Yesterday evening, my mom and I went camping with my brothers, my dad, and 150-odd boy scouts in the FREEZING cold.
30 degree weather, and get this: no campfires. None. Not allowed. Please just shoot me.
Camporees are always, always, ALWAYS orginazational disasters, but this--Please, people. NO CAMPFIRES?? GOD.

I was in shock all day.

Campfires are social experiences. You have not camped until you have sung American Pie around a campfire with fifty or so boys and their dads.

A campfire is where you go in the morning. You get nice and warm after being cold all night long. You toast some bread on a stick, and by the time you get back to your tent, the Alpha adult has made hot cocoa and eggs and you're all set.

A campfire is where you go for lunch. All the pyromaniacs gather around the smouldering remains of the breakfst fire and try to rekindle it during their free time, with moderate success: they use more than three matches, but it's big enough to satisfy their heat lust. Note: These guys mean well, but they like to kid around and insult you. They like to practice knot-tying in your hair. They like to set fire to your knitting. DO NOT TOUCH THEIR FIRES, OR EVEN LOOK AT THEM FUNNY. You will be immediately escorted from the premises, which is probably a good thing.

A campfire is where you go at the end of the day. You start to gather around during dinner, scrounging Hotdogs off your favorite families. You're there while everyone gets into their Class A's for flag lowering, and you get the best spot right before they all come flooding back for S'mores and singing. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, Down By the Bay, Sweet Home Alabama, There Is a Bad Moon on the Rise, Help, Margarita Ville, all these have an equal place around a campfire. All you need is a guitar and someone who can play, and you're in business.

But take away the campfire and DISASTER.

We were sitting around a turkey roaster at 40 degrees, in our tents at 38, and in each other's tents at 32.
Reduced to a turkey roaster.
Unbeleiveable.

And you know that the only reason I even go camping is because I love my guys. I do. I love them. Really. That is why I sat shivering in my jeans, jacket, and sleeping bag trying to sleep last night on the rocky ground.

And when I got up, it was still freezing.

I went from Pack 500's campsite to Troop 5's (or, from my little-little brother's to my big-little brother's) to congratulate my absolute favorite Boyscout on getting tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, and to possibly find some deserving boys to keep me warm (wishful thinking--there are none, at least, that's what dad thinks.)
Someone needs to cut that grass; I walked across the field and soaked my shoes, socks, and jeans (only nine inches or so, so that's okay).

No campfires. GOD.

The organizers are obviously either really, really dumb, or cruel, sadistic fiends who are trying to kill me.

This article sums up all the weather we have had lately in my part of the world:

And the Forecast is...
By Michael Rubiner
New York Times, August 5, 2003

Wednesday: Rain. Heavy at times. Folowed by periods of percipitation.

Thursday: Lingering showers throught the day. Chance of rain 800%.

Friday: Moist. Damp. Sodden.

Saturday: Rainish. Shower. Precipitacious.

Sunday: Light rain followed by heavy rain followed by pouring.

Monday: Unseasonably rainy in the afternoon. Uncharitably rainy in the Afternoon. Unconsiably rainy in the evening.

Tuesday: Endless showers broken by occasional flooding.

Wednesday: Remember "Water World"? Like that, only with more rain.

Tuesday: Not sunny. The opposite of sunny. Just forget about sunny, okay??

Friday: Clearing just long enough for you to make weekend plans. Followed by obscene amounts of rain.

Saturday: Take a wild guess.

Sunday: Incessent, spirit-crushing rain. The kind of rain that makes it futile to get out of bed in the morning. The kind of rain that seems as though it will never end. And guess what? It never will. Ever. Do you understand?

Monday: Please go away.

Tuesday: Ample, brilliant sunshine throught the day--Wait, did i say sunshine? I meant rain. Really hard rain.

I feel like I live in flipping Seattle!

...AND I SHALL POST!

Wow, nothing has been hapening. Seriously. Unless you count five Oliver rehearsals a week. This play is taking over my life. I am going to be burried under a pile of choreographers and costumes and scripts and scores and pianists and directors and generally everything that happens to fall on me.
Oh, and I just found out that one of my friends is moving to WISCONSIN.
Why?
His dad got a job there. God. What's so great about Wisconsin, anyway? I mean, no offense to all the Wisconsiners out there, but I prefer here, right? I'm sure you guys say the same kinds of things about North Carolinians. But really, all that's in Wisconsin is cheese and some seriously frigid weather. Why would they leave me to go to Wisconsin? His mom hates being cold!

But anyway, that's pretty much what's new with me.
Yeah.
Life is good, except for a few little twists that aren't really supposed to be there.

What is it with people an giving out free candy?? You would think we got enough of it at Hallowe'en, but no. Parents who spend their spare time complaining about how obese society is getting fill their kid's baskets once again to mark the rising of Jesus. Can't we find a better way to do that than hunting for plastic eggs filled with enough sugar, hydroginated oils, preservatives, dyes and artificial flavorings to kill off our entire nation? But no.
The definition of tradition: It was like that last year. Complete with clogged arteries.

