Category Archives: funny stuff

Review: Confessions of a Scary Mommy

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Today is the big day! Confessions of a Scary Mommy hits the book shelves everywhere.  I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here’s the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood’s dirty little secrets.  “Erma Bombeck-style insights…about the underbelly of marriage and parenting…to a new generation of women.” …yeah, yeah, yeah… She’s funny, she’s real, you’ll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It’s a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It’s also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It’s about REAL life.

The book’s twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning.  Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader’s Digest or Men’s Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of “Mommy Confessions,” anonymous admissions taken from Smokler’s highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, “Hell, yeah!” because, well, we’ve all been there. (And yes, there’s even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn’t sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood.  If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don’t deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They’ll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs.  From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we’ve all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there’s foul language and feces and brutal honesty.  Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I’ll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she’s getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she’d drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first “fuck.”  She’s of the generation who believes some things just aren’t said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it’s okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it.  Call me selfish, but I just didn’t want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother’s Day gift, but you know your husband won’t remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present.  Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]

Yet Another Reason Pinterest Makes Me Feel Inferior

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 As a child, I created my own fashion catalogs and everyday cookbooks, the glossy photos and text snipped from my mom’s magazines and  department store flyers. In college I papered my walls with my favorite advertisements and cutting edge photography, images that helped shape my blossoming persona.

I still subscribe to far too many magazines, though now my folders and boxes burst with  home decor and beauty ideas.  I’ve saved thousands of recipes over the years, first by cutting from magazines and taping into burgeoning three-ring binders, and for the last decade or so, saving into my computerized cookbook.

So naturally, I’m a sucker for Pinterest.

Millions of images, ideas, recipes, forever rotating, begging to be selected, “pinned,” and in some cases, recreated?  Heaven.

It’s no secret I cannot bake. I am an inspired cook, but if the recipe involves an oven, I’m screwed.   But I’m also persistent. There are just so damn many temptations — cookies and cakes other bloggers said were just so easy to bake — if they could do it, so could I.

Failure #1: Mini Chocolate Pies for an Oscar party. The pie:  Demetrie’s Chocolate Pie (minus the ‘secret’ ingredient) from The Help via The Book Club Cookbook. The crusts: from an adorable blog I found via Pinterest.  I won’t share disgustingly perfect little sugar cookie crusts they photographed, filled with delicate cream cheese and fruit, sitting atop a perfectly set table, as if waiting for a royal tea party.  It all seemed so simple.

Place break & bake cookie dough in mini muffin pan.

Once baked, gently press down with your handy dandy Pampered Chef mini-tart press to form a little shell. And voila—

I ended up with lopsided crusts, which sat in the pan for two days, adhered to the non-stick surface with some type of buttery cement, until I was tempted to throw the entire mess away.

Project FAIL.  The blogger said it was easy, the crusts should just drop from the pan like petals from a spent rose. I was a failure, with no gourmet treats for my party. I bought some yogurt covered pretzels and hid my shame.

Failure #2: Yesterday I gave in to a craving for cake. I’d pinned this lovely Red Velvet Snowball cake recently and, really, how hard could it be?

From Country Living Magazine via Pinterest

I didn’t bother making the cake from scratch. Betty-In-a-Box, a  fresh bag of coconut, and voila —

It looked like a mauled albino hamster or something. It totally brought to mind the armadillo groom’s cake from Steel Magnolias.

It tasted good (only a slight aftertaste of a bottle’s worth of red dye), but it was certainly not pin-worthy.  No one else would ever ohh or ahhh over it, follow the stunning photo’s link to my blog, and become a faithful follower.

And that’s okay. 

We are all not pastry chefs. Or set decorators, food photographers, fashion divas, or craft gurus. But I’ll bet there’s something we each can do just a little bit better than the next person. The trick is finding that special talent, cultivating it, and rocking it to the best of our abilities…and then some.

Write on. . .

P.S.  Click here to check out my occasionally delusional and often cool Pinterest boards.

