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 18, 2005
Saturday, up while it was still dark, listening to someone in the house happily, LOUDLY whistling. Not a song, of course. Well, rather, not a song that has been made famous enough to be listened to on the radio. I suppose that if you define song as a random arrangement of whistled notes, with random tempo, and random pauses, then I suppose this was some sort of phonic masterpiece.
Then again, ain't nothing too pleasing at 6:30 on a Saturday morning except burrowing under the covers and snoring, so maybe I am predisposed not to like the happy chirpy playfulness inherent in the whale-like variety of squeals, whistles, chirps, chitters, and other assorted utterances that a lively almost-8-year-old can master.
Maw and I finally began rousting about after the sun got more fully up in the sky and began receiving the usual string of visitors with the usual query of when breakfast would be ready.
Up, breakfast, and then start decontaminating the den of all the leftovers from Christmas. Boxes back down from the attic, gave them to Boy to take downstairs, carefully removed ornaments ("carefully" being a less than precise term to certain children, who think nothing of tossing things made out of glass) and wrapping them in paper and stowing them in the cardboard boxes with the little cardboard dividers, all while watching one of Jonathan's movies he got for Christmas--It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.
The kids had never seen it before, and had a pretty good laugh through most of it. Obvious favorite was Jonathan Winters, whom they seem to think reminds them of me. It was odd to see it again after seeing it so long ago on the late show on TV--it was odd how familiar the forty year old scenery looked, yet so very foreign. You forget what the S&H Green Stamps sign looked like, or what old cars looked like when they were new cars. All the small California towns where it was filmed--you wonder what they look like now. As a movie, it drags a bit much, and some of the sight gags are just stupid, and you wonder why anyone would think a two-second shot of the Three Stooges as firemen would be worth paying for. But then you get to see a glimpse of Edie Adams' thigh, and you know, it pretty much makes up for it. And the length of the movie did allow sufficient time to get all the stuff off the tree and into the boxes, and to even get the tree disassembled and into its box, and all the wreaths bagged up, and the various mantel decorations put back into the drawer of the buffet.
Then, back into the attic with the big stuff. The ornament boxes are bad, but only because you know if you drop one, something will break. The box with the tree is something else, however, because if you drop it, it might cause you to fall headlong off the folding stair into the attic and give yourself a fractured skull. Those of you who are regular readers are probably holding your breath right now in barely restrained glee at the possibility that I might have yet another amusing emergency room story to tell, but alas, I managed to manhandle the box into the attic with no damage to either of us. So sorry.
The rest of Saturday was blessedly uneventful, aside from the late evening round of showers and hair fixing and ear cleaning and nail clipping of the children. Oh, and laundry. Forgot that. Would like to on a regular basis, but it just won't leave us alone. Oh, and forgot about the downstairs toilet room floor as well. One day, when I come into the fortune promised me by a mysterious Nigerian oil minister, I will fix it, but this weekend it just had to wait again.
And then, there was Sunday!
Comments: Post a Comment
free hit counter
so what if they're mostly me!