Someone just shoot me. Please. The gods are conspiring against me. The Universe has spied upon my worst nightmare, making it materialize, probably just for the entertainment value. I have entered the realm of Wallflower Hell.My son’s school is having a Spring Dance in conjunction with a Parent’s Weekend. Cool, I thought, imagining a weekend getaway in a comfy hotel and some good old-fashioned family time. We needed a little retreat.
The Spring Ball
Attire: This is a black tie event. Men, please wear tuxedos. Women, please dress in formal gowns. And, be prepared to dance!
See you there!
What the fuck???
I do keep up on my children’s school events. Nothing about “Parent’s Weekend” on the calendar suggested to me it would include shoving my badly bunioned feet into shoes two sizes too small, a dress costing more than this month’s mortgage payment and wearing the evilest invention in the history of mankind: pantyhose.
I envisioned my role at this shindig as something akin to chaperone. I pictured parents sitting in the bleachers, taking a few photos, drinking punch and patrolling dark corners for wandering teenagers with hands to match.
Let me share my history with dresses, uncomfortable shoes and pantyhose. There are only two occasions upon which you will see me sporting any of the above: weddings and funerals. I have even left specific instructions to my beloved for my own funeral: If you insist on a viewing, I insist on being dressed in flannel jammies and 100% cotton socks. If you defy my wishes and shove my pasty dead legs into a pair of pantyhose, I WILL come back and haunt you mercilessly.
Who came up with this brilliant plan, anyway? Being a former teacher, I am quite sure the teachers aren’t looking forward to spending their weekend at work, wearing clothes costing more than a week’s salary. I am certain it wasn’t the kids’ plan. What teenager wants to see their decrepit mother all dolled up, sharing a dance floor with his peers? Surely, I can’t be the only parent facing this weekend with an impending sense of doom, can I?
Just as I am about to swallow my last ounce of wallflower dignity and seal my fate with my signature on the R.S.V.P., settled in the knowledge there is nothing capable of making this event worse than it already is, the phone rang.
Caller ID informs me it is my ex. Because our children are at school, I know no good can come of this call and consider not answering at all.
“Hello,” I say, but am thinking: Hello, asshat.
“I just got my invitation to the ball,” says he, audibly chuckling, “you’re going aren’t you?”
“Of course,” I say, whilst thinking: of course I am going to the ball, at the school I spent my life savings on with no help from you and because I am the parent who does ALL the parenting, you moronic twat.
“Hahahahaha!” he proclaims, “You have to wear a dress! Hahahahaha!”
“Fuck you,” I say, but I am thinking, well, I’m thinking: Fuck you!
And this is where things do get worse. This is where a wallflower’s worst nightmare morphs into The Dance of Doom.
My ex informs me he is flying in (in his typical arrive for the glory, hand me the bill, then disappear into the ethers fashion) for the shindig. In eight years, I’ve only had to see him twice – and both times were in a courtroom with two lawyers acting as buffers.
Pantyhose, a formal gown, fancy shoes, dancing, socializing and my ex for an entire weekend? What the hell have I done to rack up this kind of bad karma?
If I disappear following the third weekend in April, someone should probably notify the authorities. You’ll find me hanging from a noose crafted of pantyhose and chiffon.
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At 7:01 PM,
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At 11:43 PM,
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At 10:32 AM,
"What teenager wants to see their decrepit mother all dolled up, sharing a dance floor with his peers? Surely, I can’t be the only parent facing this weekend with an impending sense of doom, can I?"
Eh, I've seen you. His friends would probably call you a MILF. snerk.
Just pray that the ex doesn't show up with a hooker on his arm. ;-) -
At 11:12 AM,
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At 1:53 PM,
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At 3:26 PM,
I'd stick with the MILF theory if I were you, it's better for the psyche.
BTW,
"If I disappear following the third weekend in April, someone should probably notify the authorities. You’ll find me hanging from a noose crafted of pantyhose and chiffon."
It is at this point that I must inform you that I am a mandated reporter. -
At 3:27 PM,
Meg and Jude: Thank you, from the bottom of my bunions.
Atilla: MILF - hahahaha. I just about died reading that. I hadn't thought of hookers. Perhaps I could arrange one for my ex to get him out of my hair?
Charlie: I am painting the builseye right between my eyes. Thank you.
Kim: Why didn't I think of cross dressing?! That's the most brilliant solution thus far. -
At 3:32 PM,
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At 10:17 AM,
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At 2:06 PM,
rhonda-i was ROTFL over this. could hardly catch my breath. you can write (and thereby i can learn). what a breath of fresh air. i agree. the vilest invention ever created for women is pantyhose. haven't worn them since i had to put on dresses to teach middle school yuuuuuuuccccccckkkkk! and your curse on anyone who might bury you in them is HILARIOUS. do you write for $? if not, you shoood, luvvy. i'm
already hooked on your writing. an avid fan. p.s., i appreciate all the dry/wry humor your readers offer, too. yummy. -
At 6:40 PM,
Rhonda -
At 9:17 PM,
HeatherRainbow -
At 12:23 PM,
UnknownOh sure, Rhonda, confuse me. A guy goes away for a day or two and look what happens. You completely rearrange the furniture. Again. Aren't you happy unless you're diddlepooping around? Can't you sit still and be quiet?
The reason for my complaint is totally selfish. Until I learn the new layout I will be tripping over things. And kitty doesn't like falling flat on his face (this, from a supposedly adult male).
Actually, I like it, now that I know where the comment button is. -
At 5:03 PM,
Rhonda
I do not envy you at all. Pantyhose are evil. Exes are worse. Spring balls are whatever's worse than worse.