Don't it Make her Brown Eyes Pink, and other fine whines

On Friday my daughter got conjunctivitis. And was quarantined by the school nurse. Yes, quarantined. Holy shit, I felt like the people in a plague ship in an Audrey Maturin novel. These neighbors of ours came by yesterday to talk to us about some voting matter or other, and I couldn't let them into the house because girlie was still in her pajamas because she's sick, and as far as she's concerned, that means she doesn't have to get dressed. And frankly, I didn't feel like letting the whole world know that I let my daughter romp around in her pajamas for three straight days.

Even though I just told the whole internet.

Speaking of Aubrey Maturin novels, which I wasn't, but bear with me, I have a ton of horrible volunteer shit to do today. A fucking ton. (Notice how I'm swearing a whole fuckload? Yeah, that's just one of the symptoms that I have way TOO MUCH VOLUNTEER SHIT to do.)

But instead of preparing the little "How to Handle the American Flag" packets I need to make for the Girl Scouts meeting I'm running this afternoon, I'm noodling around on the internet, adding lots of books to my new account on LibraryThing, a "social networking" i.e., "I have more books than you" web site. (See, I did eventually get around to the novels I like to read, which includes Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey Maturin series, all 21 of which I own. In hardcover.)

I really have no business belonging to a site like LibraryThing, because why on earth would any sensible human being want the whole world to know that--fancy degrees in English Literature notwithstanding--she is apparently mindlessly accumulating every single book ever published that is 1. funny, and/or 2. G-rated.

I.e., I am a total fucking pottymouth, but my books? Are as blameless and pure as the driven snow.

Which, by the way, is piling up out there.

Oh well. Time to go deal with the fucking volunteer shit, she said, kicking aside yet another pile of P. G. Wodehouse books.

Because the entire state of Illinois will be watching the Super Bowl

Except me.

Well, me, and a few other church choir weirdos, and a couple of homeless people sitting in the pews.

Because instead of sitting around drinking and watching Prince, (who is only my tiny little sexy badass guitar playing boyfriend, that's all--and has been since before I saw Purple Rain--more than once, I might add--back when it was playing in movie theaters) and all the new, high-budget television ads (including the one with Kevin Federline as a fast food worker, which I very justifiably made fun of in a recent Mamarazzi entry) and oh, yeah, a football game, I and my musical colleagues will be singing an Evensong service.

With our classically-trained voices.

It will be lovely. And no one will care. Not even us.

And so, in honor of classical music singers everywhere, I bring you Bryan Griffin (dressed as Ivan from the Lyric Opera of Chicago's recent production of Die Fledermaus) singing "Bear Down, Chicago Bears."



Go Bears!