There’s a Frog in My Toilet

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It was 6:48 a.m. on a lazy Sunday morning. I stumbled out of bed and walked to…well, where most people head when they first wake up…the loo.  My  bladder full, my eyes still half closed and crusted with sleep, I raised the lid.

A giant turd sat at the bottom of the bowl.  I ran through my litany of swear words in my head. I thought I had trained my boys better. They didn’t even leave the seat up anymore. How dare they leave me a present!

Then the turd moved.

And I screamed.

Say hello to rana sphenocephala (a.k.a. the Southern leopard frog). While I am quite fond of frogs, I do not care for humongous ones hanging out in my toilet. That thing nearly scared the crap out of me. (Which would have been problematic, considering the toilet was obviously otherwise occupied.)

Apparently, I had the same effect on that slippery critter, because it swam into one of the holes to hide. 

I  fetched the hubby and my camera.

We banged on the bowl a bit and scared him back out. He jumped out of the bowl and hopped around the bathroom until we caught him with the net.

Yes, we actually have a critter net handy at all times. You’d be amazed how many lizards dare to venture onto our porch, even though the cat is waiting to turn them into a gory toy.

Mr. Leopard Frog did not want to go easily. Before I could twist the top of the net shut (I’ve seen snake catchers do that on Nat Geo and Animal Planet) he leaped across the bedroom and tried to get under our bed.

Now this was just getting nasty. Frog and toilet germs did not belong in my bedroom.

After some antics that would have made the Three Stooges proud,  I trapped him in the net  and dumped him in the backyard.

I have no idea how he got in to my toilet, and I don’t want to know.

Meanwhile, we had to keep all this on the down low so Kiddo wouldn’t be afraid to flush the potty ever again.

And all this before I even smelled my coffee.  I deserved a freaking a mimosa that morning.

Yoga ain’t for sissies

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I gave Hubby a copy of the intense P90X DVD workout program for Christmas.

Now, I know giving a exercise videos or a  gym  membership could be construed as a rather rash gift.  Certain women, if they received such a not-so-subtle hint, might turn like a rabid pit bull on their partner until placated with jewelry or tremendous ass-kissing (pun intended). But my Hubby had been strongly hinting about how he wanted to work out more, so I thought I’d help him out.

Needless to say, the DVDs have not left their box. Until today.***

He decided we should do the 90 minute yoga program. Together.

Though I am most certainly not a pro, I’ve been practicing yoga once or twice a week for about a year.  I was hooked from my first class with my current yoga instructor. She replaced a teacher who was more suited for barking boot camp orders than balancing chakras. That fearsome woman nearly drove me to tears when I couldn’t get up to a full headstand my first class. (I still can’t, and have no desire to try.)

But I could have a total girl crush on this new instructor, if I was the type to do such things. Her voice soothes  like the waters of a steamy hot spring, her words encourage to stretch and soar, her hands melt skin when she gently moves a shoulder or hip for an adjustment.  She could make a fortune lulling people to sleep each night like she eases us into our final relaxation pose (Shavasana) after each class.

{ah, anyway}

Back the husband.

He’s flexible. He’s an athlete. He’d never tried yoga. He thought it was just an easy way to waste an hour practicing breathing (don’t we do that anyway?) and stretching like a 5-year-old might before t-ball practice.  If 100-year-old skeletal Indian guys do it, so how hard could it be?

Heh, heh, heh….

After ten minutes his breath sounded irregular and craggy. I warned him no panting was allowed. After 15 minutes, he worked up a slick of sweat. I tossed him a bath towel. After 30 minutes, he struggled to stay on his feet and his balance and positioning resembled my elderly grandmother trying to get up with a broken ankle.

But he wasn’t half bad for a beginner.

Granted, I did strip down from flannel p.j.s to a tank top and turned on the fan. And perhaps it was a bit tricky to keep traction on a 30-year-old camping mat while the cat licked my toes. But I was just fine. And perhaps gloating…just a wee bit.

