Battening down the hatches.

We did some autumn into winter chores today--drained the cooler, put on its winter coat, turned off the outside faucets. I did laundry from upstairs and down. Washed dishes. Cooked and ate porridge and cleaned up after ourselves.

Read the paper, all the terrible news. Talked to Scotland.

We ventured out for our late-ish doggy constitutional at about 10:30. The wind was wild, and you could feel a cold edge to it. Cold and getting colder. The last few nights, the stars have been brilliant. Perfect sun in the day, piercing stars at night.

I graded and graded today. I'm not caught up--please. But I can see the possibility of being caught up now. Beyond that, I can just see the thin selvedge of the end of the semester. It is scented with Christmas tree and has the tiniest sparkle of twinkle lights, even when it is weeks away. Also? Wedding cake.

One of my friends said to me once that, anymore, he was all and only about the small saving graces. I can appreciate where he's coming from. Tonight, I made a frittata and some steamed broccoli. We watched The Good Wife and two episodes of The Unbreakable Kimmie Schmidt (it's a miracle!).  Clean sheets. Talking to my kids. A snug house. Those clear stars.

Around us, all about us, so much falling apart. Maybe it's always falling apart, we're just noticing more.

(These fragments I have shored against my ruins)

In excess of three strikes.

This morning, I arrived at work one hour early for an appointment, spilled my warm beverage on my shirt, did an emergency washup in the restroom that resulted in cold wet shirt syndrome, then spilled my beverage again, this time on the floor, while fetching a fork from the utensil dispenser. Three strikes, I said, maybe even aloud, in the cafeteria, walking away from the spill as if it had nothing to do with me.

But let me start over.

Last night, I got into bed. I assumed my auto-sleep posture (state secret). I closed my eyes. I felt the imminence of sleep, for about twenty minutes, until the Awake Fairy tapped me right on the eyelids and said, fat chance.

I got up and added a bunch more lines to a poem I have started. Dubious lines, if you must know. I researched the source of the Los Angeles river (Bell Creek and Arroyo Calabasas). I wrote until I felt not just sleepy but exhausted. I was seventy-five, eighty percent exhausted. I came back to bed, assumed the posture (state secret), and fell asleep for real.

Five hours later, alarm. Not just the phone going off, my state of mind at what the day was likely to be. Spilled beverage, wet shirt, too early, and another spill. Not to mention hurty eyes and a tiny but naggy headache. I'm not complaining, this is just reportage. This is, like, the science of reportage. It's straight up data, man.

Years from now when they study the data set of today, they will find what any fool could have predicted: compromised productivity. Constant pulse-checking (pulse being a metaphor here--sorry about that, data!). Possible surges of self-pity. Clock-watching. Meeting meeting meeting, all of which were sleep-deprivation compromised.

In the end--by which I mean the end of the day--I came home, traffic seeming extra-sluggish, and fell, it's not too strong a word, into bed for an hour, which gave me exactly enough stamina to eat leftover pasta with pesto, and then laid around all evening, watching bits from Trevor Noah and Ghostbusters.

I'm assuming, in an excess of optimism, that this will be a one time event. That I will wake tomorrow in full possession of my faculties, including the ability to hold on to my beverage and read a schedule. And then I will find my will to live and--let's hope--my will to grade, because the Lord knows I need to. Here's to the Awake Fairy finding her appropriate place on another side of the planet, and the sleep posture (state secret) doing its appointed work.

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Halloween candy: a hate-ode.

Today, I made the annual offering to the sugar gods. By this, I mean I bought approximately seven pounds of Halloween candy. I knew it was Halloween candy, rather than just big bags of miniature sized packs of Milk Duds, Kit Kats, and other, crappier candy, because it had ghosts on the bags. That much sugar IS scary.

And not just because it is handed out in the darkening gloom, to children dressed up like zombies, kitty cats, pirates, droids, and Darth Vader. No, it's because it has to sit at my house for days before the handing out even happens. I'm pretty sure this isn't actually my fault, that the bag got torn open before I even got in the car to drive it from Target home. Okay, I tore it open. And extracted two mini boxes of Milk Duds. And ate one of them while I was driving to Trader Joe's. And then ate the other one while I was driving from Trader Joe's home. I may have also sampled the Kit Kats.

The historian came home from his afternoon of good works. "Oh!" he said, and took out a tiny pack of chocolate-y whatnot.

