Monday, February 13, 2017
The Princess and I went prom dress shopping on Saturday.
For those of you who don’t have daughters, prom dress shopping is NOTHING like you’re picturing. It’s not like when we were young. It’s not like any of the Disney movies make it out to be.
It’s like taking all the teenaged emotions and attitudes, mixing them with equal parts “Mom knows nothing” and “I can’t decide—Mom, what do you think” and sprinkling a heavy dose of glitter, tacky rhinestones and “Wait, where’s the rest of the dress?”.
First, we went to a boutique she’d heard about. It was organized by an OCD person—type of dress, color and size. Based on what the Princess thought she wanted, we were instructed to look at three—and only three—aisles. The salesgirl took the dresses and placed them in the dressing room, helped her get in and out of each one and was generally helpful.
I stood there, held her coat and was allowed to voice my opinion.
She found a dress. I was amazed. I’d figured we were going to have to hit at least four stores over several weekends. She tried on others to make sure. She liked it. She wanted it.
But we weren’t done yet. First, she had to check with her friends to get their opinions. This required some sneaky photo taking, since pictures weren’t allowed.
They liked it.
Then she had to check Facebook. Because unlike when I was a teenager, no one can have the same dress. And to ensure that this social faux pas does not occur, each class creates a Facebook page. When you purchase your dress, you post a photo. It’s yours and no one else is allowed to wear it.
Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but what do I know?
So she looked on Facebook and it wasn’t there.
She hemmed and hawed a little longer. And finally decided she’d found the one.
We walked to the cashier and waited our turn. The cashier smiled and began taking our information.
Oh no. Turns out one of the girls in her friend group had purchased the same dress in a different color.
So we left and went to a different store. That had a ton of dresses. I was sure we’d find something.
And we did. We found about ten somethings. There was no helpful salesperson here, however, so I trailed her, carrying dresses like a pack mule.
She took them back in the fitting rooms and tried them on. One by one, she discounted them, and I started getting worried. Turns out, she purposely started with her least favorites.
Then we got to the ones she liked.
One was pale pink lace with sparkles. It was beautiful. She loved it. Until she realized (thanks to her friends) that it made her washed out. So she tried it on in baby blue. And it was really pretty.
Then she tried a black one with lace in the front. It was gorgeous.
Then she tried a navy one with stuff on the side and back. I honestly don’t know what the “stuff” was. At this point, I’m lucky I recognized it was a dress. It was stunning.
And she couldn’t decide. She hemmed and hawed. Her friends liked some better than others.
She tried the baby blue one on again.
And we left without anything.
I don’t want her to buy a dress she doesn’t love. But I also don’t want to have to do this again. Except I am. Next weekend.
Pray for me.
Monday, February 6, 2017
There’s a spider in my basement.
This wouldn’t be a big deal, except that I just convinced my teen that the basement is an acceptable place to be with her friends or to watch TV on occasion—after many, many, many years of her refusal to go anywhere near it.
I hate spiders. I’ve pretended to be okay with them so I don’t create some phobia in my kids, but I really, really, really hate them. So I’m not killing it.
My other teen is morally opposed to killing creatures. I’d be more okay with this if creatures didn’t include spiders. Her preferred method of disposal is to deposit them outside. Well, that’s where the spider started out, and he figured out a way to get inside once. Putting him back outside is not a long-term solution. Plus, she’s noisy about it. Actually, she’s noisy about everything and there’s no way I’ll be able to keep her quiet enough to prevent her sister from finding out. And then she’ll never go in the basement again.
Why don’t I have my husband kill it? Well, a few reasons. The most relevant one right now is that he’s 5,000 miles away for the next two weeks. If it’s still there when he gets back, I’ll ask him to take care of it.
I could be a total wimp and call my dad. Don’t laugh, I’ve done this before, except it was a cicada on the inside of the window in my living room. I tried calling my husband to take care of it, but he was at work and refused to come home to kill a bug. Do you have any idea how big cicadas are? HUGE. So I called my dad. And he was great. He came right over. But he deposited it outside. Which means it could have managed to get back in my house. It didn’t, but that’s beside the point. So even though my dad is retired and has plenty of time to come over and get rid of bugs for me, I’m not calling him. At least not yet.
For now, I’m leaving the spider where it is. It has eight eyes and eight legs. I figure if it’s going to be in my house, I can put it to work, looking out for bogeymen who might try to hide in my basement now that my husband is away.
Because I’m even more afraid of THEM!
|It's been there for two days now. There's a small chance it might be dead. I don't know and I'm not checking. But if it is dead, i'm still leaving it there as a warning to its friends and family: "Don't let this happen to you!"|