“So, still think yoga is for sissies?”

“You are putting it nicely,” he panted. “Yoga ain’t for pussies.” He sopped up his sweat with a bath towel before he collapsed.

But he finished. And enjoyed himself. And he’s going to be hurting tomorrow like he ran the NYC Marathon (uphill both ways, barefoot, in the snow).  Maybe we’ll do it again together next Sunday.

{Ohmmmm}

*** Note: I wrote this post a few weeks ago. Since then, Hubby has been a trouper, and he now tries to do the yoga DVD a few times a week. He no longer looks like my Grandmother. And once in a while, Kiddo will even attempt a little bit of yoga zen.

Scalloped fingers with a side of mandolin whine

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Please excuse any tpyos, as I am pecking at the keyboard for the first time since typing class in middle school. And trying not to yelp. Granted, only the cat is home to laugh at my pitiful attempt at hacking, but she keeps shooting me totally unsympathetic glares and has been sniffing around at my wounded digit as if she’d make me a meal if I ever die home alone.

As I’ve stated many times, I will never qualify to be a REAL foodie. While I do love to cook and make many dinners my friends consider “fancy-schmancy,” there are a few things I just make straight from the box. Like cake. And potatoes.

Another reason I will never be a real foodie: apparently I lack basic slicing skills. I can wield a knife just fine, thank you, but  I am not responsible enough to use a mandolin slicer.

 Looks simple, like on this example from Amazon.com, right?

SunDAY was lovely, the kind of day I fantasized about when I imagined my life as a grown-up with a family.  I enjoyed a yoga class in the morning, then Hubby, Kiddo, and I rode our bikes to the park for a leisurely afternoon of reading, playing, and quality family time. I had no choice but to complete the Rockwell-esque day with a classic Sunday dinner. I make a mean meatloaf (and if you don’t like meatloaf, it’s only because you’ve never had a good one), and I wanted something homestyle, something evoking images of June Cleaver in an apron (and pearls and heels) to pair with it. I still had potatoes leftover from Christmas, so I decided make some scalloped potatoes from scratch. No problem, right?

Wrong. So. Utterly. Wrong.

I make homemade potatoes once a year, at Christmas. And these potatoes kick ass, but they take far too much time and effort to make on a regular basis. (I’ll post the fantabulous recipe one of these days.) We don’t go the potato route often, but when we do, I usually leave it to Betty-in-a-box.

The savory meatloaf went into the oven, I peeled the potatoes (a task I HATE), then broke out the mandolin. First potato sliced up fine. I turned to my Hubby, who was washing dishes beside me, and bragged, “Look how EASY this is.“

Famous last words.  Never, ever utter such a challenge to the fates when dealing with razor sharp blades. Might as well just shoot myself in the foot.

The second potato was oddly shaped, like funky turnip or a turd. It wouldn’t stay in the SAFETY guard. It was so long— my fingers were inches away from the blade — I figured I’d just trim down one end flat so it would fit into the safety guard.

Slice. Slice. Slice. SCREAM.

I looked down and all I saw was red. And firework bursting before my eyes.

I threw my finger under the faucet and screamed at my Hubby to get me a towel. He gave me a wad of paper towels, which I pressed to my finger as I slid down to the floor.

I sat there, with the cabinets holding me upright, direct pressure on my wound, for a good 20 minutes. Kiddo offered to call 9-1-1 for me. The bleeding must have stopped, as nothing was dripping onto the floor or anything, so I passed on that idea.

Hubby peeked around the potato slices, checking for any lurking finger parts. He found none. But there had to be something there. Then he actually asked if I wanted to save the damn potatoes. Hell, no — I do not want a side of skin with my potatoes, thanks. (Oh, trying not to get nauseous…)

Eventually, I had to get my finger bandaged properly. I can’t look at my own blood. I will pass out faster than you can say “I am a freaking wuss.”  It was up to Hubby.  As soon as he removed my compressed paper towels, I screamed. He panicked. He threw some antibiotic on some gauze and slapped it on my finger.

