Leaving aside the fact that she’s a little young for the reference, I immediately thought she’d crashed the car, was robbed, had a meteor fall on her… you know. Mom’s go-to list of calamities that this sort of phrase is just made to invoke.

“I went to PJ’s…” she began, and my mind raced ahead to try to figure out what horror might’ve befallen her at a coffee house.

“… with some friends and I only ordered ONE drink, so you’d THINK she could get it right, but…” About here I start to suspect the National Guard won’t be required for whatever her issue is.

“…anyway, so I know I didn’t leave her ANY tip, because she didn’t deserve it, but when I checked my account this morning, instead of the $4.65 for the chai, there was a charge for $6.65!!! She added in a tip!! I KNOW I didn’t tip her! What should I do?”

“Suck it up,” I replied, much to her annoyance. Not immediately taking her side makes her want to revoke my mother’s licence, so after she argued her case for awhile I tried to explain the facts of teen-dom to her. Again.

“Look, Al. Let’s look at it from her point of view, shall we? She works in a coffee shop just off a campus with 30,000 students. Broke students. Often obnoxious students. And here comes yet another group of them- 4 girls, taking up one of her tables for a couple of hours with ONE drink order, which she gets paid a whole $2.76 an hour to deal with. And then you stiffed her. Just like a zillion other kids she’s seen. I don’t agree with what she did, but I do understand it. If you don’t have a receipt and you ever want to go to that place again…just let it go.”

We’ve had this conversation in various forms on several occasions, and she just can’t see the problem. When she was going to driver’s ed it was on a highway with only 2 places to walk to and eat, so for 10 days straight she and the other 35 students tromped over to eat and she just could not believe how rude the waitstaffs were. I totally could. A new group of 16 year olds every two weeks? :::shudder:::

But Alison will have none of it. “I’m not rude or bratty! They shouldn’t pre-judge- it’s not right!”

Maybe she has a point; she does have the kind of excellent manners that come from years of your mother glaring death rays at you until you say the polite thing.

But I confess…I can’t wait for her to get a little older. I will involuntarily bust a gut the first time she starts a story with “this obnoxious group of teeanagers…”

Which, in this case, consisted of a combination of being taken out to eat, home cooked meals, and sleep. Upon their arrival, she used what little voice she had to croak out a pitiful plea for Craig and Kimmie’s food. While there she took out her prescription, and I just couldn’t stop laughing:

At any rate, several requests were made for food to be brought back to LSU- Charlie’s special chicken, a tray of fancy-schmancy mac n’ cheese and chocolate chip cookies.

The ‘homemade’ part was stressed. Repeatedly. So how do you resist that one? You don’t. In the midst of preparations I discovered that Pratchett loves cheese.

Loves? Adores. Worships. To get his greedy talons on some, he will actually ‘fly’ over from his cage (poor lad. It’s more like semi-controlled falling, but he didn’t seem to care if there was the potential for some cheesy goodness to ease his rough landing).

Unfortunately, I also discovered that I have my grandmother’s hoarding/feeding/stockpiling genes. Every time I visited her while I was in school she sent me home with food, which I appreciated, but also started to wonder if she thought the only grocery store in existence was the one in her neighborhood. In the end, the girls were packed up with loads of food- cold cuts, chips, Special K bars, boxes of tissues, juice, only slightly parrot-nibbled mac n’ cheese, etc, and sent off after one last meal out, at Cafe Atchafalaya.

I do despair of ever getting a normal photo of them together. Here they are, ‘sizzling’ in Atchafalaya’s huge frying pan.

Then they were off, with a stop at The House of Shock. I was a little worried about that one- two years running Alison went with friends who were got scared just by the freakshow outside that they were sobbing and quit before they even got inside the building.

For the uninitatied, here’s the House of Shock, named by the Travel Channel as the most extreme Haunted House in the US:

(If you don’t have the patience to sit through it, skip to the 3:58 mark and you’ll know everything you need to about why I was worried.)

Needless to say, Alison loves it and can’t wait to go every year, but Elizabeth is a sweet, semi-sheltered religious sort of girl. In fact, they were leaving a day early so she could go home to practice for a play her church is putting on- you can see why I just wasn’t sure how this would go over.

