Don’t Want To Cook Over Memorial Day Weekend? Introduce Yourself To Some High School Graduates And Do The Tour Of Graduation Parties.

Well, Memorial Day Weekend is over, and we’re on the downhill slide towards summer vacation.  I can’t even put into words how happy that makes all of us feel, because the boy has come to realize that the last days of a year at the junior high are all about things called Science Final and History Final and Math final, and ENOUGH OF THE FINALS ALREADY!  I think he’s suddenly remembering all of his last few days at his elementary school, which were all about field days and field trips and HELP THE TEACHER TAKE THESE BULLETIN BOARDS DOWN, AND SHE’LL GIVE YOU AN EXTRA RECESS TODAY.

Life is sometimes simpler in elementary school.

Our weekend was full.  It’s because seven high school seniors we know decided to up and graduate this weekend, and their parents all chose to throw parties for them, because that is what good parents are supposed to do when their children march across the stage in a flat-billed hat and tassel to receive a sheet of paper that says, “WHOA!  MADE IT!”

The weekend’s lineup of activities looked like a Taylor Swift wardrobe changing session, due to seven graduation parties, two birthday parties, an Air Soft Gun War, and a Joan Jett concert.

Sadly, Hubs and I passed on Joan’s concert, because we were in agreement that there just comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs to lay her guitar down, hang her leather pants up in the closet, and just walk away, with the good times behind her.  Plus, the whole thought of YES, SHE’S IN HER FIFTIES, but she’s still singing the words, “I saw him dancing there by the record machine… I knew he must’ve been about seventeen…” just sounded like twenty-nine kinds of wrong.  We met up with some folks at a birthday party on Sunday evening who had sent their two teenage daughters to the concert.  Naturally, I had questions for them, the first of which was, HOW DID SHE LOOK?  And do you know what the girls’ answer was?

She looked as good as she did when you guys watched her on MTV in the olden days.

I’ve never had to restrain myself from flat-out slapping a nineteen-year-old girl before this weekend.  Since WHEN did the ’80s become THE STINKING OLDEN DAYS?

In honor of the concert that we deliberately chose to skip, Hubs and I played Joan Jett songs this weekend, and reminisced about skating to them at the local roller rink.  Hubs stated that he once skated so fast to “I Love Rock and Roll,” the skate police had to wave their light sticks at him and holler out, “Slow it down!”

I have never loved that man more, because I’m pretty sure his feathered hair was flying in the wind he was making on those skates.

On Friday, Sister turned OFFICIALLY OLD, which means that she remembers Joan Jett back in the olden days.  I’m sure Sister had at least one of Joan’s cassettes, which teenage girls would look at today and say, “Yes… but how do you PLAY these things?”

My mom threw a big birthday dinner at my parents’ house for Sister on Friday evening, which turned out to be the best decision made since the creators of Gymboree opened their first store, because Thing 2 skipped his nap on Friday.  We experienced a meltdown that made Chernobyl look like a minor incident.  Hubs and I high-fived one another, as we shouted, “Thank goodness THAT didn’t take place in a public restaurant!”

On Saturday, there was mowing.  Or rather, there was baling.  With all the rain, our grass has done what grass usually does with the proper amount of moisture and sunshine, which is grow.  It needed to be baled, and I wasn’t sure our little push-mower was going to handle the hay bales.  I solicited the neighbors to borrow their enormous riding lawn mower, with the bag on the back that could smuggle immigrants across the border.  The boy was still given the honor of mowing, but he got to do it in style this weekend, thanks to his mama’s brilliant idea.  At one point, he came inside for a drink of water and said, “Mom!  This is the best day of my life!  Please by US a riding lawn mower!”

Unless you can buy it with the $5 bill I found in a jacket pocket this weekend, it ain’t gonna happen, because the alternative is giving up Starbucks for two years.  I think the boy would prefer to push a mower all summer than live with uncaffeinated parents.

On Saturday afternoon, we hit graduation parties, and found out that YAY!  Mama wasn’t gonna have to cook dinner, because BEHOLD, THIS BEAUTIFUL TACO BAR LAID OUT BEFORE US AT THE NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE!

Thing 2 was beat on Saturday, because he’d eaten his fair share of graduation cakes and tacos and watermelon slices and chips and salsa, so we put him to bed early.  Hubs and the boy had the second Iron Man movie, which they insisted I should watch before we went to the theater to see the third version.  Or the ninth version.  Or whatever version is currently playing at the theater.

