Prom Night: A REAL Horror Story

The year was 1987.  We danced to "Walk Like an Egyptian" and had nightmares about the rabbit scene in  "Fatal Attraction."  In May of that year girls put on their finest poofy dresses and stocked up on aerosol hair spray in preparation for the prom (side note:  why do some schools say "THE prom" while some refer to it solely as "prom", as in "What about prom, Blaine, what about prom??")

Anyway, I was one of those girls.  The dress I wore was borrowed.  It was an electric blue dress that my boyfriend's cousin wore as a bridesmaid.  I loved it, especially since it gave me the opportunity to buy electric blue eyeliner and eyeshadow to match.  Of course, my boyfriend had a matching bow tie for his tuxedo.

The night started off normally enough.  The rented limo took us to the Hilton hotel in Manhattan.  Of course, the anticipation of the after-prom activities is always high. We wondered with excitement what Manhattan hot-spots would let in underage kids in formal wear.  Unfortunately, the first place we tried was not such a spot, so the limo moved on.  There were 6 of us.  My best friend at the time was on a "blind prom date" with her co-worker's brother, Tony, a nice enough guy in a white tux.

Suddenly the limo jolted a bit, sputtered along and then stopped.  We had broken down right there in front of The Limelight, a famous nightclub that was housed in an old Episcopal church.  Broken down on prom night!!  Well, this is one of those time where youth was truly wasted on the young.  There we were in Manhattan, no chaperones, graduating high school and facing an uncertain future, and what did we do?? Did we leave the limo to hit the town?  Nope, we stayed there.  Guess in this day and age of cell phones it would have been easier to venture out but we were all a bit sheltered, and decicded the wisest thing to do was to stay put. 

Hours passed and eventually the limo company sent a car for us.  Not a limo, a car.  Six of us promsters, our original driver and the new driver piled into a Towne Car like circus clowns.

We decided to call it a night and start fresh in the morning.  The next day we headed for the beach, but as  pretty much every high school senior in Queens and Long Island had their prom the night before and had the same idea as we did, the fields were full.  OK, so much for plan B.  Plan C was a picnic in the park.  We went to the deli for sandwhiches and snacks and what happened next will forever be emblazoned in my memory.

Tony was driving.  As he was making a left from one major intersection to another, he, well, came in contact with a pedestrian.  Til the day I die I will never forget turning around from the back seat and seeing the packages she had been carrying fly into the air as Tony yelled "did she get up??"  When we told him that she had, he kept driving, much to all of our surprise. Then we heard a booming voice from the van in back of us:  "Pull over you son of a bitch!!"  Gulp.  Tony pulled over and a burly man came to the car and promptly  punched Tony right in the face through the open window as he said "you're following me to the police station."  HUH???  This is the prom, dammit!!  These things are not supposed to happen!!!  I should be on my second application of sunblock right now slightly hungover from my experimentation with Bahama Mamas!

After giving our statments to the police, none of us was really in a picnic kinda mood so that was it.  No  post-prom party the night before, no beach day, and no second date for my friend and Tony.

To this day, I get a bit envious of kids who get to experience their prom the way it was meant to be experienced.  I do feel cheated out of what was supposed to be a great night.  The plus side, I always win the "who had the worst prom" game at parties.

Pomp and Circumstance

The families eagerly await the arrival of the graduates, armed with cameras and bouquets of flowers. They have arrived early in order to get the best seats possible, waiting on line before the doors to the gymnasium open.  Finally, the familiar tune of "Pomp and Circumstance" is heard and the graduates parade in, girls in white cap and gown, boys in green.  Some have big smiles on their faces, some look a bit nervous.  They take their places on the stage as the ceremony begins.

The graduates form groups and treat us to a few choral selections. We hear "Did you Ever See a Turkey?", "These are the People in Your Neighborhood" and "Brush Our Teeth".  Oh, did I mention that the graduates are four and five years old?

This is my daughter's pre-school graduation. Thinking back, I can't remember any such, well, pomp and circumstance when I left pre-school.  Yes, it's true we do make much more out of milestones now then back then.  Now, everyone gets a trophy at the end of the soccer season, everyone gets a plaque for dance.  Some have argued that this is not necessarily a good thing, that it waters down the "real" accomplishments.  And before I had kids I might have agreed with them.  But the fact is, my older daughter, who is 8, gets darn excited about her trophies.  They are a testament to her hard work over the course of the season.  Did they win every game?  No.  Not even close.  But if you believe that "showing up is half the battle" then by golly, that trophy is well deserved.  Yes, all of her trophies end up in a cardboard box on the top shelf of her closet, forgotten about the very next day, but I digress...

