my prom

My sister and I both had proms this weekend. She’s 16 and I’m 34. Hers was her junior prom and mine was an 80s prom party, where a whole bunch of adults acted like we were 17 again. The only real comforting thing for me was the fact that I didn’t ever actually go to a prom in the 80s. I graduated in the 90s. But of course I went along with it. . . Any opportunity I have to dress up and dance is ok by me.

Well, I made my dress out of taffeta and satin. It was spectacularly pink and black with a drop waist, puffy sleeves, tiered skirt, and a huge flower on my hip. I made a wrist corsage that was about a foot long. I had on tan tights that looked more like a grey corpse color and black pumps. My hair looked like that crazy tight perm we all had in 1987 and I had enough eye shadow to make Cindy Lauper jealous. I couldn’t believe I already had a tube of pink lipstick in my makeup box. I even wore “Primo” perfume. A friend of mine came with me. He wore a perfect new wave/Flock of Seagulls hairdo, a bowtie, and cummerbund.

Anyway, it was a fun dance. There were miles of taffeta and enough bangs to fill a yearbook. The air was full of Aquanet and Drakkar. Neon and pastel colors were resurrected. Girls still sat in chairs watching the boys lean against the walls. It looked just like a prom with a huge disco ball in the center, tinfoil stars, a faux background for prom photos, and 80s music. . . But, instead of the expected room of teenagers, it was full of chaperones. Instead of Anthony Michael Hall, it had 40 year olds wearing mullet wigs. Instead of the creepy man that played the principal in Ferris Beuller, the walls were lined with scores of creepy men. I couldn’t tell if they were in costume or not. Sad thing was- some of the costumes weren’t too much of a stretch for many of the people there.

But now the dance is over, my hair is straight again. I did have to put on a t shirt that matched the hot pink nail polish though, and I couldn’t quite put away the blue eye liner. . . I liked it so much, I’m wearing it today. Watch out Molly Ringwald – I’m the prom queen now.

Enjoy the flashback

Girls asking boys out

Sometimes I see topics on my homepage that look like they’d be an entertaining read. Today’s entertaining read was “How to Ask a Guy Out”.

Apparently I have to be direct. . . No wait, indirect. It says be both or either. Apparently, I’m to invite him but let him feel powerful and in charge. “Hello there, you great example of dominance and fertility, you – How would you like to eat a steak with me tonight? It can be raw and you don’t have to use a fork if you want. . . What? You have to kill a wildebeest with your bare hands and then invent fire? . . Oh, well another time then.”

We have to come up with a plan but don’t over-plan it. So does that mean I can come up with the first four words of the invitation but I have to let the following seven words be spontaneous? I realize I shouldn’t come up to him with a 3 layer cake with “So, you up for some pizza tonight?” I mean seriously, the cake would ruin his appetite and that would be a good $20 down the drain. And I shouldn’t run up all of the sudden and blurt out “Eat pizza with me tonight!” as soon as the thought hit my mind. That’d freak him out and I’d probably get a side cramp from the sudden dash over to ask him.

My favorite part was this “Don’t come on too strong . . .Approach the object of your desire as you would a timid bunny rabbit.” Are you kidding me? Am I to walk slowly because sudden movements would scare him, and slowly stick out my hand so he can smell it and become familiar with me? What’s he going to think? “Oh, she smells like coconuts. I like coconuts. And she moves slowly. I won’t get scared while munching on my lettuce.” Then while on my date, should I offer him carrots and a newspaper to pee on?

No wonder we have issues asking men out! I mean, it’s easy for guys. . . All they have to do is say “Hey, you want to (fill in the blank)?” and we’ll say yes. Women on the other hand have to be directly indirect while planning spontaneously and approaching the guy like he’s a long-eared over-productive rodent.

Moniker boys

I’m a single 34 year old woman. . . I’ve gone on quite a few dates in my life and because of this, have many interesting stories. I think I’ve become the source of entertainment for many of the girls at work, most of whom are married with children and are out of the dating world. Well, because I’ve gone out with several men during my employment here, and have stories about so many others, that the ladies can’t keep track of names. So, we’ve resorted to the nickname system because it’s easier for them to remember (not to say I’m such a hussy that I’ve dated every man in the state of Utah, but maybe because the girls don’t have the best memories.) Anyway, there’s “Bagel or Danish”, “Prof. Plumb”, “Teddy Ruxpin”, “The Yapper”, Pocket-Sized Boyfriend”, “Boop”, and “Crow Bar Tongue” to name a few.

Well, today I went out with “Lawyer” for lunch and we were laughing about bad dates. I mentioned “Crow Bar Tongue” by his alias (partially because I can’t remember his real name . . . the experience was so awful that I think I’ve blocked him out. . . I just remember the experience and his braided belt a-la 1996.) And then he asked me if all my boys have nicknames and if he had one. I explained that many do, because it helps the girls at work with my stories and that his nickname was “Lawyer” because of his profession. . . Pretty self explanatory I suppose.

