The ob&c and mje are just back from hell on earth: atlanta, ga., home of son knut, second wife oleo, and our grandchildren apricot, ambrose and decibelle. Ambrose is graduating from high school so a marathon of festivities worthy of his receiving the nobel prize in astrophysics, is on order. The ob&c and mje do our best to support our grandchildren’s achievements, even when it means driving for days, spending a fortune on an hotel (knut was kind enough to recommend a few…how do you say I don’t want you staying in my six bedroom house…well that’s how) and a $$$$ tab to celebrate the milestone.
First, after missing a hair appt due to the traffic and putzing around of the ob&c, we met alhambra, knut’s first wife and the daughter we wished we had instead of the one we do, her new hubby, presto! and grand daughter apricot for what turned out to be an extremely costly array of cocktails and “starters.” Of course, this is all on the qt, as we didn’t want oreo to feel less than ‘whatever’, nor to incur the wrath of knut for consorting with his former wife and mother of his children but who now is apparently the enemy.
Next up: Dinner hosted by knut (and oleo) Mje had meticulously arranged wardrobe choices as commanded by knut for both the ob&c and myself. The ob&c is completely indifferent to clothing, usually looks like he just fell out of a laundry basket, so when knut states that dress clothing is required for the dinner, the ob&c chooses a pair of hiking pants, a stained polo shirt (“no one cares”) and deck shoes. Well, love of my life, there is one person who cares and she is standing right in front of you and she ain’t moving until you change clothes. Fortunately I had packed a blazer, dress shirt and trousers and a decent pair of shoes, which after the “hair do” debacle, which again was entirely his fault for not getting on the road on time, he felt it was in his best interest (and survival) to accede to my choices. I jammed the him into a “relaxed fit” shirt, one of his few pairs of trousers that don’t require spanx and a blue blazer all the while enduring whining worthy of a two year old being required to eat spinach. Sadly the pushing and pulling ruined my manicure… truly there is no justice in life…(fyi, mje wore a tailored (read: tight) black silk tunic and voluminous polka dot pantaloons, and black satin heel slides with real fur pom poms, fab!!!!) so we had to stop en route to the restaurant to purchase additional polish at a luxe grocery. The ob&c, still laying very low from the hair do debacle, remained quiet as a clam. But, hey, while I was in there I might as well stock up on a few bottles of vino…go to the self check ring up the polish and wine, stick in my CC, but whoop, whoop!!! the age police show up and ask for my ID. I am old, and as much as it would please me (and my surgeon), no half blind person would mistake me for someone half a century younger. No dice granny, gotta run back out to the car in the scorching heat in my too tight silk tunic, and uncomfortable shoes to retrieve my ID, reenter and the lady scans the ID and I am out of there. Not so fast, stopped again, apparently my CC charge was deleted because I had not been properly ID’d, so back to the cash register to pay. By this time any caution about our overindulgence of alcohol was totally and completely moot. Knut had commanded that we be on time, and so anxious were we, that we arrived at the restaurant bar 45 minutes early and gluttonously drank the juice of the forbidden fruit before officer unfriendly arrived.
The dinner, to which knut insisted we be on time (were we ever!) and properly attired (ditto) was for reasons we couldn’t figure out disguised as a birthday dinner for the ob&c, whose birthday was last month. I brought a card so the crew could sign it although why I bothered I do not know. Knut had apparently forgotten his ruse but made a point to write “dad” on the envelope and a nice inscription, making it seem as though he’d brought it, however the ob&c had already seen it before we left home and was justifiably surprised when he received it. However, despite knut’s firm dress code directive, he himself showed up without a jacket, in a shirt with his sleeves rolled up. Never one to accept criticism of any kind, he dismissed my comment on his violation of the dress code that he had conveyed so specifically to us, with his usual sneer. Children truly are a blessing, but to whom…
Then on to the BIG DAY!!!! A luncheon hosted by knut’s former wife and mother of the graduate, alhambra and knut (and oleo) and attended by many of alhambra’s florida-based family was first stop on the graduation day party train. They are all just right of atilla the hun, politically, so it was a potentially combustible congregation. Also very jesus oriented, and in one case, alhambra’s mother (fortunately the apple fell a long way from that tree) a teetotaler. We were outnumbered and outflanked in every way possible. But kudos to alhambra on the seating arrangement, she managed to keep everything at a low simmer with the unsaid warning, don’t talk about anything that might be flammable, which obviously kept convo to a bare minimum.
Now, building up to the BIG EVENT. The schedule got a bit muddled by then, we arrived at knut’s house for the scheduled “one drink and a snack” , to be followed by “one drink and an array of snacks” in the restaurant bar down the street. Smack on time, we were met by an empty open garage! Yikes, we thought we’d managed, despite our best efforts, to mess it up and miss one of the signature events, the one chez knut too. So we sped to the restaurant , fortunately close by, only to be told that there was no reservation nor were there any other people wandering about looking dazed and confused, at least not at that hour. So we hustled back to knut’s house, now inhabited and covered in family cars, where we were admonished for being late, which meant the bar crawl was apparently off. I swear, sometimes you just can’t win.
So we quickly downed a glass of cheap wine, declined the cold pizza and trundled off to the ceremony at the nearby school, gazing longingly out of the car window at the restaurant (bar) as we drove by. Then, three hours on cement stadium seats to bear witness to this momentous event, from the bag piping in of the graduates, seating of the graduates, speeches by everyone on the dais, then the valedictorian, salutatorian, then the truly endless roll call of the graduates including any prizes or notable achievements they may have been awarded, then a fireworks finale. And that’s what $41,112 a year and a ham sandwich will get you.
Back at the house, we were not invited in, but did receive a car-side lecture from knut about drinking and driving. FYI, that ship was moored in a large plastic cup under my feet at the stadium and set sail when the bagpipes began to bellow.. So we did what any teenager would do, we peeled out of his driveway, did a few donuts and skidded onto the street to demonstrate not only our total sobriety but our amazing automotive prowess, not to mention our shared amazement that we had not only endured, but had done so without incident, well, except the hair do debacle.
And finally congrats to all the entitled grads who will probably use AI for their papers, be drunk or stoned for a significant portion of their academic careers, have their mothers call their TA’s (freshmen never get a real professor, it’s not worth their time, it’s like going to the doctor and getting a PA instead of the doctor you thought you were going to get) if they get a bad grade, have their fathers call the campus police if/when they get busted, etc. College is a wonderful experience, but as knut has often told us, he didn’t learn a thing and the only reason to go is to “make contacts.” For four years, all on your parents’ dime. How great is that?
And to the parents, you have been warned. As you tearfully deposit your darling babies in their dorm rooms, whisper in their ears, “Just so you know, if you screw up, the rule is one and done. Join the rotary if all you want to do is make contacts”. Ingrate.
my jaundiced eye 