Chopped Liver

Every once in a while, when I am at choir and all the alto parts are aligned just right, a little bit of savant escapes from my pores.

I am told it usually happens when my blonde hair grows out so that there are a few inches of good brunette roots to give me a dollop of good sense. 

Tonight it was when Betty Cecil and I were getting our dander up, on the brink of having a conniption fit over our choir routine being callously upsot. (For those who don't visit here regularly, Betty and I are joined at the hip, have been since 1998 when I joined the choir. If B and I had a company, it would be called Silly, Inc.  We have made bucket signs inside all the music we want sung at our memorial, knowing full well it would take our choir a good three weeks to sing them all; we mark our anthems up with corny jokes...oh, it's more fun than just about anything that doesn't involve Scotch).  

Anyway, Betty made a remark about the fact that she had been shut out, musical chaired if you will, out of her usual seat.  We arrived just a minute too late, apparently, and so we were both in a dither, unnerved to walk into the chancel and see that we had squatters - two retired music teachers, no less -- sitting in our usual seats.  Surely signs of the apocalypse, they'd gotten there early - who would've ever thunk THAT would happen?  Usually - no, always, Betty sits next to me, and I sit next to the piano, (aka Michael Rintamaa's Steinway), on the middle row, safely ensconced and nestled between the tenors and sopranos.  

So Betty said, "What am I, chopped liver?" ... and I said, "Aww, if you're chopped liver, can I be paté?"  

Oh well, it was funny at the time...guess you had to be there.  

The alto section thought it was hilarious, anyway.

Have a great Friday, lambchops :)