Graduation Tassel Tissue Tussle

It's official. The Princess is a high school graduate.

Believe it or not, and most of you will not, I didn't cry.

That is not to say that at various times during her party, baccalaureate, and the graduation ceremony my eyes did not fill with tears, I didn't bite my lips, my throat didn't constrict, I didn't have to gulp for air, or that I didn't clench and unclench my fists and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.

I did.

I am sure my eyes were red by the end of commencement. But no tears slid down my cheeks.

I did not need a tissue. Which is good, because I forgot them in the car.

Someone – several someones – asked me how I felt after her graduation party. I told them the truth:

It was all a blur.

The Princess with all her level-headed wisdom – Where did she get that? When did she get that? – decided she wanted a small, low-key event at home. Somehow we managed to keep the fuss and stress to a minimum, which is to say no one was killed, seriously injured or driven insane. Not that I didn't give it my best shot.

Still, it was a blur of planning, shopping, sorting, cleaning, organizing, and ultimately hiding, storing, covering, and strategic decorating. The guests arrived, we mingled, we laughed, we ate cake and more cake. And more cake. The Princess was beautiful and charming and smiled and smiled and smiled. The Little Prince helped set up and stuck around even after we told him he didn't have to. When did he get so mature?

And then it was over.

A blur.

Baccalaureate came and went, a lovely ceremony filled with wisdom and humor and encouragement. And cookies. And the blinking, sniffling, chest tightening of not crying.

A blur.

The graduation ceremony itself, while not what anyone would call brief – especially when crowded into a noisy, hot gymnasium – rushed by. The graduates processed in, there were speeches, words of advice, songs and a slide show that brought me to the edge of tears. Then the graduates received their diplomas, moved their tassels and marched out of the gym for hugs, handshakes, congratulations, and pictures, pictures and more pictures.

A blur.

And somewhere along the way I realized it had all been a blur.

Not just the party, baccalaureate and commencement, but the last 18 years.

Bringing home our Little 5-pound Princess from the hospital. Helping her hold her baby brother. Holding her hand as she started preschool. Walking her up the hill to the bus stop and watching her climb the big stairs onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. Watching nervously out the window later that week after she announced she could walk to the bus stop by herself.

Grade school, middle school, high school. Dance recitals, school programs, band and chorus concerts, sports, cheer leading, homecomings and proms.

College visits. College applications. College acceptance letters.

College orientation.

A blur.

And this fall she will start college, far enough away that I can't visit every day (well, I could, but...) yet close enough that she can come home when she wants to (I hope she wants to).

In between now and then, two and a half long, languid summer months that will seem to drag on forever.

Until they are gone.

In a blur.

Show (Me) Choir

 I have heard there are places in the world that do not know the wonders of High School Show Choir.

Places where the spotlights never shine, sequins aren't a way of life, and drama is largely relegated to telenovelas.

I weep for these places.

Or I would, but I'm afraid my cat eye eyeliner might run.

Or my wiglet might fall off, skitter away and frighten small children.

Or my bumpit might slip askew making me look (even more) like a crazed unicorn (because I only have, like, 10 strands of very thin, fine hair on top of my already pointy head).

Sigh.

How I was ever able to reach 50... I mean 39... years of age without wearing excessive amounts of sequins, glitter, faux hair pieces, massive amounts of eyeliner and “50 dolla' make you holla'-” red lipstick – and – and this IS important – make it look good – is beyond me.

'Cuz let me tell you.

I would have rocked that shit.

Sigh.

Back in the day, our swing choir – I believe we still called it swing choir, because every once in a while I slip up and still call it that and today's show choir kids look at me like I'm speaking Klingon – put on a little extra makeup, but nothing fancy – and – and this is a BIG AND – AND – we had (Are you ready for this? Are you sitting down? Fair warning. Don't say I didn't tell you.) (Take a deep breath.)

One outfit.

Yes.

You read that right.

There was no costume change.

None.

At.

All.

I'm not really sure, because I was part of the band. Because, as I've said in past blog-posts, I can't carry a tune in a bucket with two hands. And I can barely walk across a perfectly smooth, level floor, let alone dance on a wobbly stage in heels while looking up, smiling and singing.

But as long as you are fanning yourself and feeling faint...

I don't remember a lot of glitter or sequins.

There.

I said it.

We suffered from glitter under load.

Imagine there's no glitter/ It's easy if you try...

