A little Ado About Everything

My weekend started with purple and shall end with purple as well.

Friday morning I stumble from my room (mornings are not my best look) and encounter HWSNBN, who is preparing for work.  I stop in my tracks.

“Ummm???”

“It’s purple pride day at work today!”

Well that explains the crushed velvet purple blazer — which I like.  But not before my coffee.

So the weekend progressed.

I am trying desperately to get caught up on stuff in some arenas and ahead on others.  Thursday night I had had an awesome meeting for the Senior Party, so felt inspired to get flying there.  Sent out a few recapping emails, then turned my attention to the shared spreadsheet I had happily offered to create for our online auction.  Much screaming at the computer ensued, and further arguing with my workbook on Excel (yes, I know 90% of the world knows how to use Excel.  My computer education stopped in 1997.  I am largely self-taught and my teacher is an idiot).  I am almost done. For the past three days I have approached the project carefully, with trepidation and a little respect, as if it were a housecat I needed to bathe. I am allergic to cats.  Hence my dilemma.

Friday night I tackled family dinner for the first time in about a week.  Singer Girl had been begging for tacos, and invited Drummer Boy to join us.  Tacos are easy — usually.  But I tried to make those low-carb all cheese taco shells that everyone says are so easy.  Should’ve started that earlier: they never cooled enough to hold a taco shape.  HWSNBN and Singer Girl gave them the suspicious side eye while enjoying their classic shells.  Drummer Boy politely avoided all eye contact.  I ate them out of spite — but had to use them as a tostada. But dammit they were low carb and so I won. Drank wine to celebrate — and eliminated the low-carbness of my dinner.

Saturday HWSNBN was inspired to go shopping for some finishing touches for our bedroom.  (We moved in 3 years ago, and haven’t really gotten around to hanging pictures and stuff.  I have big plans to have 3 major projects done in that arena before Singer Girl’s grad party this summer.  We shall see).  Decided to do field trips to some amazing stores we patronized when building the house Architectural Antiques (http://www.archantiques.com/) City Salvage (http://citysalvage.com/) and Guilded Salvage (http://www.guildedsalvage.com/). Great places to find unique stuff pulled from old buildings.  HWSNBN wants a bench at the foot of our bed to NOT throw his dirty clothes on, and some sort of cool piece to hang above the bed.  We found options, but I think he forgot what kind of price tags come along with the words “unique” and “vintage.”  Found a beautiful wood bench just the right size and color — for $2,250.  Also fell for a stunning leaded glass window that would’ve just been perfect in our room — for $16,500.

So we went to the movies.

(Saw The Post, which I liked very much.  Oscar contender movie #1 under my belt.  More on that in a future, well, post.)

This morning HWSNBN was online, trying to find more reasonable bench options (read: cheap).  The ones he likes I didn’t and vice versa (I gagged at the grey fur one he found, and he recoiled at the ones I saw with silver and Lucite accents). As for above the bed, he thinks we’ll find something we like inexpensively at an art gallery.  Methinks he is in for another rude awakening.

Today I have been back at organizing and getting caught up: puppies lined up for parties, finally starting to settle on which of Singer Girl’s senior portraits to buy, and delicately negotiating with that spread sheet. But soon: the PURPLE! I, like countless Minnesota Vikings fans, have been simultaneously yearning for and dreading tonight’s game.  We know that they can do it, but will they? To be a fan of Minnesota sports is to have a calloused heart and a cautious spirit.  HWSNBN and I have considered going somewhere fun to watch the game, but we are fearful to set our hopes up for public humiliation.  So we will sit at home, our hearts in our throats and low-carb taco shells in our hands.  Wish us all luck!

It’s finals week around here.

It’s my last winter finals week.  And I actually forgot about it, until Singer Girl asked if I could drive her to school the other day.

I remember my first finals week as a parent.  I totally screwed up. Our school does a weird schedule, with two finals each day, for three days. The first two days they do prep, then break, test, lunch, test.  Day is regular length, but a lot of kids don’t go in until the first final starts.  On day three, however, they ditch that prep period and the first test is right away at 8 am.  This leaves that third section for any makeup tests that someone might’ve missed. Ya follow? Yeah, see I didn’t. On day 3 hauled Sailor Boy, then a gawky, geeky 14 year old, to school AFTER his first final of the day was over.  Ooops (yes, I know it was ultimately his responsibility.  Whatever).