I ran through my entire repertoire of swear words. Yes, it burned that &*%$#*@ bad.

Eventually the pain receded and we managed to eat dinner (and we didn’t even burn the meatloaf, yeah!). I sucked down a well-deserved glass of wine.

But we still have no idea how much of my finger was sliced off. We are all afraid to asses the damage.

When I called my parents this morning, I received absolutely no sympathy. None. Instead they laughed hysterically. Maybe I should drive a half hour to have them change the bandages and check the damage. (Okay, my mom worked the desk at an ER and my dad was a paramedic — I’d have to lose a full appendage to get sympathy, I suppose.) It’s just a flesh wound…

I wonder if I can convince the Kiddo to tend to my finger. Maybe I can bribe him with a new Skylander?

Typing without  a finger utterly sucks.

What I wanted was a beautiful homemade casserole.
What I got.
Betty Crocker is making ALL of my potatoes from now on.

And mandolin slicers are tools of the devil.

Wordless Wednesday: the cat speaks…

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No. No work for you. All mine.

A cat’s not-so-subtle reminder that I’m on a break…
Hope you all are enjoying your holidays.
Yes, I wrote holidays. And by that I mean: Christmas, Hanukkah, New Year’s, Kwanzaa,
Festivus, Winter Solstice, or whatever other special days you may be celebrating. Deal with it.

Cheers.

Different, Disturbing, & Slightly Disgusting Toys

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While perusing the sale ads last Sunday, I was amazed how many odd toys there were out there.  Some were unique, while others could be considered slightly disturbing or downright nasty.  Besides the first toy listed, how many will Santa be setting under your tree?

This one is cool. It is the only thing in this post I’d  buy…but for myself. The FAO Schwarz  Muppet Whatnot Kit lets you create your own Muppet Whatnot. {Whatnots are those zany-looking extras you see in every Muppet production.} I want my own Muppet.


FAO Schwarz Orange or Blue Muppet Whatnot Kits include a Muppet Whatnot body, 3 wigs, 3 pair of eyes, 3 noses, glasses and a pupeteer rod.  $59.99 @toysrus.com

Aren’t we lucky: Doggie Doo, Europe’s top new action game, has crossed the pond just in time for the holidays. Kids feed and walk the little plastic pup. When they squeeze his leash he makes a gassy sound that gets louder and louder until…plop! You have your own, fresh doggie doo. The first to clean up after the dog three times wins. I wonder if it is scented?  WTF?
Only $17 @toysrus.com

Kids + ninja swords = Bad Idea.  
Fruit Ninja Game is a takeoff of the digital application. The object of the Fruit Ninja Game is to slash and splatter fruit like a true ninja warrior. What happens when they get bored with the plastic and decide to raid the fridge and knife drawer? Danger Danger. $20 @toysrus.com





 
I’m not really sure what to say about these things. Ugly Dolls are plush toys and they are…well, ugly. They look pretty much like how one of my sewing projects would turn out. So I think I will save the $20 each and just glue some felt together. Or perhaps marketers are hoping parents will reminisce about the days of Ren and Stimpy and want to share them with their kids (recommended ages 3-5).


Animal Planet Remote Control Charlie the Capuchin Monkey  can sit on your shoulder and “unleash cheeky phrases on your friends and family!” I am dying to know what these “cheeky” phrases are — swearing? Dirty jokes? Do they simulate throwing poo like the monkeys at the zoo? This interactive toy features many mannerisms, sound effects, and movements which really bring him to life. All I can think of is Betsey, the cute, cuddly, and diseased monkey from the movie Outbreak. My son would freaking love this (for a day).  $25 @toysrus.com



Animal Planet Radio Controlled Rattle Snake looks and moves like the real thing. Realistic skin and serpentine movement mean this can easily be mistaken for a live snake. As it slithers in an S pattern, its tongue flicks in and out and eyes light up. This could make Christmas day with the family highly entertaining as screams of terror echo through the house. You might even get a trip to the ER for a heart attack. Great way to clear out the house and signal everyone that it’s time to go home. $29 @toysrus.com

