The Doomsday Date
November 9, 2002 - The Doomsday Date
Technically, it’s November 10th, but I’m in no mood to split hairs with anyone, let alone a journal that shouldn’t sass me back.
Mental Note: If my journal ever actually gives me sass, it’s time to talk to Doctor Jack about putting me on some fun brain candy to combat schizophrenia.
Mental Note 2: Under pain of death, and even then, do not agree to dates with sons of parent’s co-workers. It only leads to tears. Mine. The worst kind of tears. I mean, it would be kind of fun to make a guy cry. Only if he deserved it and stuff, I’m not a total sadist...yet.
Let me begin with explaining a torture unlike anything ever captured in history books, a hell that was so horrendous that it was outlawed as a war crime at the Geneva Convention. That’s right. Shopping at Nordstrom’s with my mother. Dress shopping at that.
{Insert screams and mass hysteria}
Things to know about me:
1) I’m “hippy”. Not in the flower child sense, but in the “maybe I should buy you a gym membership, sweetie. After all, those hips won’t shrink themselves” way. This is something that my mother felt everyone in the store had to be privy to seeing as she practically shouted it from the rafters.
2) I have no breasts. It’s okay though. After a conference with two senior sales ladies, it was decided that I still have time to grow into my body. If all else fails, I’m fortunate to be a from a wealthy family that will purchase me an almost authentic pair of Double D’s-that’s right, Pam Anderson, I’m coming after your job if I wake up one morning to find my brain has been sucked out by aliens.
3) Red, yellow, peach, blue, pink, lavender, green, etc, etc, etc are not good colors on me.
4) I have a pretty face. Is there ever been a less subtle way to say “lose the weight, chubby” aside from maybe pinching a girl’s ass and asking, “Hey, didn’t I see you perform at Sea World last week?”
5) Less is more. More is also less. Huh?
6) My mother is a martyr. Mommy martyr. Every time I passed on the hanger in her hands, she would sigh, look upward, and say, “If that’s what you want.”
7) After fifteen minutes of shopping with my mother, I turn into a homicidal maniac that is not beyond punching old ladies in the face who believe it’s okay to comment on my body in any way.
My mother means well, I know she does, but I find myself ready to strangle her with a DKNY purse whenever we’re on a shopping “mission” together. My self esteem never fails to plummet to near-drought levels when we’re together. You’d think I’d have built up mommy immunity by now, but I haven’t and whenever I snap at her, she whimpers, “I’m you’re mother. If you can’t trust me to give you an honest opinion, then who will?” She tramples my confidence, but I somehow find myself trying to comfort her on the disastrous ride home. I ask you, is that fair?
This is why my father is my favorite. I say, “I need shoes, dad” and he responds, “That’s why you have a Gold Card, Lynn.”
After many arguments where I referred to my mother as a “shopping Nazi” and she made offensive comments regarding the majority of my wardrobe, we finally compromised on a plain, black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and thankfully no bows of any sort.
I won’t even go into the shoe debacle. I shudder at the memory.
I arrive home with two hours to spare before my “hot date” arrives to undoubtedly charm me to death (one can only hope) and I’m expected to dance to the “YMCA”. Oh horror of horrors! Fortunately, this isn’t my school and no one will know me there.
Anyway, Jeremiah shows up with his entourage of “peeps” (which isn’t a far cry from the truth seeing as his friends and their dates have about as much personality as you’d imagine a marshmallow candy to embody) and proceeds to feel me up under the pretense of an ugly orchid corsage. If I was smart, I would’ve run up the stairs and pulled a toddler on my mother-complete with covering my ears and shrieking out, “No, I won’t do it. I won’t! Noooooo! You can’t make me. Fa, la, la. I don’t hear you. Fa, la, la.”
Never let it be said that I’m a very bright girl.
It’s not that Jeremiah is blinding to look at it. He’s kind of cute in the geeky, Wil-Wheaton-on-Star-Trek way in that I would never admit he was at all cute, but secretly would think, “Not so bad.” In fact, you don’t even notice the random pimples or the fact that Jeremiah hasn’t had a growth spurt since the third grade because you’re so overwhelmed by his annoying personality. And the laugh…my god, the laugh. Fingernails running down a blackboard are less horrific. Trust me. That is not an exaggeration.
