Going To “Prom”

Prom season is upon us. The Kid is a Junior in high school so this is her first. I’m enjoying the time with her — shopping for the dress, shoes, making beauty appointments. I have a feeling that day is probably going to be very similar to what her wedding day will be like. And it’s weird.

When I was a teen, we called it “THE” prom. “Hey Karen, who are you going to the prom with?” Every time I add the “the” I get reprimanded by my teen for saying it incorrectly. Prom. As if it is a proper noun. Like saying France or something. Does it have its own capital too?

Then there is the way the girls are being asked. It’s a huge production. I don’t think most engagements are this elaborate. I bet The Kid’s boyfriend is sitting over in his house, planning out every detail by the minute. Sweating bullets to get it right. I sure would hate to be a teenage boy these days. Geesh.

When I was in high school, I had the same boyfriend in my Junior and Senior years. He was taking me to the prom. He didn’t ask. It was assumed. Period. And if you didn’t have a boyfriend? You either got a phone call on the telephone (or should that be telephone) or was approached after sixth period. “Hey, wanna go to THE prom with me?” “Sure.” “Totally tubular.”

Then there is the dress shopping. Facebook groups for all the Junior girls to join so that they can post a pic of the dress they bought. Why? So there isn’t a double. And if there is? Oooh, I’d hate to be at the prom. Sorry. PROM. I’d hate to be at prom.

I could see a cat fight brewing. Satin and taffeta and crystals being ripped to shreds right there on the dance floor. “You have my dress you biotch! Didn’t you check Facebook?????” I feel bad for the chicks who don’t have a Facebook page. Yes, it’s true. Believe it or not. I know, I couldn’t believe it either.

My Junior and Senior Prom dresses respectively. Recycled before recycling was a thing.

For Junior prom, my bestie and I each bought a dress. Then the following year, we traded. It was a win/win. And we saved a lot of money. Because back in the day, I had to buy my own dress, with the money I made from the job I had. But that is a story for another show. And if someone came to the prom with the same dress? Eh. She had good taste.

How about the nails and hair? Oh, and the makeup? And if you buy open toed shoes? Go ahead and add in a pedicure. I’m sure that all will cost DH and me upward of a hundred bucks. God forbid you do your own. I offered to do it all for her, but for some reason she doesn’t trust me.

I don't know what the problem is? I do hair good.
I don’t know what the problem is? I do hair good.

  If I had asked my mother if she could make an appointment for me to get a manicure, hair job, and makeover, she would have laughed her ass off and then gone and purchased a home perm, a can of Aqua Net and a bottle of top coat. A little black eyeliner warmed by the flame of a Bic added to the inside of my eyelid, some blush (the same blush I wore to school) and voila! I was ready to prom it up!

Then there is the photo party. The photo party is way more important than the actual prom. This is true. No one seems to really care about the prom. PROM. For God’s sake. Prom. Prom. Prom.

I remember The Kid’s eighth grade dinner dance. The photo party was another large production. With someone hosting it. There was a tent with food and beverages all set up for the ten million kids that were there. It was lovely, it really was. The hosts did an awesome job. The kids loved it.

But there are so many teens in the shot that all their faces are just a blur. Then all that work to get them prepped for that evening, only to get a text halfway through the dance. “Can you come pick me up? We’re bored so we are all going over to Dante’s house for taquitos.” Okaaaaayyyyy. Umm…sure?

I have one kid, therefore, I only have to do this one more time. Phew. I don’t think I can handle any more than that. Next year oughta hold much drama. Bring it on. I’ll just pop some corn and observe. After we pay the bill, of course.

Afterthought: I completely forgot that our Junior prom was held in the gymnasium of our school. Carefully and lovingly decorated by the prom committee. Now? The kids (parents) have to pay for a fancy catering hall. Like I said, it likens to that of a wedding. We’ve all lost our f*cking minds.

Dress Down


See this dress?  I wore it to death. It was long, almost to my ankles, had a cute little belt and buttons that started half way down my back and went all the way to the bottom.  I adored this dress.

I used to have to commute about 45 minutes one way to work.  I worked for a big corporation in White Plains.  It was fun, but the days were long.  One evening, after I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that Dan from across the street was hanging out with my brother on the front porch.  Oh joy.  He’s such an asshole.  I was not in the mood to deal with him.

After I collected my things from my car and walked up the stairs to the house, Dan says to me “nice ass.”  Gee, thanks Dan.  You’re an asshole.  And yes, I do have a nice ass.  Thank you very much.

I go into the house and continue on to my room to change.  I reach behind me to unbutton my dress and the blood immediately leaves my face.  Holy shit!  I have just died.  They are already undone.  From the top button all the way to the bottom.  The asshole got a nice shot of my butt.  My thonged butt.  Thank God pantyhose were in at the time.  At least they covered up something.

I figured that they must have come loose in the car.  This is what happens when you love something to death.  It doesn’t pay to be loyal.  You just get shit on.  The button holes must have stretched out after about a million wears.  It was time to retire my beloved dress.  I did love you so.  Well, until you did this to me.

So, that was a major wardrobe malfunction to say the least.  I would say second to Janet Jackson’s ordeal.  Except I didn’t do mine on purpose.  I swear.