Promenading

The more things change the more they stay the same.  For instance:

2011

Dress-Blue

Design-Poufy

Prom Theme-"Paris"

1982

Dress-Blue

Design-Poufy

Prom Theme-"An Evening in Paris"

Oh, and a certain senior was voted "Best Sense of Humor" this week.  Guess what senior superlative her mother captured as well. 

Cue the weird music.

To the Edge and Back

Brothers and sisters, I have stepped to the edge of the cliff, gazed into the Valley of the Shadow of Death, feared the evil, teetered on the edge of annihilation and survived to tell about it. I have lived through that harrowing adventure known as (cue foreboding music) PROM DRESS SHOPPING WITH A TEENAGE GIRL! There were thrills. And chills. And spills of a giant unsweetened tea when I accidentally poked a hole in the bottom of my Styrofoam cup. But in the end we walked away with a dress that made Teen Angel happy and passed my rules, which are:

1. Must have a skirt long enough to keep the fanny from being exposed when you touch your toes. (No duck dresses. A duck dress is one with a hem two inches below the quack.)

2. Limited cleavage.

3. Must cost less than one mortgage payment.

I gave up on pushing for a consignment store dress because that was an argument I wasn’t going to win. You’d think I had asked her to shave her head bald or something. I settled on a dollar amount I would pay and anything above that was on her dime or between her and her grandmother to work out since granny has more money than sense and an intense desire to make sure Teen Angel goes to prom in style. Granny also thinks dyed shoes and beaded purses are still in style, but we’ve almost talked her down from that ledge. Another week or so and we’ll have her convinced that a nice pair of silver heels will do just fine.

I do like the dress. I find it quite elegant, even if it is going to be an ordeal to go to the bathroom in that thing. And I find it ironic that pouf is in since pouf was big when I was a senior, but I like the pouf. Warning! Camera phone pictures:



Anyhoo, we had a successful afternoon of shopping last Saturday that involved only one incident of me hissing through gritted teeth, “Don’t act like an arse just because I don’t like something you pick out.” And since they had assistants, I didn’t have to stand on the other side of the dressing room catching ill fitting dresses tossed over the door or spend fifteen minutes lacing Teen Angel into each dress. I even got a couple of laughs out of the two lone fathers who tried to navigate the store full of some thirty young women sorting through and trying on dozens of fancy ball gowns with sequins and feathers and shoes, oh, the shoes! There were giggles and squeals and phone cameras clicking right and left. One dad announced too loudly to a whole room full of ladies that he had to pee, while another sat in a chair, shaking his head and mumbling, “I just don’t understand.” I think he had just seen the price tag on the dress his daughter was wearing.

I survived intact and am now working up the strength to shop for the necessary underwear. Not for her. For Hubby, when the boy shows up to pick her up. The poor man is more scared of her dates than he is the price of the dress.

Prom 2010

Two thoughts: I don't know when my baby grew up on me...

And the world is not ready for these women.

I Triple Dog Dare Ya'

It’s a lively week around here kiddies as it’s prom week. Great Gertie! There are dinner plans to make, dresses to pick up and transportation to arrange. It’s prom this, prom that, prom, prom, prom. Teen Angel is wearing me out with the prom nonsense. She picked up her dress yesterday and thank goodness the alterations were fine. At ninety bucks they oughta’ be. I felt like asking the clerk if I could get a kiss with that, but I behaved myself. The hair appointment has been made, the shoes are in the closet and the tiny gold purse is ready for its debut as cutest accessory of the year. By the time Saturday has come and gone everyone will have had a large time, and a teenage memory will be recorded and tucked away for safe keeping. And plenty of parents will be broke and worn out. It would be easy to philosophize and criticize at this point with lots of “in my day” and “I never”, but that wouldn’t be completely honest because the proof of my youth sits in my closet at this very moment.

While cleaning out the corners of the old house last week, I came across a hanging bag. It held my high school and college graduation caps and gowns and my eighth grade graduation dress. Oh, prairie dress, I loved you so!

