BerthaBlog

It’s official—last night we attended The Artist’s graduation ceremony. We watched him walk across the stage, accept his diploma and shake the principal’s hand, and move his tassel from right to left. He is now a high school graduate.

There were times we wondered if he was going to make it. His first two years of high school were less than impressive. However, in the last two years he’s matured tremendously; he’s been setting his own goals and taking responsibility for achieving them. (His next goal is to get his driver’s license. $DEITY help me.)

We took him out for a nice dinner afterward. He was dressed in a nice shirt and a tie—I believe it was the first time he’d ever worn a tie—and he was the best-dressed person at the table. We kept teasing him that the waitress was going to hand him the check.

By now he’s probably quite tired of hearing how proud we are of him.

One down, one to go.

On the way to pick up my son, I made a quick stop at the grocery store. Just routine, minding my own business. Walking across the parking lot, there was a man walking towards me carrying his plastic bags of groceries.

I made brief eye contact and nodded as we passed, as is considered polite here in the South.

He came to a halt and turned to address me as I went by. “Hey, how you doing! Haven’t seen you in a while!”

I turned back to him, confused—I didn’t recognize him. “Hi…?”

“You’re Lisa, right?”

“No, I’m Bertha.”

Not at all put off, he went on cheerfully, “Nice to meet you!”

“Nice to meet you,” I replied, already turning back toward the store.

“Can I get your number?”

“No,” I said, adding, “I have to go.” My kid was waiting for me and I didn’t want to invest a lot of time fending off this pick-up attempt.

This is the problem with wearing a wedding ring. The better class of men generally don’t try to pick up married women, so you’re left with the ratty guys trying to hit on you in the parking lot. Not terribly flattering to the old ego, ya know.