The Monday Mean

I'm grumpy.

If this post had a subtitle, it would be "I Hate the Night Life." We went out Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. I'm feeling exhausted and curmudgeonly.

Here's another subtitle: "Too Much Music!" On Friday night it was the opera, on Saturday and Sunday I spent hours rehearsing and singing, and on Sunday night it was a Music of the Baroque Mozart fest.

Thank God, just like everyone else, Mozart can only have one 250th birthday. On December 31st I'm going to shout "Happy New Year!" and immediately sign the official document declaring a Mozart moratorium for the indefinite future. I might make an exception for an opera or a piano concerto, but this twiddly-pooping "Divertimento" crap needs to head back to the back burner where it belongs.

I say we wait until he turns 300 before indulging in another world-wide all-Mozart, all-the-time Marathon. At that point I expect to be dead, which will mean one less elderly curmudgeon grousing that the program print is too small, leaving her walker where people will fall over it, and falling asleep during the concert.

All that by way of saying, holy shit, the audience last night was OLD. I'm not claiming that my hair is naturally its current color, but if I stopped dyeing it, at least it wouldn't be white. Last night it didn't look like a concert so much as a convention of Snowy Owls.

Not that I have anything against old people. Not at all. I hope to become old myself, at some point in the very distant future. But last night looked like a Rolling Stones concert, circa 2020.

To increase my grumpification (no, Blogger, you're right; that's not a word. Bite me) the laundry situation around here is dire. I'm doing two loads a day--wash, dry, fold, put away--and then it will occur to me--what about the sheets?

I'm thinking of making everyone sleep in sleeping bags.

In a tent in the back yard.

(If they shower outside and dry off by rolling in the grass, I won't have to deal with the towel situation, either.)