"Hey!" I said. And all that that implied, such as don't you eat the Halloween candy before Halloween! And: I don't want to have to go back to the store and buy MORE candy! And: crazy rabbit, Kit Kats are for kids!

Not that I had eaten the Halloween candy straight from the big bag, and also from the trunk of my car. Or skulkingly ate those Milk Duds one two three four whilst driving. Or anything like that.

Candy is the worst. Small candy is the worst of the worst. It acts like it's redefining the whole situation by its tininess, winningly announcing: How can I hurt you? I'm so tiny! I'm miniature! And then you've eaten, like, six boxes of Milk Duds (approximately) and it's only four o'clock, and it's still six days till Halloween.

Well, there it is. Halloween is here. The enemy is in the house. And, as usual, the enemy is us.

A few statements I would like to make.

After years--years--of being on the verge of a total breakdown, my oven finally gave us the finger. By that, I mean it kept on flashing an 'F1' on the control panel and beeping repeatedly. If that's not a big fat insult, I don't know what is.

In other news, we will be buying a new oven tomorrow.

Oven breakdowns, flipping the breakers so we could unplug all the wires behind the control panel that looked like they were the ones in charge of beeping, and so on, did not deter us from our nightly rounds. By this, I mean we went to see The Martian. Which was excellent.

Tomorrow, my writing group is coming over. Suddenly, all my lunch plans feel oven-centric.

Fine, soup.

When we were in Scotland, my daughter's oven broke down all of a sudden and it did not work nor did it get fixed the entire time we were there. I think there's a definite pattern here.

I intend to get in bed tonight and sleep like an international prize-winning sleeper. Sleep: I am coming for you.

My study is again a ruin.

Today I washed the holiday tablecloth. I lit the Christmas tree for what I hope will be the last time, although I really can't say for sure. I still have a little gift bag that has three bottles of glitter and a glue pen, which I used again today to inscribe a birthday card for a one year old boy.

However, the truest measure of whether the holidays are over is my study, which is a disaster. Just as it is every January.

That's because when it was December, time to get the rest of the house all gussied up and sparkly, it happened also to be Old Semester Season, when all sorts of mad Old Semester work needs to be accomplished. Uncoincidentally, that means that there's a massive and ever-increasing accumulation of life-stuff, like bills and magazines and papers and books, occupying surfaces such as the kitchen table and the living room, which have to be moved somewhere to make space for the sparkly. Do these things have actual places? Where they, you know, belong? Probably, sure. But to put them in those places requires thinking, and--at least as I remember it--we were in a big hurry to get that damn sparkle on.

I've been reading--well, at least it's on my bedside table--The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. I have in mind a life-changing bout of getting rid of things, and then after that, a life-changing bout of organizing. Life-changing, you see, not just figuring out where three bottles of glitter and a glue pen go. In the matter of resolving the ruin that is my study, I will settle for nothing less than total transformation!

Which is why I will be working on my syllabus and an educational comic and a re-narration of a screencast and another syllabus in squalor tomorrow. Because total transformation takes time, and January is New Semesterville. New Semesterville will be here in a red hot minute, so total transformation will just have to wait.

Open letter to the countdown.

Dear countdown,

For weeks, I have been avoiding you. I'm sure you're aware of this fact, because you've been hiding around every corner.

There, by the Christmas tree, in its last stages of drying, the lowest ornaments drooping almost to the ground. You're there among the branches. And in the refrigerator--you're the atmosphere of leftover things that need to be cleaned out, and in the kitchen too--all those baked goods that are past their giftable dates, not to mention the closets I wanted to tidy, to get rid of things that no longer have a spark of joy in them.

You don't say anything, but you don't have to: I look at the tree, the refrigerator, the counter, the closet, and note to myself,  that's another thing I need to do before I... and I try to stop myself, because I'm not ready to name it, not yet, not ready to count the days forward until...

Fine, I'll say it: until the new semester. It starts in nine days. Nine days. And there we are: just by giving it a number, I've initiated it, the countdown, with your every second ticking like a bastard, adding the frisson of panic and the pulsing soundtrack of shit to do.

It's more than a week, which is really a lot, as in: a lot of days. But the tolling of the countdown means more lists and items, more ways to regiment each day, each hour, each half hour.

Well, countdown, it's been a really nice break. I hope you'll agree to be a useful companion and not a bully. I know what I have to accomplish. I've got a list.

Seriously, that self-righteous, meaningful glancing at your wristwatch? Knock it off,

htms

End of the semester rabbit.

