Wednesday, June 03, 2009

A word is worth one-thousandth of a picture

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.


  1. DUDE. TELL ME ABOUT IT. Did I mention the THREE graduation parties? For FIFTH GRADE graduation? And we have eighth grade next year (for the boy, natch). Fortunately, we don't live in a Rich People neighborhood so there's no convertible parade as far as I know, but things could change between now and then.

    And people wonder why we drink.

  2. I know! And to top it off, I'm back on the South Beach Diet, so no booze.


    I bet I wake up tomorrow morning with my arms chewed off from a combination of frustration and hunger.

  3. I have sooo been there.

    Back home, 8th grade is most people's senior year. We ride around in the back of pickup trucks, sitting on bales of hay and waving madly at the passers by who blow their horns to the tune of dixie.

    I heard that the 8th grade queen this year had a pretty hard time covering her pregnant belly. Fortunately, her daddy let her borrow his Marlboro tank top so she wouldn't get that belly burnt again.

  4. Oh my gosh! That is so funny! I am so thankful that I live in the mountains where convertibles can onlybe used 3 months of the year!

  5. I didn't have a headache when I started reading your blog today. Now, I have a headache.

    Although my kids are in 7th and 9th grades and are not graduating, they have to go to the graduation of others. Nobody seems to be able to tell me exactly when the little darlings are supposed to be dropped off or picked up. And of course they both can't be dropped off or picked up at the same time.

    It's been a long week.

  6. That's a lot of hoopla for 8th grade. I'm glad I live in a teeny town where 8th grade doesn't even get a graduation and even the high school grad isn't that big of a production. (We balance that out by having the actual graduation held at Mt. Rushmore.)

    I'd have a drink for you, but alas being knocked up that's probably not gonna happen.

  7. Holy Shit, Ms. Buhk-suhm.

    Y'know, I'll lend you my convertible if you'd like. Oh, wait. It's not a convertible, it's just missing the front quarterpanel. And it's at the collision place.

    Never mind.

  8. You left out the part about the Bentley renter plastering signs on every block of the whole frigging village congratulating her daughter for graduating.

    Most over the taop behavior ever seen in this village.


  9. I'm sorry. Did you say no booze? That's just wrong. Don't they have Pina Coladas on South Beach? If not, I'd find another beach to diet on.

  10. OMG where the heck do you live?! All this for 8th grade?

    My town obviously sucked. I think they gave us an assembly and then everyone got a certificate they printed off that the office secretary signed.

    There wasn't even cake.

  11. Congratulations to the Buxom grad!

    But, what the heck do they do when they graduate high school - rent limos??

    Oh, yeah, right, for the prom.

    You Chicagoans do everything big.


Gentle Readers:

For the time being, I've turned off comment moderation. Please don't spam; it's not nice.

xxx, Poppy.