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 09, 2004
Saturday, then--bright and clear, and time for some housework and trying on of clothing. And to go sell more discount cards!
First street was a continuation of where we had left off on Thursday. No luck. Of course, part of that might have something to do with the fact that Oldest was getting doorbell fatigue. Ring it, and then turn right around and walk away. You figure if you see a television on, and cars in the driveway, there is probably someone home. If you're not in a hurry.
No use trying to say anything--I have 'hateful-look-with-bewildered-shrugged-shoulders' fatigue. On to the next street, sold a few, then back around up to the fancy section on down the street from us, and finally another short section in our own neighborhood, just around the bend. Finally sold them each and every one. Fifty cards, $500, plus $30 in donations. Quite an accomplishment for her, AND she now gets all her band trips paid for.
Back to the house, where Mom and the two younger girls were going through school clothes and culling out the ones that no longer fit. Reba also took the opportunity to cull some toys no longer played with, although these had to be placed in black garbage bags lest some child or other would come by and retrieve a broken piece of bright plastic and proclaim it his or her most favoritest broken piece of bright plastic EVER!
I went to Jonathan's room to see what he needed done. Well, first, he needed to try on clothes, too. SO, for the next five hours, he went through every drawer, every shirt, every pair of shorts, every pair of pants, every sock, every pair of underwear and we figured out he doesn't need any more clothes for a while. Thank heavens. Oldest, of course, thinks she needs a complete new wardrobe. Wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't on a monthly basis that this request gets made. Rebecca and Cat are probably pretty well set, as well. I hope.
After Jonathan got his clothes all neatened back up, we worked on cleaning his room some. Could have used that opaque garbage bag--I found a leg that came off of an Inspector Gadget doll/action figure. Just a leg. Right, I think. It was part of a promotion by Burger King or someone back when the movie came out--each week, the kids's meal had another body part of Inspector Gadget (gee, like something out of a gangster movie), and if you collected the whole set, it would assemble into a great big Inspector Gadget that stood many inches high. Each little part was its own gadget, too. The leg we had would turn into a little pair of plastic pliers. It was the only piece we ever got.
As Jonathan rummaged around cleaning things out of his closet, I sat at his desk and pitched things into the garbage can. The leg? Pitch. "DADDY!" Where'd HE come from!?
"Daddy! That was my Inspector Gadget leg!"
"I know, buddy, but it's only a LEG. We don't have any of the other parts, and it was shoved into the back of your desk drawer."
"But it's got a little wrenchy thing right here, and if you push this, this red thing comes down, and his leg does THIS!"
Such a hurt little look on his face. ::sigh:: "Oh, alright, keep the silly thing!"
Which he did. Took it with him in the van to church on Sunday, even. No wonder our house looks the way it does.
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