Where Do You Want It, Ma'am?

Late afternoon, a Friday, mid-June

Up backed a truck, it was yellow.

"Where do you want it, ma'am?" he said.

"Public storage," I replied.  "Oh, please?"

Move Your Balloon

It wasn't quite as vicious as last night's Laker celebration outside Staples, no car windows were smashed, no trash cans set on fire, but over in Tarzana, the festivities did get a bit heated the other evening.  One short gal in particular turned testy, when various oversized and shiny inflatables, sun umbrellas and expansive back-sides blocked her precious view of the proceedings.

No Tennis Shoes

Today the youngest graduates from pre high school.  The dress code for this occasion carries a serious mandate, repeated often via scary bulletins sent home and lengthy recorded messages:   No. Tennis.  Shoes.  In case you missed that:  No. Tennis.  Shoes.  Don't even think about it.  When it comes to appropriate graduate footwear, a pair of Vans could undue years of hard work in an instant.  "Anyone caught wearing tennis shoes to graduation will not be allowed to participate in the ceremony!"  So sayeth the sternest assistant principal on the planet.  This guy means business. 

Dear Attendance Office

              Never sick, eh? 

I thought we were all clapped out after the eldest's graduation, but last night, hubby and I clapped our way through Senior Awards Night.  We applauded mostly for other people's offspring, and it left me some-what bitter, watching all the uber-smarties parade by, the highly-accomplished, the freaks of nature with perfect attendance records since fourth grade.

Dare To Be Bare

             In Front:  SJG & Billy 

         In Back:  My Bro' John & Tim

The theme of the past few days:  Why, it was all about getting naked, of course. Getting raw with our emotions. Getting nostalgic over, well, everything. Exposing our hearts and souls, not to mention our tender shoulders and necks and any other available skin to the harsh rays of the Santa Cruz sun. We slathered on the SPF 50. We did our best to pay attention to the lengthy speeches. We hydrated like crazy and managed not to plotz from the heat. The SJG even wore a hat. I never wear a hat. I look dumb in hats. Always have, always will. And yet somehow, for my son's college graduation, I kinda pulled it off. Wasn't I just a tad fetching in my straw hat?

Big Plans

    Schlep!

   Clap!

    Kvell!

Not My Stuff

Where do these go?

Space your kids four years apart, and prepare for a grand collision of milestones.  The older one graduates college on the same day the younger one goes to prom.  The younger one graduates high school on the same day the older one packs up his apartment to come home.  It's too much for my brain, my heart, my closets.  Could someone (other than hubby) please tell me how an apartment full of furniture and stuff could possibly fit in a house already stuffed to capacity?  Not to worry.  Hubby has it all worked out, like some freaky mathematical equation.  It's all about angles and stacking and taking things apart... things that took hellish hours to put together.