He decided that he wanted a more impressive moniker and sat there, thinking of different handles for himself. I have to laugh to myself at the whole experience, but it was hard to explain that he was pretty much “Lawyer” and that’s it. . . You can’t change someone’s name once the story has started!

Am I alone in this? Doesn’t everyone have strange boy stories and nicknames for each one?

Adventures in boo boos

Do you ever hear of freak accidents and think “Oh that could never happen to me”?

I have a friend who has them all the time. One time, when shoveling the snow from her roof, she fell off into a snow bank and got stabbed in the butt by an icicle. She had to get several stitches. Another time, she was watching some hot guy cross the street, didn’t notice she was entering a construction zone, and fell into an open manhole- breaking her leg. She popped her hip once when a bike fell on her head. Her primary school class pushed her out a second story window. And, a personal favorite; she was electrocuted by her washing machine.

Hmm, now that I’ve shared bits of my friend’s stories, mine doesn’t seem all that spectacular. That was poor planning on my part.

It was a few years ago, when I worked on the fifth floor of our office building. I was just pushing the button of my floor in an elevator when I noticed a man walking across the lobby towards me. I shot out my hand to stay the doors so that he could enter but it didn’t go as planned. Apparently, I had stuck my hand in the exact center of the entryway and the doors shut before the bumper thingies (I’ll have to look up the technical word for it sometime) even touched my hand.

I howled in pain and surprise as the doors shut and then again after my fingers slammed into the top of the outer doorway. I tried to curl them as they grazed against the walls and doors of floors 2 and 3 while I yanked to get my hand free. It hurt terribly but the situation was so ridiculous that I just found myself laughing and crying the whole time.

Finally, I f reed my hand on the fourth floor and the elevator froze, probably trying to assess what had just happened. I stared down at my hand. The fingertips were red from scraping across all the inner workings of the elevator and the rest of the hand was red and swelling. The elevator started moving again. By the time I had reached my office my knuckles weren’t discernable. At the end of the day, I had a 3 inch wide bruise that circled my whole hand. It was one of the most fabulous wound stories I had ever received and the only witness was that poor guy I left in the lobby who just heard a loud howl as he saw four fingertips ride up the elevator doors.

I showed off the bruise for weeks.

Blind dates

A friend of mine had a blind date last night and told me that he was alright but she had a lot more fun with the other couple (whom she didn't know beforehand either). This brings me to today's subject.
I can only think of one blind date in the circle of people I know that has worked out, my parents. And their blind date wasn't even a normal one. My dad was a plebe (freshman) at the Naval Academy when his commanding officer called him up. The officer, R.B. Hall told my dad to be the escort of his girlfriend's little sister during June week. For those of you who don't know, June week is the week of the Army/Navy football game, the whole week is filled with parties, dances, and of course, the big game. R.B. gave my dad a picture of this junior in high school, told him to write her and invite her to be his date*.

So, dad was literally commanded to take mom out. She then invited herself to be his date the next year's June Week. The year after that, his roommate asked her because he liked her. Then, dad's fourth year, dad asked her to June Week because he didn't want his roommate to have her. Then he graduated.

I won't give you the whole story, but I will tell you that mom proposed to dad three times before he finally gave her an answer, and that was only after he'd gone out to sea for 9 months and she flew to Seattle from St. Louis to meet his family on her own accord.
So, the one blind date that actually worked only worked because of an officer's command and a girl's persistence.

Sounds like way too much effort to me . . .

I'm sure they'll correct me if I'm wrong. Here they are.



*Please note: My dad had never had a date before that except to take his cousin to her high school prom . . . unless you count the times he drove his friends and their dates around because he was the one with the car. It wasn't that girls weren't interested, (believe me, I've read his yearbook). But that he was shy.

And here's your random pic of a random man.

I love walking my dog. Oh yeah, it’s a great bonding experience between the two of us. Yes, the neighborhood kids come out to play with him and all know his name. Sure, the parents all wave to us as we walk and the area is nice. Yes, it’s a nice escape from life. Of course I enjoy being outside, especially when it’s nice out. Granted, playing fetch and running in the park is a great way to keep up a heart rate. . . But so is watching a game of rugby.

And THAT my friends, is why I love walking my dog. For the past couple of weeks, every evening between 6 and 7 there has been a large group of very handsome, very in-shape Polynesian men practicing and playing rugby in my park. (Ok, it’s not MY park per se, but I’ve been using it for five years. . . I called dibs.) It makes it hard to remember to throw Chewies’ ball. I also forget to breathe too. That could be problematic.

What is it about a plethora of exotic looking men throwing around a weird-shaped ball in a manner that makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever that makes a girl go weak in the knees? I dunno. I’m not going to complain. I think I’m going to look up rugby online and figure it out.