 

 

“The Wow!”  My Keepon  is the dancing robot that moves to any music. A tiny microphone in My Keepon’s nose (ewww) allows him to hear the music you play or even the rhythms you make yourself. My Keepon listens for the tempo of the music and matches the beat with an uncanny sense of timing.
Look — can’t you see it’s dancing — wait, it moved left, then right, up, down — seriously, how much can two Nerf balls dance?
$49 @toysrus.com

 

Masquerades are all about mystery, and so are the Bratz Masquerade Dolls.  Remember all the slutty Halloween costumes so many of us were complaining about? Now we can give our daughters a leg up on deciding if she wants to be a sexy angel or come-hither fairy next year by playing with these dolls.  Maybe it’s all a plot — if parents see these dolls around the house for a few years we will be desensitized to the trashy tween costumes. And each doll comes with makeup and a child-sized matching “sassy” mask so our little girls can practice for their nights out full of mystery and disguise. At least they’re not wearing fishnets.

21.99 @toysrus.com



From jumping over creeks in the backwoods, all the way to the skatepark, the General Lee BMX Bike will take your rider everywhere he needs to go. Do kids now even know what this is? Are the Dukes of Hazard making yet another retro comeback?  At least there isn’t a big ‘ole Confederate flag  license plate dangling from the handlebars. {sigh} $179 @ walmart.com

**Nothing here is a product review or endorsement.

The Creature at the Bottom of the Fridge

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I just had one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Thank God no one actually SAW it. I sent the Hubby out into the yard to do chores so he would not share in my shame (although he probably caused more than his fare share of it). Naturally, I decided to share my mortification with all of you.

Now, honestly, how often do you clean out your fridge?  Not just checking for stinky cheese and expired salad dressings, but take everything out and scrub the shelves and walls. If you are like me, the answer would be “I didn’t know you were supposed to do that.” Come on, seriously — once a month? Once a year? Once a decade?

With the holidays coming up, I knew it was time to make some room for trays of candy apples, chocolate pretzel rods, and a full Christmas dinner. My fridge was already packed (because, I am  a grocery shopping addict) and I knew I needed to make room for pies, turkeys and extra wine and so forth. So I figured a Saturday morning would be a good time to do a little cleaning out and rearranging for maximum space.

And then I started taking things out.

Easter bunnies, tons of Christmas candy (LAST years), tiny jam jars which expired two years ago.  A Costa Rican juice box and a cool version of Costa Rican Oreos (keep in mind, we were there in June of 2009). Oops.

I took out all the shelves on the door and sopped up the leaky salad dressings and marinade goo.

Then my morning took a disgusting turn.  I took out the shelves and drawers in the main section.  Do you know what is living under your cheese drawer?

I sure as heck did not. I wasn’t’ sure if it was alive or long dead.  Any health inspector would have fined me more than my mortgage payment. OSHA would shut this kitchen down.  I was going to take a picture of it, but I think I would feel less embarrassed and exposed if I posted a picture of myself eating ice cream naked.

And my MOTHER might see it {shivers of housewife failure}.

Parmesan cheese (I hope) and a glass of chocolate milk or perhaps black olive juice covered the bottom. It looked like something from a black and white fifties horror flick.  I broke out the pure bleach and gloves. My sponge was not touching this jiz, so I wadded up a roll of paper towels and used a frosting knife to pry the solidified crud.

I am just shocked my family hasn’t been hospitalized for any strains of food-borne illness.

It was pure nastiness. I had no idea.

When it was all sanitized, organized, and put back together, I felt like the little lady from Poltergiest: This fridge is CLEAN. 

My PSA for the day:  unless you prepping for your kids’ future science fair project, discover what is lurking at the bottom and back of your fridge…and be prepared with a gas mask and hazmat suit, preferably.

