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, December 10, 2004

Slacking!? ME?! NEVER!!

I would never do that to you, gentle readers. I am now back at the helm, a pitiously grunting teenager sitting in the chair across from me reading a book. Poor widdle thing. I told my boss that if she was really sick, I would be out the rest of the day, but if I could tell she was sandbagging, we'd be back. I told him I figured there would be no place she'd rather be LESS than here at Dad's work with Dad.

Thus, we are here.

Oh, if you could have seen the anguish on her face when I arrived at the office. One would think that she was upon death's door--stooped over, clutching her side, grimacing in agony. We walked out--ever so slowly--and as we put her stuff in the car I asked, "Did you find someone to cover for you tonight at the game?" See, she's decided to play in the pep band for home basketball games, and if they aren't able to play a particular night, they have to find a substitute. Some sort of poppycock about the importance of "honoring your committments" or something.

Anyway, she shrugged her shoulders and with great annoyance said she didn't know. I did not pursue the illogic behind not knowing whether or not she had actually done something or not, and simply reminded her that if she can't play (you know, being all sick and everything), that she needed to be SURE she had a substitute. SO, back into the building, where I sat and waited for a few minutes while she went down to the bandroom. Odd, but as she was walking to the room and then across the hall to the choir room, she wasn't all stooped over.

Finally she was back, and we went back out the door. "The lady in the office said she thought I needed to go to the doctor..." Her voice trailed off as her symptoms returned. I inquired where she hurt, was given a rather generalized location accurate to within a half mile, and asked when she was supposed to be receiving her monthly guest. "I DON'T KNOW! NEXT WEEK? WEEK AFTER THAT? BUT IT NEVER HURTS HERE WHEN IT'S THAT!"

"Well, you've got ovaries on both sides, you know, and since it's that close, that might be what it is."

Then again, seeing as how she hasn't said anything for the past ten minutes and has been quietly reading a book after drinking the YooHoo we bought in the snack bar on the way in, maybe--just maybe--it could be acute malingering.

Poor thing.

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