There was the maid of honor dress I wore to E.’s wedding, and can I just say my dark Coppertone tan complemented the yellow nicely that summer.

And the Piece De Resistance: My senior prom dress. Hello 1982!

It was the year of the southern belle dress, worn with a hoop. It was the year most of us girls barely fit into the car with our dates because our hoops took up the whole front seat. Parents liked those dresses because it was hard for a boy to paw their daughter in that contraption. Girls like them because they felt like a princess. Isn’t that the way with all prom and wedding dresses? By the way, my wedding dress is hermetically sealed in a box at Mama J.’s house. I kept it, too.

Anyway, I didn’t think it was fair to show you the dress without showing you the dance picture from 1982, so in honor of all that is puffy and sparkly, I give you An Evening in Paris teen Hula style.

Proof that I indulged in my own share of prom nonsense. And I’m hoping some of you will trudge down memory lane with me. I want to see YOUR prom pictures. Come on, post ‘em. You know you want to. And in case you're wondering I did try on the dress, much to Teen Angel's amusement. I could get it on, but I couldn't quite zip it. (Not that I really thought I could wear a junior size 5 that had been taken up on both sides of the bodice, but we all have to dream right?) It does appear I grew breasts after I graduated.

I Don't Even Want To Hear It

My friends with older daughters told me this day would come. I blissfully ignored them. I pretended it might not happen to me. I actually avoided the conversations whenever possible. When it comes to parenthood, denial is sometimes necessary. It’s better self medication than vodka or Cymbalta. Not that there’s anything wrong with Cymbalta. It’s just that Lawsie Mercy; I seem to be the only female between the ages of 35 and 50 in a sixty miles radius that DOESN’T take an anti-depressant, so I’m thinking they could be a little overused. Just a personal observation. Anyway. My friends all said, just wait until your daughter is old enough for prom. Then you’ll really go into debt. I laughed. Foolishly, I laughed. Until a week ago.

Teen Angel is going to prom this year, and we talked about a month ago about dresses and price limits. I told her I would pay no more than $200 for a dress. Anything above that was up to her to figure out how to pay for. She agreed. I smugly praised myself for that bit of parental warfare. And I swore I could hear my mother giggling thirty miles away.

Flash forward to last weekend, when Teen Angel and her BFF went dress shopping. I warned her not to commit to anything until I saw it. I have to do the IYACP review and the TSBNEC check. (Is Your Arse Covered Up and There Shall Be No Extreme Cleavage) About two hours into their shopping adventure she called me, exclaiming she had found THE dress.

“Are you sure,” I asked.

“Yes. Positive,” she said. She also quickly added, “Now, it’s strapless but don’t judge ‘til you see it ‘cause it’s not that low.”

“How much,” I asked.

“It’s beautiful, mom. It’s the one.”

“How much?”

“Um, $423.”

“That’s WAY more than $200.”

“You HAVE to see it.”

And my stomach churned. And so, despite my raging sinus infection and my desire for a nap before we dragged Mama J. and Papa T. to Cracker Barrel, I hauled my butt into the van and drove across town to see the dress. The whole way out there, I thought of arguments against this dress. I was armed with all kinds of reasons, mostly price, when I walked in the door. I kept pushing away those memories of a certain blue and lace dress that captured my heart in the spring of 1982. “Be strong, Hula,” I kept telling myself. “Flex that parental muscle. You do it all the time. You’re the no-meister in this family. Just say no and be done with it.”

And I rounded the corner, and there she was, dressed in the gown, standing on the podium in front of mirrors, looking radiant. She was beautiful. She looked like a princess. “Snap, I’m buying a dress,” I said. She was right. It was THE dress. I reserved much comment while I looked it over and checked the fit. (Pardon the quality of the phone pictures.)

All it needed was a tuck here or there to contain the cleavage and a hem. We discussed the portion she would need to pay and the amount I would allow her grandmother to chip in. (I wasn’t the only phone call she made.) And I said yes. And I heard my mother giggle thirty miles away.

But the shoes and the hair and the accessories are all on Teen Angel’s dime. Definitely. No doubt about it. I mean it. Hush up, mother.