I’ll admit it.  I actually LIKED the the original Iron Man movie, because… well… ROBERT DOWNEY, JR.  I kind of guessed that the second one would be fantastic, too, but that’s where I didn’t guess correctly.  My adult-onset ADD kicked in full-force during the movie, and I was too hot in our house, because apparently my hormones were working to kill me.  Hubs and the boy were begging for blankets, because IS THIS A MEAT LOCKER IN HERE?

No.  No, it wasn’t.  It was Mount Vesuvius, and stand clear!  She’s gonna blow!

I couldn’t keep up with the Russian villain and all the lightning bolts / static electricity spraying out of his fingers, and I couldn’t keep characters straight.  At one point, I considered heading to bed with a book and throwing Iron Man under a bus, but I stuck it out.

My hopes for Number Three at the cinema have fallen to a new low.

On Sunday morning, there was church and there was rain.  Regardless of the rain, the boy still went out to attend an Air Soft Gun War with a big pack of his buddies.  If you’re unfamiliar with this, Air Soft Guns are the updated version of the BB gun.  (You know… the kid-friendly guns from the OLDEN DAYS?)  An ASG War is when groups of boys get together, dress in camo, paint their faces black, glue brush to their ball caps, divide themselves into teams, and shoot the snot out of one another.  It’s exactly as safe as it sounds.  I sent the boy with his ski goggles and threatened him with MAMA WILL JUST SMACK YOU INTO A COMA HERSELF IF YOU DON’T WEAR THESE DURING LIVE-ACTION WARFARE.

When I collected the boy, he was filthy.  He was soaking wet from rain.  He was covered in mud and slop and brush debris, and he shouted out, “THIS was the best day of my life!”

Shooting one another always trumps riding a lawn mower around in circles.  Note to self.

The boy had bruises from direct hits, but he declared that he’d dished out far more hits than he’d received, and his team had annihilated the other team, and maybe he’d just go on ahead and join the Navy after high school graduation and become a SEAL.

Mama said no.  I told him that he had to go into a SAFE career, such as being a greeter at Walmart or a Starbucks barista.

Thing 2’s little buddy, Gavin, turned two on Sunday, so we hopped on over to that big party on Sunday evening.

It was still raining, but this didn’t stop Thing 2 or Gavin from pushing their trucks around on the deck, until they’d walked ninety-six miles in the Vehicle Pushing Position.



There were was dinner at Gavin’s party, so I celebrated a little private victory commonly known as I HAVEN’T HAD TO COOK FOR THREE NIGHTS IN A ROW, WHAT WITH ALL THE PARTIES WE’VE BEEN TO THIS WEEKEND.

There were also homemade cupcakes that forever changed my mind about a cupcake being a beautiful thing, because MY WORD!  These cupcakes were baked by baby angels and sprinkled with the glitter from a fairy’s wings, and I wanted to eat nine of them.

Or sixteen.

But I couldn’t come up with a way to actually pull that off without looking like the pig sitting by the fireplace with cupcake frosting smeared from one ear to the other.

Gavin opened his presents, and Thing 2 successfully bombed every photo that our friends tried to take of their JUST TURNED TWO son.  We learned that Thing 2 likes to be in the middle of all the action at a birthday party, and he considers LOOK!  A NEW TRUCK IN THIS GIFT BAG! to be all of the action.

IMG_4672Thing 2 simply tried out Gavin’s new toys to make sure that they met OSHA’s safety guidelines for children under the age of three.

Gavin was head over heels in love with his new guitar, because he wants to have the longevity of a rock star career like Joan Jett.  He was more than happy to allow Thing 2 free access to all the new cars and balls.

IMG_4697On Monday, there was even more rain, which Thing 2 watched from an open window like a boss.

IMG_4706IMG_4709 IMG_4710When there was a break in the dark clouds, the boy took off with Enzo and his dad for Smaller Town, USA (some thirty miles down the interstate) to go golfing at the course over there.

The problem with spring golfing here is that sometimes you get caught in rainstorms, which is exactly what happened to the three of them.  And, the boy came home on Saturday night, stating that he had golfed THE! ABSOLUTE! WORST! game of his young career.  He said that Enzo’s dad asked him if he was tired, and when he said no, Mark replied by saying, “Man!  I’d be EXHAUSTED if I had to hit the ball as many times as you did today!”

We all had a good laugh.

There was also a substantial amount of hail in Small Town yesterday, so Hubs and I gathered at the windows and said things like, “Ah, hail!  It’s hailing,” because our last name is Maturity.

I had to cook on Monday, because we had depleted the reserve of our seven graduation parties and two birthday parties.  I made chicken fajitas, which simmered in the crockpot all the live-long day.

And that was our holiday weekend, people.  It totally rocked.

Exactly like Joan Jett is still capable of dishing out.

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