I have yet to hear just how it went, but hey,they’re still coming for Voodoo Fest later this month, so it couldn’t have scared her off too much, right?

But now it’s done, and so far, so good. She and her new roomie are getting along fantastically, and it all sounds cheerfully chaotic on the phone. I’m still trying to adjust to the idea that she’s officially a college student now- or technically, she will be tomorrow, her first day of class. I can only imagine what kind of culture shock it’s got to be- her entire graduating class at McGehee was 32. Her first class is in an auditorium, so won’t that be interesting…

The house has been all frenetic energy straight through from graduation- I don’t know what I’ll do with myself now that it’s dying down. No empty-nester depression, though- she’s just down the road, after all, and we’re talking about a kid who came out of the womb ready to get her own apartment and start implementing her plans for world domination, so I’ve had lots of time to prepare.

Besides, there’s another huge project taking up all kinds of time and energy right now, but I’m just too exhausted to get into it. Let’s just say that I’ve managed to get into my absolutely dorkiest project yet and couldn’t be happier. More to come on that one. For now, just a big congrats and well done to the kiddo.

Alison was headed into middle school, and really looking forward to starting, but I watched her spirits dip a little lower each day that she failed to really click with new friends. A few weeks into the term, she came home looking positively perplexed.

“Mom,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t get it. These girls? They were really nice to me when I took the school tour, and now they just shut up whenever I get close. So today I walked up to the group and asked if I’d done anything wrong- why weren’t they talking to me?” She shook her head when I asked what they’d answered. “They just got really upset, and kind of stuttered and stuff. One of them finally said ‘That’s what you did! We don’t say things like that! You’re so weird!’”

Over time, Ali figured out how to navigate the strange currents between Mason and Dixon, though I’d never seen the changes so much as when her friends came together and needed Alison to act as their cultural translator.

It made me realize she’s become a sort of southern belle with balls- not a bad thing to be. Well mannered, polite, but still able to kick your ass.

Cathy’s a great kid, smart, funny, a little shy, and gorgeous to boot- but she’s definitely a Yankee. And I say this as a fellow Yankee who’s gotten herself into faux pas territory more than once. Intellectually, I knew they were like different species, but hadn’t given it much thought- until I had Alison, Olivia and Cathy all side by side. Every one a fantastic young woman, but wow- so different.

They still had a good time, schlepping all over the city in this miserable heat (which Cathy swore she loved because all they’ve had up north for months is chilly drizzle), even getting up to Baton Rouge for an LSU visit and out the Mississippi coast for a night.

The 4th was the night before she left, and we headed down to dinner at the Palace and the fireworks. Cathy’s a pretty brave eater, and she gamely tried every strange fried thing Alison put on her plate, loving pretty much all of it.

Other than cheesesteaks, there’s no native cuisine where she is, so it might be a little cultureshock when she gets back- although she did insist on a Crabby Jack’s stop to bring a couple of poboys home, though it wasn’t clear to me whether she intends to share with her parents or sneak them in to keep for herself.

And then it was off to the river to catch the fireworks, which usually I dread because of the crowds. For 4th of July we’ve got Essence Fest, for New Year’s fireworks we’ve got the Sugar Bowl, both of which make it ungodly crowded and unnavigable. I don’t know whether it was the concept of dealing with crowds in the heat or the economy keeping numbers of Fest goers down, it was surprisingly thin and nice down by the breezes of the Mississippi.

Then it was time for final fireworks of a different sort. The girls wanted to have a little grownup time, unsupervised on Bourbon Street. After Charlie reminded me that she’s got to learn to do these things, we bought them each one fruity drink of their choosing to take on their way, made them promise not to accept/attempt to buy any others, and set them loose, as long as they stayed directly on the police-heavy Bourbon Street and didn’t go wandering. And made sure they had cab money. And the cab’s phone number in their cell phones. And text me once an hour.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly ‘setting them loose.’ How about ‘loose with training wheels and an airbag?’

In that vein, we decided the Land of the Lost remake might be fun/nostalgic. (In the end, not so much, but that’s a different story.)