For mainstream America, Easter is like a christian Hallowe'en, complete with dressing up and baskets of candy. The only real difference is, Easter is pastel, and christians don't beleive that you go to hell for celebrating it. Depressing.
Candy is candy is candy, right? It doesn't matter if it's sold in orange and black and purple, or if it's sold with little pink bunnies all over it. IT'S STILL SUGAR, PEOPLE!! Guess what? It doesn't matter! Easter candy kills you as fast as Hallowe'en candy. Really. Pastel bunnies not withstanding.

Happy Easter, by the way!
(Had to end on a cheery note)

Why is it never easy to get to a foriegn country? Could someone please explain that to me? And why do all of those trip-counselor ladies sound so premenstural when they tell you something's wrong? Do they get paid to be nasty? No (well, maybe). Do they get paid to help us? No. Do they get paid to help the airline fill seats? Bingo.
Bunch of jerks.
I mean, God forbid that it should be easy for me to get to Austria with my choir, mother, grandmother and brother, and then go back with just my mother, grandmother and brother. Ohh, no. Easy is not allowed. That model is SO outdated. No.
Expensive is allowed.
Difficult is allowed.
Complicated? We got that one covered.

Yeah.

Okay, done venting. Have a nice day, please come next time!

Well, let's just say that the first Oliver music rehearsal was...It made me apreciate my director and my accompanist. Choir is so much easier when you have a director who knows what they're doing, and an accompanist who can PLAY THE FLIPPING PIANO.
DP and Ferny, if you ever read this...I love you guys. You are awesome. And why? BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING, FOR PETE'S SAKE!!!
Now, our music director, let's call him Joey, is great. He has a marvelous tennor voice. He is very patient and understanding. He also has whopping zero experience with directing, and totally can not control a crowd. He also has some continuity issues. For instance, he sings a note, and then has us come up three steps above. Why not just give us the stupid note?!!? PLEASE. I BEG you. We need someone who can play at least chords. Just chords. We can get by from there.

Well, I finally got my bio up on the Road Less Traveled web site (www.roadlesstraveledtheatre.com).
For those of you who have not kept up with my exploits into the world of theatre, the Road Less Traveled is a theatre company that is setting up a branch where I live. And we are very excited. Verrrrrrrrrry excited. Oh, yes, we are.
Oliver is going brilliantly, by the way. No body is completely off-book yet, but dad and my brother are the closest.
I don't know why, but I am very happy today. Maybe because it's Saurday.
Happy Saturday, people!

Life+Mine+Now(2)=BORING. And I think I speak for all who have something to look forward to, but also have a great big patch of NOTHING on their social callendar between imminent Joy and/or intrigue, and now.
One of my friends is turning Sixteen. SIX. TEEN. Only two more years till college SIXTEEN. Driving after 9:00 legally SIXTEEN. Becoming even more adolecent than she already is SIXTEEN.
And I only have untill Sunday to get used to it.
Why do people insist upon growing up?? It's outrageous. Really. They should have been brought up beter or something.
Have the common courtesy to let us get used to it at least, for Petes sake!

Well, Oliver is shaping up to be the most disturbingly incestual production out of West Virginia. Seriously:
I am Charlotte. Noah, the guy I am supposed to be flirting outrageously with, is played by my brother.
Bill Sykes and Nancy are siblings offset.
In the Oom-pah-pah bar scene, my dad is squashed between me and a sixteen-year-old Bet, who is flirting up storm (WITH MY DAD), my mom is right in front of us being Old Sally, and I can't remember the lyrics to the song but I can remember how to spell incest. Insest. Inceste. Whatever.
I can also spell disturbing...
But no! I am an actress! I am lots of different people! I will rise above it!

Unfortunately, the newlyweds have split. We are all heartbroken, but so glad to have our respective Cult Followings back!
It would never have worked out, anyway. We're all much happier now. Really. I prefer Mugglenet.com and Mugglecom.net to any Leakymug.
We're still just as delusional as before!

I must congratulate Mr. Emerson Spartz-Anelli (formerly Mr. Emerson Spartz of Mugglenet.com) and Mrs. Melissa Anelli-Spartz (formerly Melissa Anelli of Leakynews.com) on their marrige and the union of their Harry Potter websites. Together, they are a perfect couple, and their new super-site, www.leakymug.com, is a fabulous contribution to the world of Harry Potter.
Congratulations, Memerson! The shippers are happy at last, and I know you will be, too.

Five gallons of Coconut Oil. Five GALLONS of VIRGIN COCONUT OIL. FIVE GALLONS. Virgin. Coconut. Oil. Oganic. Coconut. Oil.
I am in shock, but I shouldn't be. I mean, after the cheese, I should be prepared for anything, right? Five gallons of Organic virgin Coconut oil can't compare to ten pounds of organic unpasturized cheese from grass-fed cows, right?
But I am amazed. We use a lot of coconut oil, but we've never had FIVE GALLONS AT ONE TIME. We usually just buy it in smaller plastic jars, even though plastic is evil and we're trying not to use it.
Five gallons. I've finally seen it all.