I Knew That It Was Bill Haley and the Comets

There was quite a bit of fanfare yesterday at the Lipstick household. We were dressed up, I was off work, and Mommy and Daddy Lipstick came to visit. The momentous occasion...Grandparent's Day at JBB's school. There was time to time to tour his classroom and talk to his teacher and to oooh and aaah over such wondrous things as this picture.

 

It was featured inside a card with the school crest and one of those sentimental quatrains about children not staying little for very long. You know the ones...somehow around the third line, you have such a hitch in your throat that you can't finish reading the thing aloud. Yep, one of those.

All thousand of us moved to the auditorium which sounds cringe-inducing except that it was organized and comfortable and happy and relaxed and totally acceptable to stand up and wave at your child. Well, I waved, smiled, moved my arms back and forth, and caught myself jumping up and down a couple of times, but whatever. JBB saw where we were. I didn't do anything more embarrassing that that which is a lot more than I can say for my antics at the Christmas program.

The children sang everything from fifties classics to old church hymns to patriotic selections as well as reciting things learned during the year. Nothing boring and all fun. It really was cool. They began the fifties part with, "Rock Around the Clock" which is on the jukebox in Nonna and DeeDa's basement.

Mr. Lipstick and I both knew that the song was by Bill Haley and the Comets and then we wondered if anyone else of our generation knew that little bit of trivia. Mr. Lipstick starting laughing hysterically and stage-whispered to me that when we were grandparents the kids would sing medleys of "Ice, Ice Baby." Oh, my goodness. Three cords and a stand-up bass are way better.

We ate lunch at my favorite place in town...the tea room at the art gallery that is just down the street from our house. When I drive through the ornamental iron gates, I leave all of my stress. I am never quite so relaxed as when I am there-and it doesn't even matter which part I visit...art gallery, mansion, gardens, or tea room. Relaxation washes over me and the burdens of work clatter to the ground like a set of rusty, tortuous iron shackles.

Of course, I wanted to have a family photo of sorts to document all of this relaxation. Mr. Lipstick insisted on taking it. It had begun thundering in earnest and Mommy Lipstick was lecturing us about the dangers of the weather. Mr. Lipstick was attempting to use her argument as his own just to avoid the picture. I am uncertain why either of them tries to dissuade me from taking pictures. If it weren't for me, we would have no photo record of our family at all. Daddy Lipstick doesn't mount these ridiculous photo arguments, and yet Mommy Lipstick and Mr. Lipstick do each time. Sigh. See how exhausting this is. You should have been there. We did get this picture.

Out of focus...me saying, "come over here, Pretty Girl. No turn around this way."
Then we got this one.

I am wrestling with Pretty Girl and Mommy Lipstick is expressing her extreme displeasure with the thunder and perhaps a flash of lightning. Notice the parking lot of the back....we really, really are about to leave in two seconds.
Then we got this one.

I was thinking, "Does Pretty Girl have her hands in her mouth? I hope not. Well, I can't worry about it now. Uh, my goodness...."
I grabbed the camera at the end and took a picture of Mr. Lipstick because he wasn't getting out of this picture business, oh no sirree. His offer to photograph everyone is not altruistic; rather, it is laden with hidden intent. I will take care of that, and here he is looking all lawyerly.

 

In other news...
Yesterday I saw a lady coming out of Home Depot with a giant red bucket on her head.
Reminded me of this.

Granted it was pouring down rain. The thunder and lightning finally brought some rain along with them. That lady still looked very Devo-esque. I do not think kids will ever sing "Whip It" at Grandparent's Day...no matter how old that song gets.