Milestones like my little one's graduation are not only for the children, but for the parents as well.  Maybe even more so for us. They allow us those opportunities to reflect on our children; to have one of those "where does the time go?" experiences during our busy lives that make us appreciate the moment a bit more.  I found myself being just a bit envious of the parents with children younger than our little graduates. They get to do this all over again (not me, I'm done.  Finished.  The ship has sailed. Don't get any ideas, friends and family, it ain't gonna happen.)

I realized that I started to feel a bit full of myself.  You know how when a woman is pregnant and sometimes people will say that she acts like she is the only woman who has ever been pregnant?  Damn right she feels that way! We all did, ladies, be honest, especially with our first.  Yes, the room was filled with parents of graduates but I felt like jumping on that stage and shouting, "but you don't understand, that is MY daughter that is graduating!!!  See her?  She is obviously the smartest and cutest one!!"

So I say bring on both the pomp and circumstance!  Let's celebrate at every opportunity! Come the fall my little one is off to kindergarten,  where new experiences await her.  Guess it's time to get her a cardboard box of her own.

25

It has been 25 years since I graduated from high school.  If I had not known that before, I certainly would have learned it through the weekly mail and email reminders that my high school has sent me for several months. With this momentous occasion comes the big "R". That's right my friends, the reunion.  The word that strikes both excitement and fear, nostalgia and anxiety.  Maybe you are not like me.  Maybe from the first day you get that save the date card you know you are going.  You put it on your calendar and start planning what to wear.  For me, the save the date card, placed on my refrigerator, was not a reminder to go, but a reminder to decide if I wanted to go.  That card watched me every day, like one of those oil paintings where the eyes follow you around.  It mocked me as I changed my mind, seemingly daily. OK, so it really didn't mock me but it felt like it.

I have a love/hate relationship with high school.  While I was in it, I loved it.  But as time went on and I lost touch with every single high school friend, I felt further and further isolated from that time. I also have a bit of a complex about being remembered, or more accurately, not remembered.  I had several instances where I saw someone I knew from years ago and started to wave, only to realize that the person was looking right past me, or right through me. So, my wave turned into that awkward half-wave where I quickly put my hand down and hope nobody noticed.

I am not making this up.  Really.  Here is the best example.  I used to work for a university.  During one time period I was simultaneously hosting a webradio program on the campus radio station, had my picture featured on marketing pieces and on the website, and was constantly speaking at campus events.  However, when my colleague and I would be out and about on campus, people, some of whom I had met even more than once, would say hello to him and ignore me.  Or they would say that it was nice to meet me, even though they had previously met me.  It became such a running joke that my colleague created the phrase "over exposed but nobody knows" to describe me.  I know, hard to believe given my knack for entertaining whimsy but it's true.

Back to the reunion. Obviously, my biggest fear was that I would walk in to a sea of people who think they have never laid eyes on me before.  To avoid this I used facebook to see if any of my facebook friends from high school would be attending and luckily some are (and they are even ones that I really do care to see, bonus!)  So, I decided to go. But something still kept me from registering until just a couple of days ago. Now the deed is done and I can't back out now. Well, I can but then I am out $50.

The one plus that could have come from not keeping in touch with high school friends is that I could have made up a fabulous alter ego for myself and nobody would have known the different.  But facebook ruined that for me.  Because of facebook, those high school chums on my friend list know too much about me already. They know I am currently unemployed, married, have two kids, have two cats, can't cook, watch American Idol, love chocolate, etc. (um....maybe I post a bit too often??)  No mystery there.  Oh well, so much for being as astrophysicist/circus clown who has a history of philanthropy and was a contestant on the first season of Survivor but had to back out because she was donating a kidney to a homeless man.

So, I am going, and I am looking forward to it.  Will it be a triumphant return?  A regretful failure?  Somewhere in the middle?  Stay tuned my readers, stay tuned...

It's Not Easy Being Green

I recently opened the pages of my beloved Real Simple magazine to see an article on the many uses of zip lock bags. I became instantly excited and a bit self-congratulatory since I have been using zip lock bags for a variety of reasons since becoming a mother. Need to bring crayons to a restaurant to keep the kiddies amused? Throw them in a zip lock. Game pieces keep falling out of a battered and torn game box? Zip lock. Special hair clips getting lost in an over crowded drawer? Zip lock. I felt good about myself, thinking that I had come up with an idea worthy of the pages of Real Simple.

