When we reached the theater, we hustled in, only to be told that the seating for Lincoln was LOW. There it was, the word flashing intermittently with the time: 6:45, replaced by LOW. 6:45 LOW 6:45 LOW.
"When it says 'LOW,' what exactly does that mean?" the historian queried.
"Pretty much just the first row," the ticket counter woman said.
Nope. I will not be looking at the monumental head of Abraham Lincoln, in the grand personage of Daniel Day Lewis, from the front row. I, Lisa Bickmore, do not watch serious movies with gigantic heads in them from the front row.
So we headed home. On the way, I had a moment to ponder the better parts of our nature, I mean my day. Including this:
This week, my son has been looking for his immunization records, because the University of Reproach and Prohibition will not let him register unless he puts his immunization records on file. Yesterday, my son Facebook-messaged me this information:
Question: How long will I have to be held responsible for stuff like this? Also, is it crazy that I kind of feel like immunization records is a weird thing for a university to be demanding? (Oh, spare me your public health lecture. I know. I'm just saying GOSH is all.)
Important subtext and a continuation of our story: looking for anything in my study is a fool's errand. I began hallucinating about all the places I might have put his immunization record. I summoned up its very image in my mind. Then I thought about where it might be: stashed in between two books on my Shelves of Chaos? In some secret file in my Filing Cabinet of Chaos? Perhaps I moved it from my study into my bedroom? And stashed it in between two books on my Auxiliary Shelves of Chaos?
This sort of search leads to a line of thinking that inevitably spirals downward, until I am castigating myself for all my moral failings. All of them. The Several Moral Failings of HTMS, or perhaps The Myriad Moral &c &c until I am ready to cry or huff around or cry and huff around or just quietly, softly scream.
And then I went to bed, where kept on hallucinating/summoning up the very image &c/dreaming about the Lost Record of the Immunizations of Son. There may have been Book of Mormon characters in there, I can't say that there weren't.
This morning, when I awoke bleary-eyed and self-reproaching, my son came up and said, "Would this be the thing they'd be looking for?" The thing in his hand was the immunization record.
I said, calmly as all hell, "I think it is."
"I thought so," he said. He thought for a moment, and said, "I guess you gave it to me to keep."
"Huh," I said.
Immunization Record Finding WIN.