END OF THE SEMESTER RABBIT by lisab

In which I request a do-over.

Yesterday, a colleague stopped by the table where I was sitting in the Writing Center. "htms," she said, "I've just been meaning to ask you. Is there some work we're supposed to be doing on that XYZ committee?"

I didn't exactly jump out of my skin, but I did the super-tired inner version of that. (It was simultaneously super panicky and inert.) "ZOMG I need to call a meeting of the XYZ committee!" I said to her. And I wrote: "CALL MEETING OF XYZ CMTE" in my agenda.

This failure to have called a meeting of the XYZ committee brought to mind another committee I have not called a meeting of. I have been contemplating both of these committees and how I need to call a meeting of them, but to be honest with you, the people? I don't have time for either one of them.

Which leads me to how I would like to roll the calendar back. The question is, how far? back to the days of late August when the English Department had a retreat and we formed a bunch of new committees and I stuck my hand in the air? Or before that? Before I ever had a big idea, then said to my department, "Hey! How's about this big idea? What ho?" and we went ahead with the big idea but since it was, after all, my idea, I was in charge of it and therefore: the meeting-caller.


Well, you may not be aware of this, but this isn't Back to the Future and I don't have a DeLorean anyway, and neither do you, the people (do you? if you do, we need to talk.). So I'm stuck with my over-committed present. Either that, or maybe I will have a nervous breakdown? But then, I always think that at about week seven or so of the semester, especially spring semester, where the downhill slide inherent in the second semester also means that stuff I started in August is as we speak cascading in a landslide-ish fashion toward me, which means I better keep running or else.

Moviegoing fail.

Tonight, after a long day that was the end of a long week, we agreed we would go see Lincoln after we ate Mexican food like it was our job. Which we did, the Mexican food part. It was good, although maybe the time-sensitive nature of our dining timetable meant I felt a little stuffed as we drove down the road-equivalent of the backbone of the valley, State Street, wending movie-ward.

When we reached the theater, we hustled in, only to be told that the seating for Lincoln was LOW. There it was, the word flashing intermittently with the time: 6:45, replaced by LOW. 6:45 LOW 6:45 LOW.

"When it says 'LOW,' what exactly does that mean?" the historian queried.

"Pretty much just the first row," the ticket counter woman said.

Nope. I will not be looking at the monumental head of Abraham Lincoln, in the grand personage of Daniel Day Lewis, from the front row. I, Lisa Bickmore, do not watch serious movies with gigantic heads in them from the front row.

Alas. 

So we headed home. On the way, I had a moment to ponder the better parts of our nature, I mean my day. Including this:

This week, my son has been looking for his immunization records, because the University of Reproach and Prohibition will not let him register unless he puts his immunization records on file. Yesterday, my son Facebook-messaged me this information:

Question: How long will I have to be held responsible for stuff like this? Also, is it crazy that I kind of feel like immunization records is a weird thing for a university to be demanding? (Oh, spare me your public health lecture. I know. I'm just saying GOSH is all.)

Important subtext and a continuation of our story: looking for anything in my study is a fool's errand. I began hallucinating about all the places I might have put his immunization record. I summoned up its very image in my mind. Then I thought about where it might be: stashed in between two books on my Shelves of Chaos? In some secret file in my Filing Cabinet of Chaos? Perhaps I moved it from my study into my bedroom? And stashed it in between two books on my Auxiliary Shelves of Chaos?

This sort of search leads to a line of thinking that inevitably spirals downward, until I am castigating myself for all my moral failings. All of them. The Several Moral Failings of HTMS, or perhaps The Myriad Moral &c &c until I am ready to cry or huff around or cry and huff around or just quietly, softly scream.

And then I went to bed, where kept on hallucinating/summoning up the very image &c/dreaming about the Lost Record of the Immunizations of Son. There may have been Book of Mormon characters in there, I can't say that there weren't.

This morning, when I awoke bleary-eyed and self-reproaching, my son came up and said, "Would this be the thing they'd be looking for?" The thing in his hand was the immunization record.

I said, calmly as all hell, "I think it is."

"I thought so," he said. He thought for a moment, and said, "I guess you gave it to me to keep."

"Huh," I said.

Immunization Record Finding WIN.

Big Planning, Inc.

I am a victim of my own plans.

No, let me explain. But first, let me back up.

