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.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The Play--Epilogue

As I related yesterday, Oldest's most recent theater excursion was cut short by a the sudden onset of hissy-fit-itis by the erstwhile director, who cancelled the show and walked out of the building Monday evening. With instructions to the players to stack their scripts on the table and a twittering admonition that he might call them back if he could be persuaded to change his mind, he walked out, locked the door and drove away.

Being somewhat of the artsy-fartsy type myself, I understand all about pride and arrogance and being a prima donna and having high expectations of others. However, there is also something that trumps that; namely, having enough sense to understand your duty in providing some level of supervision to the persons entrusted to your care.

In other words, even though your dudgeon might have skyrocketed through the roof, you don't just run away and leave a kid behind, in the care of other, slightly older, kids. Now, it's not like our little burg is so dangerous--it's a civilized sort of place, and she would have been just fine even if she had walked the couple of miles all the way home.

There is, however, the principle of the thing.

It is no small good fortune that there were still two of the young people of the cast who agreed to stay with Ashley until I arrived, being that she had to rely on me to pick her up.

Given the situation, for once Oldest and I agreed on something; namely that no callbacks would be accepted. Life is much too short to place yourself voluntarily in the thrall of such silliness. And she does have a lot of schoolwork that has to be done, regardless of what sorts of extracurricular things she might want to do. SO, she was actually a little relieved by the turn of events.

ANYway, got home yesterafternoon and saw the answering machine blinking. Pushed the button, and it was one of the cast members leaving a message for Oldest, an older lady who has some sort of pull with the theater and who was ever so sweetly saying she wanted Oldest to come to the theater at seven so they could discuss what to do.



My finger slipped and erased the message.

Such a pity.

Obviously, it wasn't the lady's fault about what happened, and she probably was embarrassed for the theater and was trying to see what could they do to make things work. But, call and talk to me. Give me some explanation about what's going on. Allow me to tell my daughter and make a decision. Yes, it's all about me, because me is the parent, and me needs to know this stuff. And you need to hear the word "no," in no uncertain terms, from me.

I didn't even tell Ashley about the call.

Reba and the kids got home, I got supper started, got the last load of trip laundry in the washer, got the kids working on homework and baths, read the mail, supper on the plates, kids to the table, phone rings just as I'm about to sit down. ::sigh::

Telemarketers. Sorry if that's your chosen profession, but I don't like it when you call me, and I reserve the right to abuse you and hang up on you for tying up my telephone line.


"Could I speak to Ashley?"

I recognize the voice, and it's no telemarketer.

"May I ask who's calling, please?"

"Yes, this is Silly Pissant (not his real name)."

"I'm sorry, she can't come to the phone right now. Thank you!"

And I hung up the phone--as the handset made its way to the cradle, some sort of high pitched yammering was coming out of the ear piece.

Squeal all you want, Junior. But find yourself another Meg. And maybe it's time to grow up a bit.

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