Horror 1: Jeremiah referring to me as “cookie”, “cupcake”, and “honey”. I had a few choice names for him, but my mother’s pleas before leaving (“Try to avoid your normal attitude tonight, for my sake”) stopped me from utilizing them. It’s a shame really. It would’ve been a hoot to see the loser blush.
Horror 2: The guys in our limo rushing up the stairs of the art museum while humming the Rocky theme. Never could’ve deduced that would happen.
Horror 3: Jeremiah, or “Jer” as he prefers to be called, explaining in great detail his love of taxidermy. “It’s a lost art, baby. Nobody appreciates the idea that your best friend, Fluffy, would make a great addition to your study. Want a cookie, cookie?” {God awful laughs ensue for he is a comedic legend in his own mind.} He then proceeded to make barfing noises and get drunk on the church wine one of his daredevil friends stole from their school’s rectory Friday afternoon.
Horror 4: Mass Exodus from the dance to “hang” in front of the Galleria. It wasn’t even open, which apparently makes it all the more subversive. Said idiot boys proceed to hoot and cackle at tourists exiting the Hard Rock until a larger guy threatens to kick their ass. Thankfully this shuts them up.
Horror 5: After running to make it back to the museum (which, for the record, is like a hundred blocks away, or feels like a hundred blocks away in heels), Jer-the-king-of-the-dork-squad proceeds to stick his tongue in my ear under the impression that he’s a veritable Lady’s Man.
Horror 6: The yells from my mother while my step-father chuckled from the stairwell upon sight of my honey-bunny’s black eye and swollen lip. I tried to explain that they were “love pats” but Jer’s whimpering may have raised some doubts.
On the bright side I suspect my mother will avoid pawning me off on any of her co-workers’ children ever again. I can still hear her wailing to my stepfather that she’s going to have to buy a fruit basket tomorrow on her “one day off this week.”
My job is done.
Datelessly Yours!
Tah!
Technically, it’s November 10th, but I’m in no mood to split hairs with anyone, let alone a journal that shouldn’t sass me back.
Mental Note: If my journal ever actually gives me sass, it’s time to talk to Doctor Jack about putting me on some fun brain candy to combat schizophrenia.
Mental Note 2: Under pain of death, and even then, do not agree to dates with sons of parent’s co-workers. It only leads to tears. Mine. The worst kind of tears. I mean, it would be kind of fun to make a guy cry. Only if he deserved it and stuff, I’m not a total sadist...yet.
Let me begin with explaining a torture unlike anything ever captured in history books, a hell that was so horrendous that it was outlawed as a war crime at the Geneva Convention. That’s right. Shopping at Nordstrom’s with my mother. Dress shopping at that.
{Insert screams and mass hysteria}
Things to know about me:
1) I’m “hippy”. Not in the flower child sense, but in the “maybe I should buy you a gym membership, sweetie. After all, those hips won’t shrink themselves” way. This is something that my mother felt everyone in the store had to be privy to seeing as she practically shouted it from the rafters.
2) I have no breasts. It’s okay though. After a conference with two senior sales ladies, it was decided that I still have time to grow into my body. If all else fails, I’m fortunate to be a from a wealthy family that will purchase me an almost authentic pair of Double D’s-that’s right, Pam Anderson, I’m coming after your job if I wake up one morning to find my brain has been sucked out by aliens.
3) Red, yellow, peach, blue, pink, lavender, green, etc, etc, etc are not good colors on me.
4) I have a pretty face. Is there ever been a less subtle way to say “lose the weight, chubby” aside from maybe pinching a girl’s ass and asking, “Hey, didn’t I see you perform at Sea World last week?”
5) Less is more. More is also less. Huh?
6) My mother is a martyr. Mommy martyr. Every time I passed on the hanger in her hands, she would sigh, look upward, and say, “If that’s what you want.”
7) After fifteen minutes of shopping with my mother, I turn into a homicidal maniac that is not beyond punching old ladies in the face who believe it’s okay to comment on my body in any way.