From then on when that schedule was released, for the past 7 years, I have entered into our family calendar.  But I didn’t this year.  I am in the senior slump I guess.

Last year there was no slumping or slouching — it was hold your breath grit your teeth and get through the war zone that is junior year.  Now we are all chill.  Singer girl has electives in her schedule for the first time ever — and even has an open hour.  Yeah, she’s still doing 3 AP classes, but she never seems to have any homework.  She stresses more about helping Drummer Boy get through his junior year as unscathed as possible.  Turns out she likes to help organize.  Wherever did she get that from? Lol…one night she came home, and revealed to me with horror that Drummer Boy had no binders or folders or a planner.  That his backpack was a veritable wasteland of hastily thrust-in papers : “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/Out of this stony rubbish?” (Sorry,  Mr Eliot…)

When she saw calculus commingling with chemistry, English and Spanish battling for supremacy like in the days of the Tudors, she marched his disorganized life to Office Max and negotiated a peace treaty. It seems she is using her junior year horrors as a cautionary tale.  While I admire her altruism, I do have to remind her periodically that she has college auditions on the horizon and perhaps she should focus on those? “It’s fine, Mom,” she snaps.  This one rarely lowers herself for assistance.  But every now and then she reaches out.   The other night she asked me to proofread an essay, and I settled in.  I read her notes written across the top, helpfully outlining the goals of the assignment. My stomach sank and tears came to my eyes.  Not because it was bad.  It wasn’t. But becasue:

I didn’t recognize her handwriting.

This child, who I created, whose every breath and sound and smell and emotion was known to me so intimately years ago, was becoming someone I did not know.

I’ve always said it’s my job to raise an adult.  This year, as she has given me no reason to hold her back, I have let her have a lot of freedom.  In 8 months she will be solo, off to some school in some far off part of the country.  I am excited for her — and for me.  I retire from my SAHM carrier after more than 21 years. She gets to start a journey, and I will start a new chapter.  But I am a little scared, too.

Remember when they started all-day school, and for the first time ever you didn’t know what they did all day? Yeah, this is gonna be that on steroids.  And I won’t see her every night to witness the small changes.  I will probably see her every few months.  And wow: is she gonna change.

If I don’t know her handwriting now, when we share the same milk carton, what won’t I recognize when she returns home after months at a dining commons? What foods will she now love that she refused to eat at my table? Will her voice sound different, once she has learned the new language of burgeoning adulthood? Will she stand taller, bolstered by self awareness, or stoop under the weight of  new struggles?

As I mentioned before I am heading up the Senior Party.  Yes, it is a nightmare of details and not enough support.  Yes, I want to cry and pull my hair out at times. But you know what that night is? It’s the last time these 830 kids, many of whom have shared classrooms for more than 12 years, will get to hang out and be children.  I co-chaired Sailor Boy’s senior party back in 2015.  Those kids, who almost didn’t come because they were too cool for a lame party, had a ball.  They ran around, laughing, playing, chatting with friends they really hadn’t hung out with since elementary school.

I want my daughter — my Singer Girl — to have the best last big kid’s party I can give her.  Even if I wouldn’t recognize her handwriting in the thank you note she’ll never write.  Seeing her smile with her buddies will be enough — especially knowing that a few months later I’ll be waving to that smile in the rear-view mirror as I leave my Volunteer Career on the curb at her college.

In the market for a new car, and finally convinced HWSNBN to join me in the showrooms.  He was most displeased.  He HATES cars.  He HATES shopping.  Thus,  this experience was some sort of circle of Hell for him.  But when asked whether he would just prefer me to do it solo, he was aghast.  Even though he’s known me since I had Let’s Get Physical hair, he still thinks I am frivolous.  I am so weirdly practical — so much that I am often known as the buzzkill in our friend group.  Don’t get me wrong: I long to be the crazy person on the Amazing race, hurling my body off cliffs and careening around small European towns with a flimsy map in one hand and a pre-Cold War stick shift in my other.  But I will plan the life out of anything first!

