Thissy, Thatty, and Pearl Harbor

Sunny weather, but it was cold.  Worked on my acting class material and dealt with the great Sheila/Linda problem.
To wit: See yesterday's entry for intro.  I wrote back to Sheila, asking if she would mind if I got in touch with Linda to find out if she still wanted to do the play. Called her and Linda was furious that Sheila had told me they had a falling out; called her an idiot; said, of course, she'd still perform the role.  I reminded her that the two in the play are supposed to be loving friends; yes, she knows that.  Anyway, they're both pains in the butt and I'm annoyed that I have to deal with Kindergarten-level crap like this.
Brother Larry called and we had a good talk.  I had sent him a small notebook of our father's and he found a letter in it from 1940 or so.  I asked him to scan it and send to me.
I had intended to go with my friend and her husband to hear his brother sing with the Gay Men's Chorus at their Christmas concert. Unfortunately, friend called and she had been sick to her stomach all night, so wasn't going.  She said I could go with her husband, but I decided to just skip it myself.  I had planned to stay over with them and I didn't want to put her to that trouble.
Went to Shop-Rite for thissy and thatty.  I'm still kind of at loose ends--I keep thinking I should do things, then I don't bother.  I'm just in a slump, I guess, and I know it will pass.
What's helping bring me out of it are new videos of Mr. K., that little dynamo from the far east. Added to that happy happening was a call from darling daughter, Ellen.  She was in Ojai with her fiancee, celebrating his birthday.
WIDER:  I think it's fabulous that she was born on September 11--the most recent, hysterically hyped, "never forget" day according to the advertising hacks--and he on December 7.  That was Pearl Harbor Day, formerly regarded--by Americans--as a day that will "live in infamy," to quote FDR.  Of course, the days we invaded Iraq, extended to Afghanistan, or for that matter, slaughtered native Americans at Little Big Horn, are buried in the detritus of "our history, not yours."