Sundry Goings On

What new excitements have I to share today, you ask? Prepare yourself - the thrills may very well prove overpowering...

First of all, it is summer. It is hot. Currently, the temperature hovers at ninety-seven degrees in my corner of Minnesota, but it feels like ninety-nine (all this is courtesy of the lovely and talented weather.com). In case the Fahrenheit measurements confuse you, let me assert, once again, that this is hot. This afternoon, the oppressive heat made it possible for me to experience my first brownout. Just when I finished eating my lovely lunch of turkey and cheese on Kavli, all the lights in the house flickered and died. I looked into the living room at Ian, who was draped across the couch, feet hanging off the end rather forlornly. "What's all this?" I inquired, perplexed at the lack of power but corresponding lack of the severe weather that would normally be the culprit.

"It's a brownout," my oh-so-knowledgeable brother replied. "They happen when people use too much power, like when lots of air conditioners are on. People in California and Texas get them all the time."

Just then, Annie came frolicking in from next door. "Is your power out too?" she asked. "My mom told me to come and check."

"Brownout," Ian crowed. I left him to his explanation, as work was long overdue. As I walked out the front door, I heard a belated, "Hurry up, you're letting all the cold air out!" No air conditioning during brownouts, apparently.

I managed to trek the two blocks to the office without causing my blood to boil or any such thing, and walked in to find my mum, who plays receptionist every Tuesday and Thursday, sitting in the dark at a dead computer listening to the beeping of some sort of advanced surge protector. "I was wondering whether you would have power up here," I intelligently commented.

"I want the computer to turn back on. I was playing Spider."

Fortunately for everyone involved, the power was restored after about twenty-five minutes. The internet didn't work for another twenty minutes, though, which was pure torment. So that's today's top story; with luck, it will make tomorrow's New Ulm Journal. Fingers crossed...

In other news, I am in a musical. This musical. (An admirable sentiment, as I'm sure some will agree.) "But Emily," you may ask, "when did you have a chance to audition for the Sleepy Eye Community Theatre production? I am well aware that you were not even in town to try out." Well, your suppositions are correct, you clever person, you. I didn't so much audition for the show. Or, if you prefer, I auditioned, if by "auditioned" you mean "was recruited". The female ensemble was apparently lacking in numbers, so much so as to be almost nonexistent, and after a few sessions of persuasion the old "lend a hand" attitude took over. That thing is going to get me in trouble one of these days.

The ladies only end up singing in two songs, which is fine with me since I'm not exactly cut out to be a belter of show tunes. (I'm not so much a belter of anything, actually, as I don't think belting Renaissance music is quite appropriate.) And make no mistake, we're not the most melodious group on the planet. I mean, we're no Jeff Grossman Festival Singers. (As a side note, when are we going to have the Jeff Grossman Festival? And what would go on at the Jeff Grossman Festival? I envision singing and dancing and much merriment tinged with bitterness. If someone will volunteer to chair the festival committee, I bet we can have the event up and running in a couple of months.) So you'd think that the whole theatrical experience would be rather tame in terms of time demand, right? That's what I thought too. We're really on the same wavelength, you and I.

But, silly us, we've forgotten about the dance numbers. The musical's director is a Las Vegas teacher and choreographer during the school year, and he's heavily emphasizing the dance aspect of the show. This means endless hours of entertainment, as I watch Ian, Tom, and various other menfolk ranging in age from eighteen to fifty-six learn how to tap dance (step shuffle step shuffle step step step). It also, however, means endless hours of exhaustion, as I by turns fling myself about the stage and am flung about the stage. So far I've learned parts of four numbers, two of which include lifts. I have developed a set of bruises from each lift, all on my right leg. (Now I will detail them, since I know that it's exceedingly interesting.) The first set is a combination broken blood vessel and regular bruise on the inside of my right knee. The cause: lift number one, wherein I drape my right knee over my partner's left shoulder and snap my left leg up against his body and clutch his hands trying not to unceremoniously fall (today we ran into another couple and started laughing, and it was all over) as he spins us around. The second set is a nice little duo of pale bruises about halfway up my right thigh. The cause: lift number two, wherein a pharmacist (not that that's essential for the lift, but I thought it would be a noteworthy detail) grabs my left underarm and right inner thigh, dead lifts, and spins around while I daintily point my toes, left leg straight, right leg bent (today he left before that song, so I contented myself with hopping about in a circle, executing a vague semblance of the proper position).

Moving right along from that fascinating story, yesterday I walked past the lawn that was vigilantily mowed, and, lo and behold, it was undergoing another trim. This time, the mower (machine) was your average upright push mower, and the mower (person performing the act of mowing) was your average middle-aged fellow. Looks like the vigilante theory might be true after all! Too bad that the mysterious mowing woman didn't cruise on by our house today; she would have prevented Ian from jamming our mower whilst chopping down the Serengeti that was our lawn.

And that, I think, is all for now. Saturday is my five-year high school reunion; if it's more fun than a barrel of monkeys, I'll be sure to chronicle it herein. (Admittedly, if the fun it provides proves to be less than or equal to that offered by a barrel of monkeys, I will most likely chronicle it herein anyway.) Plus, keep your eyes out in the near future for an enumerated listing of all new dance-related bruises. I think I see three more finger-marks on my left leg from when lift number two went horribly awry yesterday...