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.

Monday, August 23, 2004

Jamboree? No siree.

The scheduled Friday evening football and musical extravaganza were doused with a big bucketful of rain. I sort of figured that would be the case, but I didn't find out for sure until long after I had dropped off Rebecca for her sleepover and made my way back to the house, whereupon I espied the Focus in the driveway.

Ashley wasn't upset about it, and Reba did manage to get herself cleared for one tour of concession stand duty, even though all she did was show up and buy two discount-priced Papa John's pizzas for supper. Which would have been even better had I not stopped and gotten something for the younger set at Sonic on the way home.

Oh well.

We ate a bit, and then it was time for...


I had tried to buy a bit of time Thursday night--Reba gets into these fits of thinking the clothes need to be washed whenever they get near the top of the hamper. Psh! say I. (Although in my quiet inside-my-head voice.) "Look--just mash them down a bit and there's urg::PLENTY::umph of room!" Anyway, she wants to get them all out and start doing a load in the middle of the week, even though we've still got several more day's worth of grime to roll around in, and even though doing laundry in the middle of the week is unscriptural. At least in the version I use.

So Thursday, she started rumbling up the stairs with the baskets, even though she didn't feel good and even though it was late. I had to physically restrain her and take the baskets from her, noting that I would be glad to do the laundry Friday while she was at the jamboree. And anyway, she was tired. And what was one more day going to hurt? She relented, and thus I was able to get her to lie down and relax with me so we could watch the Olympics.

And see, then Friday was supposed to roll around, and I could manage to get a couple of loads done, but not really much in the way of folding, because I would still be acting all lazy and such in front of the television instead of actually working as hard as I could. Alas, the rain spoiled all that.

So, laundry. No getting out of it. But it could have been worse. At least I had Miss Reba to help out and sort and such, and I could make lewd comments about her underthings.

That's always so much more fun when there's an audience.

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