Unless you've just spent the day at a modern Iowa High School Show Choir Competition, in which case you are HAVING trouble FOCusing BeCauSe You are SUFfering from SPARKLE and FOG overload and you have the uncontrollable desire to app – CLAPCLAPCLAP – laud and randomly shhh – WOOT WOOT – ouuuuut and scrEEEEEAAAAmmmm for no apparent reason other than because the ten million other people jammed into this high school gymnasium (max. occ. 800) are SCREAMING for no apparent reason other than they are supporting the talented, brave, be-sequined, eye-linered, pouf-haired, sweating, singing, panting, dancing, amazing, high school students performing up on the (swaying from all that energy) stage.

Boom.

(well deserved) Mic Drop.

Because these days that's where I spend my Saturdays.

Out in the audience.

Cheering and clapping and screaming and beaming and cringing and smiling while the show choirs perform.

Because that's my boy – the drummer with all the hair and the timing and the talent, the one who won't speak to me in the hallway but who isn't opposed to taking money or snacks. And I know all those kids in the – AMAZING – band (didn't they just blow you away?). And can you believe the kids in that crew that get everything put together just right without freaking out (much)? And I know those kids who are singinganddancing andsweatingandpanting andmakingitlooksoeasy and Sounding. So. Good.

Because I'm a show choir mom.

But not just a show choir mom.

Because you can't be just a show choir mom or dad or grandparent, aunt, uncle, sibling, cousin, coach, director, choreographer, accompanist, or... anything.

You are a hair-fixing, tie-straightening, emergency-drum-head-buying, lunch-money-providing, bobby pin- and safety pin- carrying, tear-drying, concession stand-working, concession stand-consuming, alteration-making, stage hand, hugging, clapping, cheering, shouting fool for show choir.

Because once you've been exposed to glitter and sequins and cat-eye eyeliner and bumpits...

Well.

What can I say?

Other than I'm gonna make that shit look good.

Tomorrow.

While I'm grocery shopping.

Fair warning.

Spirit Week and Other Fashion (Non)Sense

It's high school homecoming season in Iowa, which means “School Spirit Week,” which means teens across the Hawkeye state are rummaging through their parents' closets for the most out of date, dorkiest clothes they can possibly find.

Which means parents across Eastern Iowa can be heard saying “But wait! I just wore that last week!” in addition to the usual “Are you wearing that to school?”

This year I found my sartorial choices challenged by “Tourist Day.” Things started on a positive note, strangely enough, with a boost to my “Cool Mom” status. Both Little Angels wanted to borrow a Hawaiian shirt, which they knew I, as a “Cool Mom” had.

Unfortunately, in preparation for the great remodel I had actually cleared a few things out of my closet – including my three Hawaiian shirts. Shirts which they had previously ridiculed, I might add. Now my fashionistas were all “Oh, how could you... why would you....” Princess Pack Rat was able to one-up her brother, as she had snagged one shirt out of the donation bag and set about teasing him with it.

In order to keep familial harmony and avoid forever being labeled “The Mom Formerly Known as Cool,” I made a trip to the mall with The Princess acting as a proxy shopper. We selected a very nice, almost-not-obnoxious Hawaiian shirt, which we thought would fit The Prince.

And then the Little Prince went to the mall with his friends and picked out another one. In XXL. All three of us could wear it at the same time.

Shirt problem solved, the Little Angels started arguing over who would get to borrow my fanny pack. Once again, “Cool Mom” was called on for the costume rescue.

“Yeah, all the tourists wear those nerdy things,” they said.

“Huh, wha? Wait, what makes you think I have a... I'll have you know they're quite handy!”

Yes, I do have a small (?) bag which can be carried around my waist so as to free up my hands and shoulders to carry a bunch of other crap my family members don't want to carry themselves. When the children were younger I frequently used it to carry a variety of important supplies – money, band aids, money, wet wipes, Kleenex, money, hand sanitizer, and, oh yes, money! – on our adventures.

My ego was only somewhat bruised by all this until The Princess asked if she could borrow my khaki shorts. Ahhh. Finally! Khaki shorts, something nearly everyone has, sometime timeless, classic, not at all nerdy. Why sure, she could borrow my khaki shorts.

“Good. Dorky 'Mom Shorts' will really complete the look.”

Since when did shorts that cover your wha-hoo become dorky?