Fast forward two issues. A letter to the editor chastising the magazine for extolling the virtues of a product that is not environmentally friendly. Oh well, there goes my Mother of the Year award.

I try to be "green". I am militant about recycling at home. If I work someplace that does not recycle paper, I bring my unwanted paper home to recycle. My car is littered with plastic water bottles because I will not throw them away (and always forget to bring them in the house, but that's another story.) However, I am also a busy mom, and sometimes a busy schedule necessitates short cuts. I'm sure I have single handedly destroyed a rain forest somewhere due to the number of paper towels I use (sorry, Sting). And I never for one second considered cloth diapers. So, I straddle the line between tree-hugger and wasteful capitalist.

But I guess that is what parenting is. A series of inconsistencies. One minute good cop, the next bad cop. One minute confident, the next deflated. It's all a point system. And we just hope that when all is said and done, the majority of our points are on the right side, whatever that "right" side means to us. Who know, maybe one day I'll have enough points for that Mother of the Year award after all. In the meantime, please excuse me, I need to grab an extra-large paper towel and clean up some spilled non-organic milk.

Beauty is a Beast

Recently I was laying in bed with my 4-year old daughter. I told her I love her. She said to me "do you know why people love me?" I asked why and she replied "because I am pretty." Yes, you are right to have that contorted look on your face at this moment. I froze, not knowing exactly how to respond. When I regained my inner composure I explained to her that people love her because she is sweet, and kind, and funny, etc., not because she is pretty. And I prayed the message got through.

The thing is, in some sense, she is right. It is without bias that I say that my daughter is truly a beauty. She has dirty-blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and lips like Angelina Jolie. In fact, over the years random strangers have told me that she looks like Brad and Angelina's daughter, Shiloh (not because I dress her in boyish clothes.) Almost every day, someone comments on her looks. I am always hesitant to say "thank you" afterward, fearing that being grateful for such comments give them more importance than I would like.

I am always so cognizant of building up the confidence of both of my daughters by complementing them. As a woman I know all too well what it feels like to feel unattractive. My husband and I are always telling our daughters how beautiful they are. Is this bad? Does it come to a point when it is too much? Yes, we also tell them how smart they are, how thoughtful, how they can do anything they put their minds to. I tell them time and time again that Barbie dolls do not represent the way real women look. In fact, my 8 year old is tired of hearing it from me. But they are faced with the reality every day. Television commercials, store ads, songs, billboards.

What is a mother to do? I wear make-up. I get my eyebrows done. I do my nails. I have even recently been watching what I eat in order to lose weight (however, I do not allow the word "diet" in my house, as far as the kids are concerned, mommy is trying to be healthier by eating so much salad that it is coming out of her ears.) So, I can't altogether tell them that a person's appearance means nothing. But I'll be damned if I am gonna let my little girl think that people love her because she is pretty.

This may be the first time I have ever wished I had sons. Hey, maybe Angelina and Brad are on to something.

And Also With You

I admit it, I am one of those Catholics who only goes to church on Christmas Eve. Well, that used to be the case. You see, my third-grade daughter is making her First Holy Communion this May. That, in and of itself, shows our lack of religious affiliation, as she is making it one year later than children traditionally do. So, this year is the big Communion year, and with that comes a whole lot of church going. There are special masses that we must attend, and written assignments that she must do based on them.

Two Sundays ago my daughter and I went to church. It was the first non-major-Catholic holiday mass she had ever attended. We went to the "childrens mass" which I hoped would make it more interesting for her. At one point they ask the children to go into another room, something I remember doing back when I was young. When the children are led back in, I spot my darling, arms crossed and face scowled. She returns to her seat and exclaims "That was boring!" OK, first day not starting off so great.

During the mass I tried not to look like a newbie. This is difficult since they have recently changed some of the prayers and responses that have been ingrained in me since childhood. I feel like the last one invited to the party. When the priest says "the Lord be with you", I instinctively say "and also with you." This, however, is not the appropriate response anymore, as it has been replaced with "and with your spirit." Don't ask me why they felt the need to change this. If it ain't broke don't fix it, I say, and I doubt "and also with you" was all that broken. I hate to sound like Oliver Stone, but I think it's a conspiracy against us non-Church goin' folks. These days, it's easy to spot us, as we are the ones mouthing the wrong words. (And on a related note regarding additional new text, if someone can tell me what "consubstantial" means without looking it up, I will send you $5.)

