The Dance

There are times when I ask Laze-E to remind me (again) just how old she is. Depending on the tone of deliverance, “How old are you?” is asked for various reasons.

For example, “How old are you?” may be a question that requires a simple answer of “thirteen”. In these instances, I look lovingly at my child as I remember the baby she was & look to the future at the lovely young woman she’s becoming.

Other times, “How old are you?” is quickly followed by “And, why are you acting like a 2-year-old?” This question technically requires no answer; however, I usually get one punctuated with squinty eyes, a you-get-on-my-last-nerve huff & a “what-ev-er” door slam.

Laze-E: starring in both The Terrible Twos & The Terrible Twos II – the Encore Presentation.

Still yet, “How old are you?” can be a strictly mathematical question. OK, 13, born in February, graduate in June. So that’s, T-minus 5 years, 4 days and 14 hours until you could technically get a job, get a life and move out of the Haus.

I said all that to say this: yesterday was the 8th Grade “Prom”.

Yeah, I know. That’s what all the kids were calling the event. Since I believe in calling a spade a spade, it was more of a Middle School Akward, Dorky, Semi-Formal Freak Show with Music & Snacks. OK, I don’t know that for sure because I didn’t actually hang around to chaperone the darn thing, but I was extensively involved in the pre-game events and commentary afterwards.

Round One: I ask Laze-E “How old are you?” (option #3) when I was in the middle of chauffeuring her around the greater Brussels area. First, to a friend’s house to hang out & do make-up, then to pick her up later so that she could complain about the make-up. Only to drive her back to our Haus so I could re-do the make-up because her friend made her up like street walking 'ho & re-do her hair because she walked outside for no good reason to visit another friend's house in 100% humidity. Then I had to haul her princess butt to the actual dance. Then someone (me, again) had to be the DD and do the pick-up routine. I marvel at my lack of judgement sometimes. Seriously, what was I thinking? Letting her go to the dance? Letting Man crawl into a bottle while I drank seltzer water with lemon?

Round Two: I asked Laze-E “How old are you?” (option #2) when I picked her up from the dance only to be greeted with attitude, tears and foot stomping as she demanded an answer other than “because I said so” as to why her friend couldn’t spend the night (But. Why. Not? stomp, pout, cross arms, muster up a tear - oh, my goodness & gag me with a spoon!). After all, the dance didn’t quite meet her Cinderella (darn you, Disney) expectations & she needed a friend to nurse her back to emotional well being. Please pass the spoon. Did I mention my sobriety?

And, finally Round Three: I asked Laze-E “How old are you, dear?” (obviously, option #1) because this is how she looked last night:



Gorgeous, huh?

Thankfully, we all survived 8th Grade Prom & I'm currently working on my AAR. For those of you who aren't well versed in Army-speak, that's my After Action Report.

What worked well:

• eBay for the dress & shoes
• the curls looked awesome
• we arrived to the dance on time

What will be modified for next year:

• no prissing around in humidity after doing hair
• Mom does make-up the first & only time
• Man gets to be the DD
• Mom will only be spoken to in a loving tone using nice words with positive connotations
• reiterate (you know, again and again) that boys will act more like SpongeBob than any Prince Walt D created

Last but not least. Here's our Savvy new VISA commercial:

Ticket to the Dance: $5
Silver sandals with 2 inch heel: $7.49 (seriously!)
Teal halter dress: $11.99 (score one for the HausFrau!)
2 gallons of gas for all that running around: $8.74




Looking & Feeling like a Princess: Priceless