Yesterday was Sophia's birthday party. She had been working on it for weeks. She decided she wanted to throw a theater party. She had scripts printed out, props ready, costumes lined up, music, the whole ball of wax.
The spouse worked with her on the production. My husband has some theater training and actually is quite a good amateur actor, so his involvement was inevitable. So picture this: you're out at the party store buying pink paper plates and a paper tablecloth, and you call home to see how things are going. And the spouse says, "We're blocking scenes right now."
I'm not sure what "blocking" means in this case but it sounded ominous. "Um, Rich," I said, "You do know what's going to happen tomorrow."
"Of course. We're putting on a play, it's going to be great."
"Rich. A bunch of little girls are going to play dress-up and eat ice cream."
"No no. This is acting. I'll talk to you later."
So yesterday eighteen little girls gave us the 15-minute version of "Enchanted" on our sunporch. There were several big dance scenes, the dragon was slain, the princess got married. The play ended with everyone getting a piece of ice cream cake. I'm telling you, it was better than Broadway. And a lot cheaper. You just can't top that.