I sat there and tried hard to focus on the mass, but my mind kept wandering. The monologue in my head went like this: "Ohh, I love that woman's purse. Stop it! You should not be thinking of material things during mass. OK, pay attention now!....God, that is a beautiful purse. Oops, sorry, God... Is that a Coach bag? I think it says Coach, maybe if I lean this way I can tell. I wonder if she got it at the outlet store. I haven't been there in a while, not that I need anything but it's always fun to go. FOCUS!!"

During the collection portion of mass I tell my daughter to complete her writing assignment and the conversation goes something like this:
Me: "Did they read the Gospel to you?"
Her: "I don't know, it was something with Moses." I show her the Gospel and she confirms that this is what was read to them.
Me: "Did you all discuss it afterwards?"
Her: "No."
Me: "There was no homily?"
Her: "No."
Me: "No discussion about the Gospel??"
Her: "Maybe a little."
Me: "So there was a homily."
Her: "They never said the word "homily"."
Me (exasperated): "They don't have to say the word homily, it just IS the homily!" It is at that point that I realize just how much I have failed in my duties as a Catholic parent, and I picture my Italian ancestors rolling over in their graves.

So here I am, struggling to return to the Church like a prodigal daughter; walking the tightrope between appearing hypocritical and being genuinely sincere in wanting my daughters to be exposed to the sense of community that religion brings. I still hold on to some traditions but have let go of others. I wanted to get married in a church, and I do insist on church at Christmas, but I eat meat on Fridays during Lent and have not set foot in a confessioinal booth since Andy Gibb was on the charts and Dallas was on TV.

The next week we return to Sunday mass. My daughter tells me that the Gospel will be boring and I ask why. She replies that she already heard it the prior week. I explain that it will be a different Gospel every week and again picture Giacomo, Augusta, etc. rolling in their aforementioned graves. One small victory, though; in week 2, she arrives back to her seat after the children’s portion in a much better mood. Yes, that was because she found a friend from soccer to sit next to, but I'll take it.

Love and Work in the Age of Technology

For all those of you who watched "Sex & The City", remember the episode where Carrie gets dumped by Burger via post-it note? Well, the employment equivalent of that happened to me three days ago. I got laid off. Via email. By the company's outsourced HR firm, not by my boss. Thank you for that face you just made. I appreciate the empathy.

In that classic and oft-referenced episode, Carrie awakens to find a completely unexpected post-it note telling her that her relationship is over. In my case it was a an e-mail telling me that due to lack of work I was being laid off, effective two days prior. Nevermind that after being there several months, I had been asked by them to make an additional six month commitment to the firm, which I did. Nevemind that I had personal articles in the office that I had to get back. No thanks for everything. No "if you ever need a reference..." Zip. Zilch.

I was at a pizza place having my weekly pizza play date with my friend and our kids when the dreaded e-mail arrived. On reading it I exclaimed "I've just been laid off! Via e-mail!", much to the shock and horror of my friend and the lovely ladies at the next table, who offered their condolences when I left. Everyone is in agreement that this is a crappy way to get laid off. The email stated that they had "tried unsuccessfully to reach me at my home number", which is funny cause I received no message on my answering machine and there was no missed call on my Caller ID. Whatever.

For me, the worst part was not losing the job (I knew it was temporary, but had no idea it was this temporary), it was purely the way that it happened. I was unceremoniouly dumped. Like in a relationship, I felt that the time I put in meant nothing, that I wasn't even worth a face to face dumping. As Carrie told Burger's unsuspecting and unlucky-to-be-there friend in a club, "you can have the guts and the courtesy to tell a woman to her face that you no longer want to see her. Call me crazy, but I think you can make a point of ending your relationship in a manner that does not include an email, a doorman or a missing persons report." Amen, sister.

So, it got me wondering (channeling Carrie), is it people that shape technology or technology that shapes people? What I mean is that were people hungry for a way to de-personalize much of life, or did e-mail put the idea in their head? If it weren't for e-mail, would I have been dumped in person, or would my boss have found another impersonal way to do it, like a good old fashioned letter from the aforementioned HR firm.

Friends have offered their advice on how I should handle this. I have heard everything from reply to the email reminding them that they asked me for that six month commitment, to calling my former boss and thanking him for the opportunity to work there, all with the intent of making him feel like crap, to, and this is my favorite, pulling a George Costanza and showing up there today pretending that I never got the e-mail. I, however, chose not to reply at all. I don't feel that anything in the e-mail asked for or deserves a reply. I have chosen to end it there and move on. After all, in the end Carrie got Mr. Big. And a ginormous shoe closet.