Prom Dress Confidential

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 This is perhaps one of the most humiliating posts I recall writing. But I know all of you women out there in the  blogosphere must have some pretty hideous skeletons prom dresses in your closets as well. Tacky prom dresses are a feminine right of passage, like attempts at big Jersey hair and blue eyeshadow duos or your first hangover, bikini wax, and walk of shame. It wasn’t pretty, but we’ve all been there.


Dress #1
It’s 1989 (yes, I’m THAT old). I’m 14 and I had never been asked on a date or kissed a boy. I have more books than friends. I’m just a shy, pale L-O-S-E-R.

Suddenly, I was cast into a leading role in the school play. I ditched the bad perm and braces. And I started dating the play’s director — a SENIOR ! {gasp} With long hair! {gasp}  And an accent!
{cue Dad breaking out the shotgun}

Late one night after a performance, he knocked on the front door. I was still covered in white hair spray and old lady stage make-up. He danced me to his car while his friend played the sax in my candlelit driveway. He asked me to prom (of course I said YES) and I finally experienced my first French kiss. (ooh la la)

I believe the next day was recorded in our family history as the day I gave my mother her first grey hair. And she will never let me forget about it. 

Because of this sudden twist of fate, all the pages of dreamy satin and taffeta I had ripped out of the Seventeen Magazine Prom Edition became extremely important. Vital. A matter of life and death. I was a bookworm Cinder-fecking-rella going to the cool kid’s ball.  I had to find a dress. THE dress.   My favorite was a royal blue Jessica McClintock (for Gunne Sax?) number I drooled over in the teen fashion mags. It was only two weeks until prom, my mom was utterly UN-thrilled I was going, and I was desperate to find the dress.

Somehow, we managed to find the last one. In my size. I had my dream dress. And the matching royal blue pantyhose. And the matching dyed satin shoes. And probably the matching eyeliner as well. Now I want to gag at this over-coordinated ensemble, but back then, I thought I was the bomb.

A very, VERY nervous bomb.

The prom was uneventful. I was absolutely petrified. I was far too naive to hunt down some spiked punch in the ladies room to calm my nerves and force my tongue to work. I vaguely remember dancing to Madonna and trying to melt into the walls. My date was a perfect gentleman (despite nail polish and an off stuffed duck) and dropped me back home by my strict 12:30 curfew. Then he most likely went out with all his friends and got trashed.  I bailed on him before the prom pics even came in. I was not ready to leap from Girl Scouts to groping in a relationship with someone far older and wiser.

But at least I can say I went to Senior Prom as a Freshman.

Which is a good thing, because my actual Senior Prom blew corn nuts.

I went stag with a couple of girlfriends. I did not have a date.

But by then I had learned that poofy prom dresses were passe, for mere children, and not my style. I upgraded to reading Vogue and Glamor. I wanted to look stylish, sleek, and as sexy as I could get away with (which was not very). I wanted a dress they guys would notice, so they would not see the giant “L” glaring from my forehead. I scoured stores in probably six to ten malls in four counties until I found the one.

Dress #2
A little black sequence cocktail dress. Classic. Chic. Sparkly. Different. It was rather rebellious at the time. I freaking loved it.

(The snippet of neon satin, lace, and crinoline on the left was much more the norm still in 1992.)

So I went to prom stag. I don’t remember much: dancing with some popular girl’s boyfriend, trying to entertain my self by rating boys attempting the African Anteater Dance in their matching pink bowties and cumberbunds, sitting in a South Beach cafe after we escaped the cheesy prom venue, swinging on a sandy beach playground under the stars….

But I still have that dress.  
And I can still fit into it 19 years later without Spanx
(although a stronger bra might be beneficial).
So all those smug girls whispered about my lack of a date can just bite me.
I do mean that in the nicest way, of course.

Join in my moment of embarrassing female bonding. Do you have an ugly prom gown story to share?

Thanks to Mama Kat for inspiring this moment of weakness I shall most likely soon regret.

Things I Can't Say