The trailers start, there are a couple things I’ll have no problem skipping, and then this came on:

First off, Tim Burton=”we will go to see it,” so that’s cool.

But, about halfway through the trailer, this music starts to play and I lean over to Ali and ask her who it is- it seems familiar. She looks at me like I’m crazy.

“No, seriously,” I whisper, “I think I know this!”

“Mom, ssssshhhh!” she hisses, looking around to see if anybody’s noticed her Mom behaving badly, not only talking in the theater, but claiming knowledge of some rock-music- something she’s only supposed to know about unless we’re talking Flock of Seagulls-era.

“I mean it,” I ask, still whispering, but annoyed. “Just tell me who it is! It’s driving me crazy!” The music has gotten louder now, and changed tempo- I am more convinced than ever I know it, but I just can’t…

“Hey!” I say, WAY too loudly. “That’s Coheed!”

“Mom!” Alison withers, sinking down, down, down into her seat, looking up at me like I am the biggest, oldest dork on the planet. I beam, unashamed of my essential dorkish nature.

It was all especially fun since- as we all well remember from teenhood- parents live to embarrass their kids, and I’m not sure how many more opportunities I’ll get. I need to remember to savor the ones I have as an ever-scarcer commodity.

And just to illustrate the level of cheez in the Kroft shows, I bring you the intro (yes, it’s just each episode’s opening credits, despite sounding like the entire series arc) to H.R. Puffinstuff. Hope you took your Lactaid:

:::sigh:::

I didn’t cry, not really- got a little misty, but nothing too bad. The one thing that would have really, truly killed me was kept to a bare minimum, and the elephant in the room was hardly mentioned at all, which, IMHO, was a huge mistake.

See, Ali belongs to the “Katrina Class-” the ones with the unique distinction of having just started freshman year when the storm hit and ripped things apart. She’d had exactly one week of school before the hurricane, spent at a Texas dude ranch/retreat, of all things.

It was McGehee’s annual getaway for incoming girls to go off and discuss what’s in store for them as highschoolers, generally bond and start figuring out what kind of young women they want to become.

For Alison, this was especially huge. She’d chafed under the thumb of a rigid group of friends, ending her 8th grade year a very unhappy girl and deciding to make big changes.

The retreat was a perfect launching pad and she made the most of it. Upon her return that Friday evening Ali bounced off the bus, laughing and hugging new friends. She was happier than I’d seen her in a long time, excited and looking forward to new adventures.

Well, maybe not starting on Monday, though. “We’ll probably get it off!” girls squealed like Yankee kids at the idea of a snowstorm.

36 hours later we were in a car, fleeing ahead of the massive storm, desperately searching over 500 miles of highway for a hotel room. School wouldn’t open for another 8 weeks and much of the class wouldn’t come back at all, having lost everything. The ones who did come back were never the same.

Oh sure, the returnees were brave. Their youthful resiliency was inspiring, and by helping the city, the girls helped themselves as everyone around them clawed their way back to sanity a bit at a time.

But none of them were the same as they were, and who knows who these girls would have turned out to be without the hurricane. They’d have been more innocent, surely. Still able to believe that things will turn out alright simply because they ought to. But maybe not so tough, or so aware that a single person can make a huge difference in the world.

But, no, these weren’t the things that were addressed at the graduation. There were brief speeches about far less consequential things, assurances that they were good kids, bright girls, with fantastic futures ahead of them. Lots about the history and tradition of the school itself. Some good-natured roasting of habits, and even a little narcissism from the valedictorian. Tosh, the majority of it, generic things that could be said of most graduates, in most places. Therefore: few tears.

They deserved better- they took lemons and made lemonade, managing to make it sweeter than anyone could’ve imagined. They’re amazing, these Katrina kids, and they’ve provided their elders with an excellent example, and credit should have been given.

Again, just IMHO. If you could toss that elephant out of the room? It was a gorgeous night, filled with gorgoeous young ladies who are gonna go out and kick the world right in the ass.

After all, they’ve already done it once, as powerless 13 year olds- just think what they’re gonna accomplish as adults.