I have always--and by "always," I mean all the way back to high school, at least--I have always felt that I lack the big picture in terms of my own life. The girls I knew who were picking out baby names and thinking about what kind of house they'd live in, or else who knew what they wanted to major in in college and what careers they wanted--at that point in time, I was thinking, quite seriously, that I was going to be a concert pianist. (Before that, in my childhood aspiration-list, was "stewardess" and "secretary." All equally lofty, I'm sure you'll agree.) When I was the camp director in my Mormon ward (stop laughing. No, seriously. Stop.), I literally took making handmade paper (so that the girls could write notes to each other on it in the camp "post office") as my first priority. This, while more practical people were planning the meals around me. I shudder to remember this. Also, while shuddering, I have shaken loose about a dozen more similar memories of myself acting dreamy while other people did the list-making.

ANYWAY. Obviously, I am capable of planning plenty of things, since I go to work, collect a pay check, write proposals, buy a lot of shoes, etc. But lately, I feel my plans and good ideas just keep sneaking up, tagging me from behind and snickering at me. Here's an example.

We planned our trip to Scotland, which is now over and done with and is a faint whisper in the annals of time. Not really, but we're not there anymore. Sometime about the same time as we were planning that trip, the Publication Center Steering Committee and I came up with the idea of a Publication Boot Camp, to which we would invite all and sundry, and at which we would teach everything we know to all comers, and would also take a stab at a bunch of stuff we only sort of know. 

We sorted through possible dates. Right before the beginning of the fall semester? But then people wouldn't use the knowledge in their fall courses--it would be too late. The middle of the summer: right out, since people would either be teaching in the summer, or lost in a lemonade-soaked haze. Ergo, right before the summer semester started seemed like the best timeframe possible.

Well, right before the summer semester starts is right now. Right now, as in the jet-lagged, DayQuil'd present. What was I thinking? 

I am uploading Creative Commons licensed photos, videos, and sounds as we speak, so our attendees can practice on them. Wish us all luck and lucidity. Speaking for myself, I know I will need it.

To fail.

At the ends of the semesters is a good time to contemplate failure. Or possibly success. Definitely all the gradations of accomplishment and/or the lack thereof in between.

I am contemplating how many ways I failed my students, while also noting that they did just about as well as they do, as a group, when I feel like I'm trying my very hardest. As a for instance.

I am feeling the creaky structure of my course while also noting that the improvements I made this semester over last, in terms of design, actually seem to have helped.


I am begging, bargaining, and pleading with my students to give me their work already, despite the fact that I made policies to say I wouldn't.

There are a few radiant moments in there. Shining moments, where not only was the writer's work splendid but the writer realized why it was splendid, and articulated it for him/herself. And I got to listen in. That's a recompense.

Well, in the end, all there is to say is: that's a semester, folks. Except for the incompletes I gave to students who would not not not give up their damned final portfolios to me. I just couldn't bear to fail them. And for that, there will be many a future e-mail to pay, alas.

It must be said,

I will be grading until doomsday. Or Monday, whichever. Same diff.

It goes a little something like this.

Today, the issue of Folio arrived from the printers. The student staff and I were kind of excited to see it. Tomorrow is the issue launch and reading, after all. It's possible that we sent an excited inquiry over to Print Services, who is now our middleman. And maybe a phone call, after which our design editor put her coat on and went over to take a look.

"Is there something wrong?" we asked her. She looked concerned.

"Maybe something aesthetic, not content," she said, like a mysterious Zen master of design. And off she went. We went on planning the issue launch slash reading slash web issue unveiling slash multimedia extravaganza (there will be refreshments!).

Fifteen minutes later, Zen Design Master came back. She did not have an air of equanimity. Her face looked a little stormy.

Issue (a). One page was bound in the book upside down.

Issue (b). That page was a repeat of a page about seven pages earlier in the book, where said page was bound right side up.

Issue (c). Page 70 is missing.

What. we said. We said What. The. Hell. We really couldn't believe it. I, Faculty Advisor, had gone through the book before sending it to the printer. The Design Editor had surely gone through the book only about a zillion times. She and the Print Services middleman liaison person went through it together before sending it off. This was not an advisory oversight problem. This was not a layout problem. This was not a middleman liaison person problem. This was a printer problem, one with only a little more than twenty-four hours to turn it around.