The King has escaped relatively unscathed by all this, although the children are disappointed that he doesn't wear sandals – or mandals – which they wanted to wear with socks to complete their ensembles. I tried to point out that he does wear black socks with shorts and work boots, but they did not find this to be nerdy enough for their purposes.

Really? Really, people?

All this pales in comparison to last year's “80's Day" debacle. Despite how many yearbook photos you show them, current high school students continue to show up for “80's Day" dressed like extras from “Flash Dance.” Or worse. I'll be the first to admit, the 80's were dark days for fashion, but they weren't that dark.

BTW, shoulder pads? Awesome. Big hair? Not so much.

I don't remember scavenging through my mom's closet for Spirit Week, but then again, it wouldn't have done me much good. I already had the overalls (a sweet purple pair!) and socks for “Overhaul and Sock 'Em” Day. My beloved vinyl go-go boots from color guard were repurposed for “Punk (rock) 'Em” Day (because, why not?). And who didn't love "Hat Day"? (Although it has been discontinued because apparently wearing a hat to school is too disruptive to the learning process... during a week of disruptive activities.)

In small town Iowa, circa early 1980's, "Dress Like a Farmer" or "Dress Like a Cowboy" day were almost guaranteed a 100% success rate – who didn't have jeans and a button down shirt? The only difference between the two costumes in our minds was the ever disruptive head gear. Did you go for the seed cap or the cowboy hat? Hot on the heels of “Urban Cowboy,” we all had cowboy hats of one type or another.

In fact, most of our ideas about cowboy attire came from that movie, which, upon reflection may have lacked authenticity. We may have been subject to revisionist fashion history, just like today's youth and their limited 1980's fashion knowledge. Come to think of it, there has probably always been a gap between reality and fun when it comes to dress up days at school.

I can picture the scene now: 1793, France

Louis XVI: Darling, have you seen my old, lounge around the castle crown?

Marie Antoinette: The Dauphin wore it to school for something called “Storm the Bastille Day.”

Louis: I have a bad feeling about this....

Marie: I'm sure it's nothing to lose your head over.

Or something like that.

Prom-ah Mahna

As if February in Iowa wasn't already miserable enough with its agonizingly endless stretch of cold, blustery days, a new form of torture has emerged sealing Feb's fate as my least fave:

The Promposal.

In case you've been living under a rock (or don't know any high school students), it is no longer enough just to ask someone to go to prom with you. These days you have to make a grand, over-the-top, extremely public statement – the grander, the more over-the-top, the public-er, the better.

I don't know why I dislike promposals so much. I do so loves me a bad pun, and the vast majority of promposals involve bad word play – “Don't be 'chicken,' 'shake' your booty with me at prom,” accompanied by a chicken sandwich and milkshake, for example. I have to admit I kinda liked that one, proving once again that the way to my heart is through my stomach and bad jokes.

But after hearing about it from Every. Single. One. of my students it lost some of its appeal. (Note to self: Never, ever tell students my pet peeves again.)

No, no, nononono. NO! No more promposal talk in my room!” I growled.

“But Mrs. Saaaal-ahhh-miiink, how did you ask someone to prom when you were in school?” my students asked, all innocence and guile, sensing a way to postpone the day's lesson.

“We would have walked up to someone in the hallway and said 'Hey, you wanna go to prom?' End of story.” 

At least that's how I think it went down.

I wouldn't know.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

I did get asked to prom by a junior boy when I was a freshman, although I don't actually remember him asking me. I think it happened a little more like this:

Boy's Mom (to my Mom): “I have determined that my son, who is extremely shy, needs a date for prom. Your daughter, who is also extremely shy, is tolerably good looking and does not have a police record that I know of. They should go together.”

My Mom: “Your son seems to be well behaved, reasonably attractive and is significantly taller than my daughter. I think this is a good idea.”

My Mom (to Me): “You are going to the prom with Boy. You can wear heels.”

As far as I know no livestock were exchanged, although I did get a nifty wrist corsage.

Boy and I did go to prom and we had as good a time as two casual acquaintances can have while sitting in a crepe paper streamer festooned high school gym listening to extremely loud music played by an extremely bad but cheap band and enjoying luke-warm punch and stale cookies. We spoke at least 20 words to each other, which was probably the extent of our conversations in high school (as we both really were extremely shy).

