So. I spent half of first block running between guidance, the math wing, the music wing, and the second floor office, the telltale yellow class-change slip in hand. Nosy Helga tried to snatch it and read the details for herself; I didn't let her, but word got out anyway. In explaining myself to the history prof, I somehow gave the impression that I was getting out of math rather than pinning myself into it. Later, I was questioned by those who had happened to overhear, etc, and had to clarify. A couple orch rats are rather annoyed with me at present, for not being more mathematically inclined.

The orch prof was tuning her freshmen when I blundered into the room (well, not tuning the freshmen...). She set down the chipped viola she'd been twisting and headed over to me, appearing fairly amiable.

"Don't tell me," she said, grinning. "You need more candy, right?" (I have a small reputation with orch fund raisers, one of which is currently in progress)

To this, I shook my head and managed to mutter, "I have to drop orchestra."

She gave an exaggerated double take. I found myself unable to mutter anything else, and rather desperately thrust the yellow form at her. She skimmed it, expressed disapproval but understanding, and signed the necessary line because, she said, she saw the diploma delimma, not because she condoned my fleeing the orchestra. She asked for the details, and I told them to her. At one point, I reached up to scratch an itch under my eye. Probably, she thought I was wiping away a tear. My wonderful congestion didn't do anything to alleviate the seemingly effortless "spineless" appearance.

And now I'm whining about inherent tendencies, of all things. Heavens, Ivy, get over it. There are plenty more interesting things to whinge about.

The orch prof is a nice one but an odd one, and she operates under the belief that I'm a mouse-shy, overly-sensitive perfectionist. Granted, its an easy assumption to make, as far as orch goes, seeing as I'm about the lousiest soloist in the world. Stick me in an ensemble, an orchestra, or just alone in a corner, and I'm perfectly fine. Stick me alone in front of an audience, even if only the rest of the class during a playing test, and terrible things happen. That is, I forget how to count, suspect sharps of being flats, invent new keys, play everything disgustingly fast, and then become extremely vibrato-happy in an effort to compensate for my haste. Whenever there's the option of playing test material on a tape rather than in class, I gratefully take it. Sadly, there hasn't been much of that this year. The prof, for her part, mistakes my agitation for said mousiness and fear of less-than-perfection, and has more than once expressed sympathy. This time around, at least, her preconceptions were a bit advantageous. Resolutions, to make a boring story concise, were made, and are as follows.

I never eat lunch and the prof knows it. Last year, I took to barricading myself in one of the tiny offstage rooms during my lunch blocks and sawing away at Renee until the bell rang. Chances are, I'll be taking that up again, regularly. Katie and Fleur have already offered to let me copy their music. I'm still down for Maastricht, and the orch prof, as far as I know, isn't going to pull me off the list. Still, I won't be in the concerts anymore, and I'll miss the traditional zany good-bye the senior orch rats always give at the final concert. It bothers me that I won't be able to participate, but its only due to my own lack of algebraic knowledge that I'm in such a situation to begin with, and I'm in no position to appeal for more clemency than I've already been given. If I survive math, maybe it'll be worth it. I'm not above getting reminiscent over things that haven't happened yet.

In other news, rehearsals for all the one acts are taking place simultaneously. None today, thankfully, as I was told by Reyu, Gibbs, Josh, and 'Kenzie, a techie who plays every sport under the sun and still refers to rehearsal as "practice." Reyu (who has also joined the livejournal dramamates) and the other student directors are looking into getting extensions on their performance dates, as the drama prof hasn't provided very much preparation time. Hopefully, they'll get what they want... For my part, I'm still concentrating on playing a cynical secretary (in Reyu's play) and a time-traveling Shakespearian witch with the mind of a rhinoceros and the looks of a recently deflowered, stable-loft dwelling Renaissance barmaid. And, due to unofficial prop duty, I have to find a way to lug a foosball table to the school. Such is drama.

It snowed today, for a little while, during Trig, my only class that takes place in a room with a window. Nothing stuck, but it was a pleasant diversion and it means the groundhog might actually be right this year. Nice, that, the end-of-January warmth was rather bothersome. Currently, the wind's roaring and dead leaves are flying Pocahontas-style into the air. I went for a walk, coatless, because I'm like that, lost all feeling in my hands and feet, was content, then came home, fell asleep, and had a dream I suspect involved hobbits. (Today's Comma Appreciation Day, didn't you know?)

Speaking of hobbits, I've finally started rereading the trilogy. Yesterday, the little Gorgon popped out of nowhere and, adopting a Scottish accent for no apparant reason, asked if I wanted breakfast. It was four in the afternoon. I rolled my eyes, or gave some sisterly expression of exasperation, and declined.

"Ah," he persisted, "what about second breakfast?"

I think it was at that point that I opted for the blank stare reaction, whereupon the brat looked over his shoulder at an invisible companion and declared, "I don't think she knows about second breakfast."

Imagine that. In fact, I don't know about second breakfast, though I suspect this is hobbit-related as well. I snatched up The Fellowship a little later and proceeded to immerse myself in hobbitness. Go, bandwagon, go. Next step, the movie.

There's also that obscene science project I and, I suspect, my dedicated group members, have been casually putting off. But that, children, is another story and shall be told another time.

I'll lay off on the tangents tomorrow, really...

Adieu.