The Print Services middleman had what I can only imagine was a terse, perhaps even spiky, conversation with the printers, who are now reprinting the book. Her followup e-mail to me even said something like "as we speak," which I can only hope was literally--and I mean literally literally--true. We agreed to have a less-matte finish than we had originally ordered on the cover (WOE!) and they agreed to have the book to us by 4:30 p.m. Which is precisely 90 minutes before the reading slash issue launch slash multimedia showdown slash web issue extravaganza is supposed to start (there will be tea!).

Meanwhile, I have about 30 photographs, illustrations, drawings, prints and paintings in my office, which will need to be carted over to the venue, along with the putative magazine. Catering will be delivering crackers, cheese, fruit platters and assorted tea bags along with what we hope will be very hot water, to celebrate what may be a phantom book.

But by golly come to the event! It's an issue launch, art and multimedia gallery, web-issue debut, and reading. With refreshments! And hopefully a magazine!

My daughter called last night.

"Hello?" I said. Croaked.

"You're still sick?" she said, alarmed.

It has lasted and lasted, the sick. I think now I'm definitely better. Except that "better" still requires some ibuprofen. On a regular basis.

We had a two-birthday dinner to celebrate tonight. (Happy Birthday to I. and S.! and while I'm at it--happy birthday to all my December and January birthday kids!)

Actually, it was pretty easy, as two-birthday dinners go. One pasta dish, one green salad, a couple of vegetables, store-bought (but excellent) bread. Pineapples, cut up. And cake. Still, that croaky voice put the whole celebratory gig in doubt.

"No, I'm fine," I reassured.

I wish it hadn't been such a long day on Friday. I wish I hadn't left my purse at this one store on Saturday, which added another half hour to my appointed rounds. I wish there were about three more grace days before school starts. I wish I were about an hour deep into a very restful sleep right now.

But it starts tomorrow.

(Luckily, at least one of my syllabi is finished.)

Coming soon.

• bulletins from L.A. (from the SLC, actually)
• a new October header
• Best movies 2009 list

. . . as soon as I am caught up, or can lie to myself convincingly enough that I am "caught up."

August is the cruelest month.

I counted: fifteen days till I have to show up at work. This means that I'm already nostalgic for summer and it's not over yet, a state which I believe philosophers have written about, which nonetheless does not mitigate how much it sucks. However: at least it's a summer worth being wistful about.

1. the Scotland contingent came over for an extended visit, which resulted in this and this and this.
2. my daughter, the make-up artist, had a baby, and during her maternity leave I got to visit frequently and hold the baby in her quiet sleeping house.
3. we went to the Idaho cabin where we observed the beautiful river and the mercurial skies.
4. the historian and I took an excellent vacation that restored and refreshed us.
5. I got to hang out with the dogs many days.
6. I bought a new vacuum cleaner, which is the bomb.
7. I have had lunch, tea, and shopping with many of my friends.
8. I made new literary contacts.
9. I have some poems coming out in the fall, and more poems and mss. in the mail (burst of optimism).
10. Two sons graduated, one from college and one from high school. College daughter is home, working, and available for late-night movie dates.
11. I took a wonderful trip to see my best friend since forever in Santa Barbara.

Yesterday, in a burst of industry, I pulled many, many items from my wardrobe to give away. I threw away and recycled stuff and vacuumed some ferocious dust bunnies from under the bed. The room is unbelievably tidy, which always feels like a small miracle. I need to do the same in my study and in the kitchen. Optimism is like a drug and I am still on it.

12. I have done quite a bit of new writing, especially when you factor in all of the above.

Projects: a progress report.

Project #1: The House.

Definition of problem: the downstairs has dun-colored carpet, wood-product paneling, weird-shaped rooms, and insufficient outlets. Also, teenagers regard the downstairs as their lair. Also, the dogs sleep down there. Also, the Wii resides there. Also, my vacuum cleaner has been out of commission for awhile now.

Solutions (enacted so far): Get on consumerreports.com, pay for a month's worth of consumer info, find out that the best vacuum cleaner in America for the money is made by Sears. Hightail it up to the Sears and buy said vacuum cleaner. Assemble it in the garage. Vacuum. Harangue young people who live in the basement ("lair") about getting their stuff out of the public spaces and into their rooms, about figuring out what to give away and what to keep, and about keeping their damn stuff out of the upstairs living room. Also harangue them about cleaning the bathrooms. Vacuum some more. Arrange for carpet cleaning guy to come.

Still to come: call a sheetrock guy to see if we can resolve the horrible paneling decor issue. Consider building in a wall of bookshelves. Imagine that peace, order, and harmony will arise from the execution of these plans.

