, it won't be no trouble t'all!" She then launched into an absolutely unintelligible ode to her husband (I think) and on what trouble really is and plastic and something and BWWAHAHAHAA! and this and that. "Thanks."

I went back out and Jack Spratt and his corpulent companion were still yell-talk-arguing with each other about something as they wandered around the car slamming various doors and the trunk lid. I pulled on out to the road, and noticed they had a Dealer tag on their chariot. These are metal tags that car dealers use temporarily on demo vehicles and stuff they drive regularly. Why this sweet couple of kids had one is probably the basis for an entire shelf full of Southern gothic literature. Or at least two or three Coen Brothers films.

Anyway, back to the park, sit, eat, drink, read, listen to the radio, doze, and then take Middle Girl back home after finding out EXACTLY when the next practice would be.

The rest of Saturday was blessedly uneventful.

But then there's always the next day...

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