I have done my research: I know what I want.  I know what I need.  One salesman’s first question to me was “So what color do you want?” (for reals.  Like as a middle aged woman with crazy blue muppet hair that would be priority numero uno, of course).  We left that showroom! I WANT a sexy little sports car, preferably with a leopard print paint job.  But I NEED a mid-size SUV for hauling dogs and puppy party supplies, and I WANT the best gas mileage possible.  Personally I think those are pretty practical starting points.  HWSNBN thinks they are silly.  He thinks gas mileage is some sort of government conspiracy thing (actually he explained it differently but that’s pretty much what it sounded like to me). And he thinks it’s dumb for me to choose a car based on what I will use it for the most. Okaaayyyy….I asked him what he thinks should be my first priority.  He looked at me, eyebrows raised in shock so high they parted his hair, and said “Well it’s your car.  How should I know?”

So when we were in the showrooms, he kind of hid.

I am a very decisive person.  I don’t like to waste time.  I had already visited 6 different dealers, driven 4 cars, and had it narrowed down to my top 2.  Yesterday we just needed to visit the last two brands and on my list.  After 5 minutes in the first showroom, I knew that car wasn’t for me and we left.  HWSNBN was frustrated, as my main reason for crossing that one off the list was crappy MPG (that started the whole it’s just a number dictated by the government and it doesn’t mean anything discussion). Next dealership, I spent more time considering the car, as I was tempted by its prettiness.  But 10 minutes in I knew that all the pretty didn’t justify the price tag.  Plus, it was a model never before on the market and that seemed risky to me. So I pulled up my Practical Pants and we walked on.  (Sadly, I couldn’t zip up my Confidence Coat as I forgot it at home. So shopping in -2 temps while wearing naught but a 3/4 sleeve T shirt also probably put a little more hustle in my bustle.)

HWSNBN was a little grumbly that I wasn’t spending more time.  ‘Twas my turn to do some eyebrow exercising, and I arched one in his direction.  He caught the look and realized I was getting him out of this misery way faster than he anticipated, and clammed up.

So now it’s down to two and a half vehicles (that’s because one model I like has a hybrid version, so both must be considered).  Not sure when we are going to get a chance to look at them.  I am literally booked every night this week: Monday is book club, Tuesday we start French lessons, Wednesday is my military moms support group, Thursday I have to chair the senior party meeting, and Friday I run a Puppy Party.  So maybe Saturday? I REALLY need this off my list! Plus I think HWSNBN needs to be put out of his misery.  I know he wants me to buy a used car, but I keep my cars a long time (my current one is 14 years old), and I deserve something pretty and new. And every day that we talk about this, it’s like pulling off an old bandage one arm hair at a time. Let’s rip that sucker off daddy and put mama in some new wheels!

Today Sailor Boy left and HWSNBN returned.

In the past, when leave ended for Sailor Boy, our last day was filled with stress — usually related to him packing.  Doesn’t everyone find it easy to pack to go home? I mean, what you brought, you throw in the suitcase.  But Sailor Boy somewhere manages to go full-blown ADHD when it comes to packing; ooh! shiny objects!

But this time he started packing two days ago.  Had his GF help him. She and I are in cahoots to make him a grown up (the Navy is doing it’s part, but it takes an ocean with this guppy).  So today was easier, as he had been packing a little every day.  They even had time to run out for on least slice of pizza — 30 minutes before we had to leave for the airport.  Somehow we made it through all the traffic in time (google searches are great time passers.  We discussed everything from politics to Will Farrell’s best non-comedic roles).  Hes on his way back to his aircraft carrier (but not without getting perhaps the world’s worst haircut.  So, so bad.) Will see him in another 6 months I guess…

Meanwhile, HWSNBN is in da house.  His flight back was uneventful, and this afternoon’s goal was all about keeping him awake.  So we tried to watch TV.  Spent 45 minutes trying to convince him we had already watched the last episode of The Walking Dead.  He said we had not.  I insisted we had, but guessed he slept through most of it.  He didn’t respond.  He was asleep.