The beet goes on . . .

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Warning: I have included a photo in this post which could very well horrify the faintest of hearts.
Unless you know what’s in the picture–or you know with a fair degree of certainty that I would never collect bloody eyeballs and lay them on the kitchen counter. (Pretend you’re a 7-year-old boy and it’s Halloween. Now they look like something horrible, hm?)
They are beets. As in “Have some beets, Horace, they’re good.”   ~grin~
This summer has been filled to the brim with memorizing, blocking, watching, singing, listening, rehearsing, laughing, remembering (okay–and one evening of weeping), and–eating beets.
Dolly invites Horace to eat beets more than once in one of my favorite scenes in the show.  (I’ve blotted the beets before each performance to keep the beet juice OFF of our fabulous costumes. As in no touchie.)
And it’s coming to an end.  We have a show tonight–and tomorrow night–and it’s over.
It has been a FaBuLoUs experience.  ~smile~  I was Dolly.  Well, I am Dolly–until tomorrow night. ~sigh~
That aside–please put your hands together and let’s welcome the newest member of our home.
It’s not this sign–the sign’s just a little, ol’ fabulous welcome sign. I made it. Last August. Using a headboard I found at a thrift store.  I should pin it, huh?  ~grin~ Wait until I show you what I did with the rest of the headboard.
No, seriously. Wait.

We need to get back to the newest member of our home.  I affectionately call him Patch Anti-expeditiously Jones. Hands together!

Ta-da!

Remember that one story of the insulation installation man-guy falling through our ceiling? Well–let it be known across the face of this land that the entrance has been closed.
It wasn’t a speedy-fasto kind of repair, but let’s not discuss it anymore, I have a performance to ready for.
But first, a poem.
On the stairs.
Setting up for repair.
As I pull my hair,
And stare.
And offer a prayer,
That this guy better not dare,
Fall.
I joyfully report that there was no falling during the repair.  Or painting.

While we’re on that subject, I must say one more thing.

May I tell you that I became a frantic inwardly squealing female as I realized that he was about to paint the CEILING (which is above the floor and the stairs and the carpet in our house) without a single, solitary drop cloth? I quickly tackled him, confined him to the stairs and proceeded to gather ample coverage: two tarps, one very old bedspread, two sheets, four towels, one bed cover, and tape.

No. I did not tackle him.

But he was confined to the stairs.

I just needed him to be careful about the painting of the ceiling AbOvE him. (And we had a short lesson on gravity.)

Which brings me to a rather delightful song about painting. 

My present dancing in the kitchen song.

Enjoy. ~grin~


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