My mother means well, I know she does, but I find myself ready to strangle her with a DKNY purse whenever we’re on a shopping “mission” together. My self esteem never fails to plummet to near-drought levels when we’re together. You’d think I’d have built up mommy immunity by now, but I haven’t and whenever I snap at her, she whimpers, “I’m you’re mother. If you can’t trust me to give you an honest opinion, then who will?” She tramples my confidence, but I somehow find myself trying to comfort her on the disastrous ride home. I ask you, is that fair?
This is why my father is my favorite. I say, “I need shoes, dad” and he responds, “That’s why you have a Gold Card, Lynn.”
After many arguments where I referred to my mother as a “shopping Nazi” and she made offensive comments regarding the majority of my wardrobe, we finally compromised on a plain, black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and thankfully no bows of any sort.
I won’t even go into the shoe debacle. I shudder at the memory.
I arrive home with two hours to spare before my “hot date” arrives to undoubtedly charm me to death (one can only hope) and I’m expected to dance to the “YMCA”. Oh horror of horrors! Fortunately, this isn’t my school and no one will know me there.
Anyway, Jeremiah shows up with his entourage of “peeps” (which isn’t a far cry from the truth seeing as his friends and their dates have about as much personality as you’d imagine a marshmallow candy to embody) and proceeds to feel me up under the pretense of an ugly orchid corsage. If I was smart, I would’ve run up the stairs and pulled a toddler on my mother-complete with covering my ears and shrieking out, “No, I won’t do it. I won’t! Noooooo! You can’t make me. Fa, la, la. I don’t hear you. Fa, la, la.”
Never let it be said that I’m a very bright girl.
It’s not that Jeremiah is blinding to look at it. He’s kind of cute in the geeky, Wil-Wheaton-on-Star-Trek way in that I would never admit he was at all cute, but secretly would think, “Not so bad.” In fact, you don’t even notice the random pimples or the fact that Jeremiah hasn’t had a growth spurt since the third grade because you’re so overwhelmed by his annoying personality. And the laugh…my god, the laugh. Fingernails running down a blackboard are less horrific. Trust me. That is not an exaggeration.
Horror 1: Jeremiah referring to me as “cookie”, “cupcake”, and “honey”. I had a few choice names for him, but my mother’s pleas before leaving (“Try to avoid your normal attitude tonight, for my sake”) stopped me from utilizing them. It’s a shame really. It would’ve been a hoot to see the loser blush.
Horror 2: The guys in our limo rushing up the stairs of the art museum while humming the Rocky theme. Never could’ve deduced that would happen.
Horror 3: Jeremiah, or “Jer” as he prefers to be called, explaining in great detail his love of taxidermy. “It’s a lost art, baby. Nobody appreciates the idea that your best friend, Fluffy, would make a great addition to your study. Want a cookie, cookie?” {God awful laughs ensue for he is a comedic legend in his own mind.} He then proceeded to make barfing noises and get drunk on the church wine one of his daredevil friends stole from their school’s rectory Friday afternoon.
Horror 4: Mass Exodus from the dance to “hang” in front of the Galleria. It wasn’t even open, which apparently makes it all the more subversive. Said idiot boys proceed to hoot and cackle at tourists exiting the Hard Rock until a larger guy threatens to kick their ass. Thankfully this shuts them up.
Horror 5: After running to make it back to the museum (which, for the record, is like a hundred blocks away, or feels like a hundred blocks away in heels), Jer-the-king-of-the-dork-squad proceeds to stick his tongue in my ear under the impression that he’s a veritable Lady’s Man.
Horror 6: The yells from my mother while my step-father chuckled from the stairwell upon sight of my honey-bunny’s black eye and swollen lip. I tried to explain that they were “love pats” but Jer’s whimpering may have raised some doubts.
On the bright side I suspect my mother will avoid pawning me off on any of her co-workers’ children ever again. I can still hear her wailing to my stepfather that she’s going to have to buy a fruit basket tomorrow on her “one day off this week.”
My job is done.
Datelessly Yours!
Tah!