Other projects:

• the Write Every Day project;
• the Go Outside and Get In Shape project;
• the Stay as Cool as Possible project;
• the Make the Perfect Iced Tea project;
• the Have the Best Vacation Ever project;
• the I Am Really Getting Old project;
• the Finally Make a Movie project; and
• the Get Ready for School project.

There has been progress, progress which is, in fact, as we speak, being made, on most of these projects. Not enough on some of them, of course. Today is the last day of July--there should be a sound effect that goes with it that embodies sadness, anxiety, and dread. Tomorrow: August 1. The sad, anxious, dreadful little countdown begins.

Sharper.

Part of the great Writers@Work experience I had was the manuscript conference I had with the editor/publisher, who loved my work but also had some editorial feedback, to wit:

1. each line should be like a little poem unto itself. I was enjambing too much which made all the lines feel not like little poems unto themselves.
2. take three words out of each line. (overstatement, translation: wordy, talky, also wordy.)
3. hold your hand over the page and find the language "hot spots." (metaphorical, translation: too talky, too much talking between the good parts.)

He took care to remind me that the above feedback was in the context of really liking my work, so I was not supposed to tumble into a pit of self-loathing, and I mostly haven't. Mostly. When I mentioned this feedback to several friends, they said, basically, (a) that's just regular good advice, but (b) don't do it just because he said so! (insert eye-rolling here). Anyway, I decided to go through the manuscript to see what I thought, and immediately, I could see poems that needed relineation and general pruning. Did I see this just because I'm a pro and it's just good practice? Was I doing it because he said so? Probably both, a little.

Yesterday, I spent several hours revising almost every poem. It was amazing to me to see how much sharper I could make poems I haven't touched for literally years. Example of an old sad version and a new sexy, streamlined version of the first part of one poem:

Old version:

Directions

To get to the house, you must first find
the black highway, measured in leagues
and scores of leagues. This will take days.
The broken lines will keep you
till the road ends. There, you’ll find

a field with a path. It has been years
since the least pilgrim has found it,
so really, it will be the intimation
of a path, and you’ll have to imagine
the rest with your feet, or perhaps with

a rusty old scythe, which you might find
lying there.

and the 2.0 version:

Directions

To get to the house, first find the black highway,
measured in leagues and scores of leagues.
This will take days. The broken lines will keep you
till the road ends. There, find a field
and the intimation of a path—
imagine the rest with your feet,
or perhaps with a rusty scythe
you might find lying there.

Still enjambing, but with more purpose, and so many extra, useless, meaningless words . . . poof!

Well, who can say? In any case, I enjoyed doing the revising, then had a fit of self-loathing as I readied copies of the ms to send out. But not because anyone told me to. The self-loathing I always manage to do on my own.

What the hell.

I'm sick again. As in "I better get back in bed after I just got up and then, when I get up at noon or so, I better go back to bed again at two. And sleep till five. And then sneeze and moan a dozen times or so." As in "Let's buy more DayQuil."

In the meanwhile, I have watched all of seasons one and two of the American The Office. If I weren't so sick, I'd be whining about figuring out a way to watch season three online (the way has been shown to me, but I'm pretty sure my internet connection won't be ideal). Hey, I guess that was me whining about figuring out a way to watch season three online. And also--I'm whining about being sick. Double-whiny.

Why don't we get together after the dance?

Running son and date (Sammy), who permitted photos before going to the prom.

A little history is called for here: there has been little in the way of going out with girls during RS's tenure as a teen boy. What with the jobs where he works just enough to pay for, what, his incidental expenses, the upkeep of the party shed, his sporting activities . . . oh, I don't know, and I frankly haven't cared, because it's just one more thing to worry about. I guess the point is, there's been none of this kind of activity before, and now, he presents himself in a tux . . .
















. . . the wearing of which, of course, presents its own challenges. Here, his dad helps him to deconstruct the tie (previously: I helped him to buckle the silly vest around his extra skinny waist).















Handsome boy, pretty (smart, tall) girl. I haven't had a report about the overall event, though at some ungodly hour when it was all over, RS and his friend Dustin came by in civvies, with treats, to watch the Jazz game, which he had recorded. I arose to unlock the door, which entailed much flurrying and settling of dogs. By decree, I wasn't allowed to say a word about the outcome of the game. I really hope the dance was more fun.