[flickr album=72157618991632553 num=5 size=Square]

[flickr album=72157619092508544 num=5 size=Square]

So we got through last night.

The girls were all gorgeous, naturally, and looking like not a few of them had been crying before going out; over the years I’ve noticed that this is where graduation suddenly starts being real to them, which strange, given that their lockers are already cleared out, and exams taken.

The Sophomores put on a skit for the Seniors, using all kinds of inside jokes that you’d have to be a student to get and making fun of their teachers. This year’s was video-game themed, and the title aptly chosen (sigh):

In the end I managed to not bawl, or even get (overly) misty during the actual ceremony. It was all the lead up stuff that got to me, don’t ask me why. Watching, from outside the fence, as the girls turned after their portrait, heading back into the building, using the stairs that are off limit to all but seniors when they’re barely still seniors at all…

What can I say? I’m a sucker for symbolism…

The only point at which I got emotional was when the girls started filing in, and someone had chosen Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, which was, you know…odd.

In case Coldplay’s not your cup of tea, the song is one of mourning and regret, of a life of power and importance lost. It’s melancholy yet bombastic, and though quite beautiful, uh, what’s the message here?

(Link to the video here.)

I used to rule the world
Seas would rise when I gave the word
Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own
…
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand
…
For some reason I can’t explain
Once you know there was never, never an honest word
That was when I ruled the world

As if watching your child graduate wasn’t emotional enough, right? Now we have to consider the times we each thought we were masters of all we surveyed, only to watch it crash and burn…and now we get to re-realize that our kids are going to have to fall down those same damned holes and drag themselves out, all while wondering if their best days are behind them? Argh!

Thanks for the uplifting message, guys!

Anyway, as a dry-run for graduation, everybody did okay. No promises for the real thing.

I’ve been pretty good about this kid-gonna-graduate business, but tonight’s gonna be a sniffy one. Incoming Freshman at her school get a ‘big sister-’ an incoming Junior to show them the ropes. Then, just before graduation, the little sisters thank the big sisters before being promoted to being big sisters in their own right.

Got it? Moving on, moving up, growing, milestones…and yeah, okay sappy. Whatever. I’m not much of crier, but when Ali was the incoming Junior, I got weepy, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before she was the one wearing the white dress and moving on.

And so, practically over night, here we are:

I got sniffly just dropping her off, so I know it’s gonna put the makeup to the test tonight. So I have to head back to the school shortly for the ceremony, which amounts to a graduation warm up. Just imagine what that’ll be like. o_O

The honest answer, really, varies widely. But generally, and in the interest of brevity, the answer is: fine. It’s not a very descriptive response, but it’s what I’ve got. Fine: trying to get on with it. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not, but I’ll lean back, put on my beret and squint through my Gauloise to say, “that is life, mon ami, no?”

The business is shut, the phones turned off and the unsold inventory in storage. Alison’s winding down from High School/winding up for college and enjoying her autonomy as she earned her driver’s license last week and is now tooling all over town on her own.

So what’s supposed to be filling these voids is writing, and that’s been problematic. I’m having a hard time reconnecting with my projects-in-process, but I have joining a writing group on livejournal, which Charlie finds a little maddening~ I should be really writing, not doing a series of short essays, etc~ but that’s okay. Cathartic, even. It’s making me let go of my writing and let others read it, something I’m notoriously bad at.

So we’ve compromised. I’m going to stay in the group, and he’s going to keep pushing me to get back down to business.

Oh. Right. That’s not much of a compromise. Thanks for pointing that out. I’m also supposed to crosspost the writing group stuff on the blog, because if my reason for joining it is to let people read it, then do it. One of those pieces will follow this post.

So. Let’s take stock.
Let go of the business.
My daughter.
The stress.
My daughter.
Control of my writing.
Did I mention my daughter?
Control of pretty much everything, really.

Does that about cover it? Yes?

I have been assured that all this letting go would bring a feeling of release and happiness. I’m sure it’ll be coming along at any moment. I haven’t seen signs of it yet, but it must be out there- everybody says so.

In the meantime, I’m fine. Really. Hope you’re not sorry for asking.