Defeated by technology�again!
7:03 p.m.
Last night I aided my son in the lightening of his hair. Naturally a chestnut colour, as seen in the picture below taken last summer at a family wedding, 
we managed a respectable golden colour with the aid of a box of blonde hair dye. 
On top of this he smeared blue gel as today was carnival at his school. Hubby was a little concerned about driving across the border with him looking like this, but he still sufficiently resembles his passport photo, and besides, he�s 16! I�m sure the border guard has seen worse.
Hubby charged me with two tasks: a) to mail the CD he burned to his brother for his birthday next week, and b) to find the parts for a piece for soprano and string orchestra which he wrote in 1989 for soprano, SATB and strings, and which I premiered 8.5 months pregnant with the above-noted blue-gelled Buddy Boy. He wants his orchestra to play the solo movement at their spring concert with me reprising my role (not pregnant this time). The first job was easily done. But the second proved impossible. I can�t find those parts anywhere. So I thought, �What the hey, we�ve got them on the old computer. I�ll just reprint them.� Not so easily done. While I found them, I could not open them with the program that created them because apparently I had an illegal copy which required the key disk, which I don�t have! I could open them in another program, but I couldn�t print from that one. So I left a frantic message on Hubby�s office phone to this effect. He called me back, since he hadn�t left yet, and told me he had a copy of the program in question on his office computer.
So I loaded up a floppy disk (remember them) with the necessary files and headed off to his office (he was now long gone) thinking that I would practise before choir once I�d finished the printing job. I got there, fired up the computer and printer, opened my files and tried printing a page. I got machine code because the necessary PostScript� font wasn�t installed in his system. Argh!
At this point I met my daughter at the music department, stricken with a sore throat and fever, begging to be driven home. Defeated by technology, I took her back to the house where she promptly went to bed, I downloaded the font to the floppy, and then played solitaire on the computer until it was time to go back for choir. I�ll print the pages tomorrow.
There is a girl who has sat next to me in choir for the past couple of rehearsals who scoops. Every single note is preceeded by an upward rising portamento. I want to kill her.
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