Today's promposals involve food, balloons, posters, burma-shave style signs, flowers, candy, body paint, gifts of jewelry, clothes and/or shoes. And they are made in front of as many witnesses as possible. Whether they are posted on Insta-Twit-Book, or they take place in the school cafeteria, at a basketball game or show choir contest, nothing says “I kinda like you and I think we should spend an exorbitant amount of money on a dress, shoes, tux, hair-styling, tanning, mani-pedi, limo, dinner and photos to attend a high school dance” quite like asking someone to prom in front of 200 or so of your closest strangers.

Not that I'm bitter.

I just wish the kids would put that much creativity and effort into their homework.

Which brings us to the rumor suggesting that many promposals are actually engineered by the students' mothers, and not the students themselves.

Proving once again that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Not that I'm bitter.

Reunited (and We Look So Good)

The West Liberty High School class of 1984 just had a super-fantastic reunion at the Riverside Casino. A small, but fun group of us got together for good food, good times, good music, and cold beer.

The organizers only got one thing wrong: The reunion year.

According to them, this was our 30 year reunion. Assuming the average person is 17- or 18-years-old when they graduate from high school, that would mean that we are damn near 50.

That can't be right.

I've done the math and I'm pretty sure I'm only damn near 40. Ish. (But some mornings I do feel damn near 50 for those first two or twenty minutes right after I get out of bed.) Of course I did drop calculus after only two days my final semester of high school, and went on to become an English major in college, so I could be wrong.

There were a few minutes right after I arrived at the reunion that I thought maybe the organizers were right. Maybe we really were damn near 50. Or, more accurately, somehow my classmates were damn near 50. When I walked in to the casino, I was taken aback by how... well, to be blunt, how old everyone else looked!

My God! It looked like my classmates had really gone down hill fast. Grey hair, no hair, thick eyeglasses, walkers, motorized scooters (OK, I was jealous of those) ear trumpets... and all that polyester held up with suspenders! I didn't recognize a soul!

I tried to introduce myself and chat up a few of the better-preserved classmates I saw standing around the bar (a familiar sight). I wasn't real sure of their names, but I thought one of them started with a “B,” or maybe a “K.” On the other hand, they had absolutely no recollection of me at all! Not that I was Miss Popularity or anything, but there were only 80-some in our graduating class. Poor dears must need even thicker glasses, I thought. But they're already nearing Hubble telescope proportions.

I started to worry that maybe those old-age symptoms were contagious, because I was developing a loud bell-like ringing in my ears. That gave me an idea – they may not remember me, but they couldn't forget our high school mascots.

“Did you realize they've changed the girls' teams from the Belles to the Comets?” I asked, hoping this would spark some of that old school spirit. They looked at each other. Finally! I'm getting through, I thought. Then they started to edge away. I was about to tell the bartender to cut them off when I heard someone call my name.

“Joanne?” It was my friend Tammy and her husband. And they both looked young! “What are you doing out here in the casino? Why aren't you in the ballroom at the reunion?” she asked.

Ohhhh, I see. This is the... and the reunion is in the.... Well, that explained a lot.

They guided me across the casino floor, through the doors and out to the designated ballroom. As we stood in the hallway signing the reunion guest book I scanned the crowd. Ahh, this was a much younger-looking group of people.

Muh-huh-huch younger.

All in all, a good-looking, young-looking, fine group of people. Much too young-looking to be damn near 50. And much too young-acting to be damn near 50. We still like our music loud, our beer cold, and our laughter raucous. The memories flowed freely, although I suspect some of the details may have been embellished or diminished over time. I recall being much more hip, cool and physically coordinated than some of the stories indicated.

And quite frankly, some stories just seemed a little too tabloid to be true. As I point out frequently to my children, I never did anything wrong when I was in high school. I recall weekends spent helping shut-ins and the less fortunate, volunteering at soup kitchens and rolling bandages to support our boys in the trenches. That is, when I wasn't studying or reading scripture to the blind.

I've missed the last couple of reunions, so I did notice a few changes from, say, our first reunion. There was a lot more talk about kids (and some grandkids!) and memories of classmates and parents who were no longer with us.

Picture taking was a lot easier at this reunion, too! Everyone could whip out their cell phone to take a selfie or groupie, provided they could hold the phone far enough away to see the icons without their biofocals. Of course it would have been easier if our kids were there to show us how to turn the flash on.

Judging from how many of us stayed until damn near midnight (well past our bedtimes) I think we all had a wonderful time. The organizers did such a good job several of us suggested they could plan the next one as well.

Although I might volunteer to help a little.

I want to make sure they get the year right next time.