Thursday, May 23, 2013

Stroppy Organist

A parishioner said my pile of organ music was "all stoury".  That's Scots for "dusty and tatty".  It isn't - it's just a pile of music that I had been playing recently.  So it was on the organ stool beside me.  Behind a screen so absolutely nobody could see it.  I should have it in a box, she said.  But I can SEE what's in a pile. It wouldn't be as easy if it was in a box.  (Anyway, the stuff I'm not playing is in librarianly apple-pie, alphabetical order, in a box.  So what's the problem?)

I am not pleased.  What's more important?  A decorative organist sitting silently on an empty organ stool, or a working organist doing her job to the best of her ability?


That music is there to be played
By an organist who is dismayed
That folk would deride her
For piling beside her
The scores that are tools of her trade.


I choose what to play from this pile
And yes, it will stay here a while
I dispute that it’s stoury –
I will NOT file like fury –
My music, my playing, my style.

Friday, May 17, 2013

A Week in the Life of PseudoSupermum!

This is how I visualise the  distribution of my time.  More impressive than the concept, however, is the fact that I MADE THE GRAPHIC, then Viola-Man used his newfound computer skills to get it out of Word and into a blogpost! 

Wednesday, May 08, 2013

PseudoSupermum Aspires to PseudoSuperwife

Neat seat for when we eat
In the past week, I've re-upholstered SuperSpouse's dining room chair, and made a new cushion cover for his computer chair.  The latter was a cushion we bought in Algonquin Park in 1990, and we've hung onto it for sentimental reasons - but when my patched repair was the strongest part of the cover, it was time to make a new one.  Sadly, we no longer have Algonquin loons - but both new covers MATCH THE CURTAINS in their respective rooms.  Kudos?  I should think so!

Sunday, May 05, 2013

Testosterone Towers - the Worm has Turned

I'm sure I'm not the only parent to react like this!

The Good Mother Teaches Social Conventions

Does any mother not beat herself up for not being good enough?

This afternoon, I'll yet again sit back and watch to see if my offspring have learned any of the lessons I've taught them about social niceties.  Like Sheldon Cooper's mum, I've tried to explain some of the "social conventions" around entertaining guests.
  • Don't embarrass your guest
  • Don't embarrass the hostess
  • Therefore ...
  • Don't bicker; and
  • Don't think of humiliating "funny anecdotes" to make both guest and hostess squirm.
I suppose you could sum it up with plain, "Be Nice".  A fellow librarian suggests that what I need is Miss Manners at my side.  She might be appalled, though.

Check back later to see if I had a pleasant afternoon or am anticipating a migraine-clouded evening ...

Saturday, May 04, 2013

What's in a Name?

What do nametags represent to you?  A mere mark of ownership?  

Think again.

When there are three boys in a house, sometimes you need to label things.  Like pants, socks and shirts.  And then when things are handed down, you need to keep track of who now wears it.  

You also need to assist the person who assists you with the laundry.  Enter the nametag game.  For 15 years or so, I've been sewing in nametags.  (The iron-on ones are never as good.)  Occasionally, I shirk my duty.  If pants say, "Age 13-14", then I reckon the average adult will know whose clothes basket the clean garments will get sorted into.

This is a Severe Neglect of Duty.  So, most of the time, I just knuckle under and sew in the bloody nametags - it's easier that way.

A year or two ago, one of the boys decided that labels were W-A-A-Y beneath his dignity, and started snipping out the labels, using the scissors that his school had required me to buy for his S1 needlework classes.  (A good reason for not teaching boys needlework, in retrospect!  They'll keep the scissors and put them to other uses.)

This left me with a problem, because a non-labelled sock is the sign of a neglectful parent.  (It is - please don't argue with me!)

Nonetheless, when we bought new socks today, I resignedly got my sewing box out.  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?", demanded my dearest, darling spouse.  Proudly, I showed him.  "Sewing in labels."  It was one of those unassailable statements that required no response.  I was fire-proof!

I tidied up the workbox, and put it away.  What did those nametags represent to me?  All the hours and hours I've spent over the years aspiring to be a Good Mother.  Good Mothers sew in nametags.  But the echoes of arguments those nametags provoked somehow also resonate in the wooden box.  No matter how hard she tries, a Good Mother never quite feels good enough.  Which is why this blog is called Pseudo Supermum!