Deodorant

It's the deodorant that really gets to me.

As I've mentioned, both boys are home for the summer. I come home and every kitchen cabinet door is open, dirty dishes clutter the counter, greasy pots and pans crowd the stovetop, the toilet stands unflushed, impossibly gargantuan shoes litter all the rooms, wet towels wind their way through the hallway, and seed pods cover the sofa (Hugh is addicted to sunflower seeds; it's like living with a Really Big Squirrel).

I cope. Barely.

And then, there sits the deodorant stick. Atop the coffee table. Perched on my laptop. Nestled amidst the kitty bowls.

And I totally lose it.

I mean, who are these creatures? Why can't they perform their ablutions in the bathroom, like normal people? Why must they wander around the house with deodorant? Geez louise. Didn't their mother teach them anything?

Dang.

Laundry; or, Things Happen

I'm not proud of much in my parenting career, but I do feel quite chuffed about one achievement: I taught both boys, once they reached middle school, to do their own laundry. Lights versus darks, hot versus cold, gentle versus permanent press versus heavy duty. . . we covered the lot. There were a few blips along the way, like the time Owen ran out to stop me before I backed out of the driveway to ask if it was ok to put a shirt with buttons in the wash. (God, he was so adorable.) But, blips and all, I released them, to discover the woes of shrinkage and the mysteries of lost socks and the horror of dye seepage all on their own.

So now they're both home for the summer. And they continue to do their own laundry. And, to my horror, they do not Separate. Completely ignoring all  my carefully inculcated lessons, they just throw all their whites and darks, towels and cotton shirts, jeans and undies, all together in one big undifferentiated mass. "What's the point?" they ask. "It all goes on cold--regular," they point out. "It's fine," they insist.

And it is fine. They're not walking around in pink undershirts or weirdly bleached jeans or horribly shrunk tee-shirts.

Except it's not fine. One cannot not Separate laundry. There are Rules. Whites do not float promiscuously with Darks; undies do not spin with dress shirts; sheets must not fraternize with khaki shorts. Consequences will ensue. Catastrophe looms. You start mixing socks with delicates and, well, Things Will Happen.

The thing is, my boys aren't afraid of Things Happening.

So much to learn. And, with my 52nd birthday lurking just ahead, so little time. I'm going to start tomorrow morning by throwing in my white blouse with my blue jeans. And so it begins. Laundry and a life where Things Happen.

Jubilee

My apologies, blogovians. I have been bad. Blame my kids. (There's no actual reason to blame them, no empirical data, so to speak, but blaming the kids is my default mode. It works.)

Anyway, I'm back. A bit worn out, however, from celebrating the Queen's Jubilee yesterday. What Queen, you ask? As did the lovely little girl behind the counter at Baum's Bakery. "THE Queen," I replied. "You know, Queen Elizabeth. She's been on the throne for 60 years!" The little girl was so impressed. "That is so cool! So, how do you celebrate a Queen's Jubilee?"

Silly girl. You eat cake. A $40 Baum's Half Lemon/ Half Chocolate Dobasch Cake (http://www.baumspastries.com/index.php/cakes/specialty-cakes/dobasch-half-and-half.html) which, I'll admit, looks a bit wonky on the website photo but is ecstasy encapsulated in six layers of delicate, moist cake, enfolded by delectable lashings of buttercream and fondant. And then you get the star-struck, lovely, silly girl to write "God Save the Queen" on it. And you combine it with a sandwich and salad buffet and a very last-minute gathering of somewhat mystified Baton Rougeans, and you watch BBC-America with the sound turned off so that you can all shout out questions like, "Good lord, who is that woman?" and "Wait, who sucked who's toes?", and you mix in lots of champagne, and there you have it. A respectable Queen's Jubilee celebration.

But not the best we've done, actually. Ten years ago we were living in Manchester and 7-year-old Hugh's primary school marked the occasion of Elizabeth's 50-year anniversary on the throne with a "garden party." Completely bowled over by the event, Hugh came home from school that Friday afternoon and--unbeknownst to us--invited all our neighbors on the street to a Garden Party that evening. Somehow, we got wind of the plans and were able to convince him to walk round and change the invitations to Saturday afternoon. Keith and I figured most of the neighbors would not come; the few who did, we were sure, would show up, smile fondly at Hugh, eat a small piece of cake, wink at us, and head home five minutes later. So the next morning I toddled down to the local bake shop and picked up a couple of small "Jubilee" cakes--simple single layer sponge cakes with fondant icing and a picture of the queen. We chilled a bottle of wine and made a pot of tea, and set aside 30 minutes.

That afternoon the neighbors poured in, all of them thrilled to be invited and massively ashamed that it took "the Americans" to whip Grange Avenue into shape and make sure that we observed the Jubilee properly. Gobsmacked, Keith and I ransacked the cupboards and fridge for snacks, party food, anything edible, really, and after our embarrassingly substantial wine and beer collection was completely drained dry, the neighbors began making periodic forays to their own kitchens to restock the liquor supply. By the end of that long, glorious, sunny, booze-soaked, cake-filled, amazing afternoon, we felt like we were honorable members of the British tribe. We moved to the U.S. just a month later--and coming back to Louisiana, in many ways we felt like ex-pats, far from home.

So, Happy Jubilee, Liz, old gel.  God save you, luv. You've been good to us.