As Badger tends to say, oh dudes. DUDES.
Remember how just yesterday I was bragging about how I don't complain all that much? That sound you hear is me eating crow, nom nom nom.
And now, please give me a chance to complain about my day.
First of all, my husband left this morning for D.C., so he's out of town. Again. This is bad enough--I mean, I've reached the point where I forget his name--but it also means he'll miss our son's eighth grade graduation.
On the face of it, it doesn't seem like all that big of a deal, right? I mean, it's eighth grade. He's not getting a terminal degree. In fact, he's not even getting a diploma.
But the thing is, this town takes its graduations seriously. The kids have been rehearsing all week. I have no idea what they'll be doing ... I'm imagining a big production number like the Oscars that time Rob Lowe sang with Snow White.
They have to wear special outfits. The girls wear white dresses; the boys wear white pants (not jeans or painters pants or cargos--but chinos are OK) a navy blazer, a blue oxford cloth shirt, and the special class tie, which this year is green and navy stripes.
After the graduation ceremony is over, they head to the blacktop behind the school for the graduation parade, in which the kids ride around town in the back of a convertible.
To ensure an adequate supply of convertibles, an email is sent out asking everyone to inform the graduation committee the make and model of their convertibles. (Oh gee, we don't have a convertible. No wonder no one likes us!) People who already own convertibles (BMWs, classic Mustangs) have been known to rent Bentleys for the occasion.
The families with graduates have decked their houses with huge commercially-produced signs congratulating their kids. If you don't live on the parade route, you ask to use someone else's house for the parade. One of my fellow Girl Scout leaders is going to have her beautiful house and yard defaced with the signs I spent all day Monday ordering over the internet. Yes, she is actually allowing those tacky Buxoms onto her property, where they will yell their heads off and lower her property values.
That, people, is friendship for you.
After the parade, there's a dinner dance. For the kids. No grown-ups, unless they're chaperones.
So the past week and a half have been spent acquiring the clothes and the signs and the clamps and bungee cords to hang the signs with. And then hanging signs.
But on top of that, I've been busy in my own right. Because believe it or not, life trundles along even if your child is about to graduate from eighth grade. I had a couple of performances--one yesterday, one this evening. Then there's been the driving the child back and forth to various parties, because my son's social life is as over the top as you'd think, considering that people around here are willing to rent Bentley convertibles when they have a perfectly good Jaguar at home in the garage. (And no, I'm not kidding.)
Then today we drug home my son's new cello, which I'm going to call a graduation present because it cost either the price of a used convertible or a day's rental of a new Bentley, I'm not sure which.
In short, it's been crazy around here lately.
And that, internet friends, is why you're getting the thousand words today. Pictures tomorrow.
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