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, March 08, 2005

Okay, let’s try this once more…

But this time, I’m just hittin’ the high points--once that excited rush of words comes flowing out on Mondays, and then vanishes, it’s awfully hard to work up to the same fever pitch of enthusiasm about what are, let’s face it, incredibly mundane things.

Let’s see, we got to Sunday, which was the day to get everyone up and to church on time, which we did, and I got to show the boy and girls in the 3rd to 6th grade class my raiment-shaking skills (discussing Paul in Corinth), and then we had worship, which was marked by the incredible occurrence of Catherine VOLUNTEERING to sit on the end of the pew beside ME! Usually it’s a free-for-all as all four of the kids try to sit next to Mom--despite the fact that she only has a right and a left side that are sit-besideable. Well, and there’s the lap, too, but it nearly kills her because we don’t have a single kid under 7 stone, and none that can be still.

But, for some reason, Cat decided she wanted to be my buddy and so she plopped herself down to my left and busied herself the rest of the service writing and illustrating a story about Molly, the Spitz Puppy Who Had a Bad Dream About Spiders, Because She Was Afraid of Spiders. Afterwards, we left Ashley there at the building so she could practice her debate stuff some more, and we headed back toward Trussville to go eat lunch.

Finagled my way into stopping at the Chinese buffet/sushi bar beside the K-Mart. Reba likes it, too, but seems to always wind up later in the restroom, ruing her delicate system. Good food, though, especially on busy days where the food doesn’t have time to sit out forever. Sometime later in the meal the incredibly pretty and entirely serious young drink-glass filler upper girl came by to total up our check and started around the table to see who got the child discount and what everyone ordered to drink. She started with Catherine, “How old you?” Cat giggled and said, “eight.” Next was Boy, “How old you?” and he answered “ten.” On to Rebecca, “How old?” She very timidly said “twelve.” Having thus gotten her information, she busily began toting up the prices, when suddenly someone else at the table blurted out, “And I’m 42!”

Immaturity transcends all linguistic and cultural barriers. I managed to get a quick shy flash of a smile from the waitress, as well as an exasperated roll of the eyes from Miss Reba, who told me to behave. Heh. As if.

Anyway, on to home, where I got to read the paper ALL THE WAY THROUGH and then collapse into a drooling stupor, brought on as much by the news as by the food. And then, right back up to go back for another meeting at church, and then evening worship, and then home, and some supper, and then up yesterday, and then home last night.

Reba’s started her new class last night--something about effective interpersonal relationships and “the anger myth.” I can tell you that after she got her grade of A+ for the last class on computers, there’s a lot less anger to have to mythologize. She was quite surprised, although it took a few minutes last night after she read the e-mail from her teacher to acknowledge that she had a little help along the way. But she’s a very good acknowledger, so I have NO complaints at all.

Also last night, while she was at her class, Oldest had an audition for another play. She’d decided she wanted to try out for Teensy Females at the community theater, and last night was the first night of auditions.

Did I mention that yesterday it was raining the same way it did a long time ago when there was a run on gopher wood? Did I mention that by the time last night rolled around, it was more or less of a monsoon? Did I mention that since Reba was at class, I had to get all four kids BACK out into the torrent in order to drive over to the theater? Well, if I didn’t, I have now.

What a mess. Lighting, thunder, oceans of water. But we managed to make it and stay moderately dry. Jonathan and Rebecca brought the rest of their homework, and we settled into the chairs in the back.

AS FOR THE PRODUCTION--oh, my. How I wish I could describe the preliminaries to you. But I have no idea who reads this thing, and I am quite certain that were I to accurately describe the general tenor of the ongoings, and the earnest exaggerated melodramatic sibilant lisping of the Theatre Person in Charge, who knows Theatre, and is A Theatre Person, and is Very Theatrical, well, if I described it fully I would be accused either of libel or stereotyping of the most odious sort. But do you remember a while back when I wrote my spoof of such folks when I “interviewed” Cay Wooshley at Weevil State University? Well, it was a lot like that. A whole lot.

Interesting things I learned from the evening? Well, we were told that--not to insult anyone’s intelligence, mind you--that Louisa May Alcott’s work was intended to be dramatic, not a showy, splashy thing. That it occurred during the Civil War, which was in 1963. That it is a reflection of the mores (pronounced “mors”) of the time. That everyone in the play is very aristocratic. Especially the men, who were reassured over and over that they would NOT be required to play fops. Only aristocrats. Also, a lilting Irish brogue was demonstrated for the girl who would play Hannah, and it came out sounding like Truman Capote attempting to imitate the Swedish Chef Muppet.

But, Oldest did get a call-back for tonight, so things look promising for much mirth in the coming months as I attempt not to damage anyone with my impertinence.

AND SO, that now wraps us up for the weekend, AND BEYOND!

Now if stupid Blogger will only work right--keep your fingers crossed…

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