Fun with the scanner

This is what happens when you let the three year old help you scan stuff...

I know, it's a creepy ass image, isn't it? Well, if you ever wanted to know how to make your kids look like The Undead, now you know. Stick their little heads in the scanner.

Then he figured out that you could put just about anything you wanted to in the scanner and a picture of it would pop up on mommy's computer. So we started with the bink.....

And moved on to a hand......

Next came a toy truck he found under my bed.....

And then another toy truck he found under my desk....He's laughing hysterically by this time. Running back and forth from his room to mine with new treasures to scan...

Here we have his "fix it" goggles....

And a sad lonely little Lincoln Log. ( I love that they still make those.)

Followed quickly by this poor squished stormtrooper....

Then the shoes. These were a gift from Judy, a dear friend in New York. My son wears these shoes EVERYWHERE we go. He loves them. They have zippers on the sides and he can put them on and take them off himself. I printed this one out for him. He took the picture to bed with him tonight.

And last but not least we have.....

Okay, if you can figure out what this is you're a damn good guesser and will be hearalded as "The Best Guesser of All Time". I know what it is. The three year old knows what it is. My husband looked at this picture and said, "What the fuck is that?"

Now you know what my family does for fun on a Sunday night.

The Trouble with New Readers........

We have a new reader!! Normally I'd just drop a quick "Hey there! How are ya!" in the comments...but this reader and I have something special in common. We both dig James T. Kirk. Some of you may already know Gunfighter, everyone else, give him a big "Hey there! How are ya?"

I found this book at my local thrift store. Can you believe it? I love the local thrift store. So many cool things, just waiting to be discovered.

"The Trouble With Tribbles" is probably one of the most well known Star Trek episodes. They even revisited it during Star Trek" Deep Space Nine. Ahh....how they love to time travel.

Here we see James T. Kirk in all his glory. You know we love him.

Does anyone else notice something missing from these Kligons? Worf would later say, "It is a very embarassing part of Kligon history. We do not discuss it." (or something along those lines...) when Jadzia questions him about it in the DS9 revisit. Yes..I AM that big a geek. Now hush....

And...as always, Captain James T. Kirk and the crew of the Starship Enterprise save the day. Was there ever any doubt?

This book was a great find and I hope you've enjoyed this very special Welcome!!!!


It's 75 degrees outside right now. I've just come inside from laying out in the sun. I went out with a blanket and a bottle of baby oil and slathered myself up and just basked. I soaked up all the warmth and goodness of the day. There's a slight breeze and no clouds and the air smells beautiful. I love days like this. They're better than any anti-depressant on the market.

Now I'm this wonderful shade of pink and I'm warm and I feel wonderful. I smell like sunlight.

I love days like this.

I'm going to go take my son for a walk.


In which I rant like the lunatic I really am.....

Okay, that's it...I've had it...I've kept my mouth shut for as long as I can!!!! I'm about to over use the exclamation point! Be prepared! I'm pissed! This is one of those times I really wish I had a soapbox!

You want to know why the word "nazi" get's paired with the word "feminist" so often? I can tell you! I've been reading posts for the last week that go on and on about how women get shafted in divorce cases and how Alec Baldwin is the freakin' Anti-Christ and how breast feeding mothers should be allowed to whip their tits out in public any old time they want and the rest of the general public be damned!!! Shut the FUCK UP!!!! You all make me ashamed to be women, much less a mother! I would personally like to whack each and every one of you in the back of the head for being ignorant and setting us back twenty years!!!!!! You make my head hurt!!!! You make my eyes blur!!!!!!!! Where do I begin???!!!!?????

Oh...let's start with the whole brestfeeding thing. KEEP YOUR TITS TO YOUR SELF!!!!!!! Not everyone wants to see it! Get over it!! This is not the sixties! You are not Betty Friedan!! You are not fighting for the Right To Vote!!!!! We're talking about FREAKING BREASTFEEDING!!!!! The fucking kid doesn't care!!!!!! Sit down, put a blanket over your breast and feed your freakin kid!! The lady at the table next to you doesn't want to see it! The guy on the airplane next to you doesn't want to be obliged to have to uncomfortably look at the ceiling while you sit with your nipple out.....GET THE FUCK OVER IT!!!!!!!!!!!!

Moving on.......

Alec Baldwin is not the Anti-Christ. Kim Basinger is not the Sainted Mother Theresa. They are two parents going through a divorce. Neither one of them is a very good parent. They aren't doing their kid any favors. Get over it!!!!!!! Move on!!! Find something else to obsess over!!!!! Sweet Jesus!!!!!

Deep breath in......

Women want equal treatment...until....what a group of pansy ass whiners. "we get shafted in divorce cases...." Yeah, uh-huh....Let's review. First we'll trot out the tired old bullshit about the doctor or the lawyer or the "rich guy" who dumps his helpless little wife so he can run off with his trophy wife, leaving his "old" wife to live on welfare and support her kids on next to nothing while he never pays child support....Yes, that's happened. Not as often as the media would like you to believe, but it's happened. Deal with it. Life isn't fair. Big deal. Cry me a river!!! MOVE ON!!!!!! How about this? How about you get up, get off your butt and GET A DAMNED JOB????? I have one. I've had two...hell, I've had three...you know why? BECAUSE I'M THE CUSTODIAL PARENT!!!!! THAT'S MY DAMNED JOB!!! I support my child,NOT the STATE, NOT my EX...ME!!! If it's to hard, give custody to the other parent. ( and yes, I know...situations exist where that's not possible...please, give it a rest.)

Now, let's talk about the women who take 45% of a man's income, have full time jobs, never let the father see their kids and then bitch that they have it "hard"....shut the FUCK UP!!! I'm tired of hearing it. I'm tired of hearing women bitch about men all the time. I'm tired about hearing how oppressed women are. I'm tired of hearing about how helpless we're supposed to be. I don't know about you, but the last damned thing I am is helpless!!!!!

You want to whine...do it on your own damned time!!!!!!!!

If I have offended anyone today...GOOD!!!!!! This is my blog. This post was not meant to be politically correct. That is why is was not a comment one anyone elses. This is sheer frustration and anger. This is .... grrrrrr... that's what this is.

Get some COMMON SENSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Grow a DAMNED BRAIN!!!!!!! GROW UP!!!!!!!

Tomorrow I will return to my normal, rational, even tempered self..I promise. Today, I'm going to go sit in the corner and bang my head against the wall.

End transmission.......


Check it out...I've been Tagged!!!

I feel all kinds of Special! I've been tagged. Okay, so I asked to be tagged, but still....

Ian sent me 5 "interview" questions. I'm going to post them here, answer them and then post the rules for the meme right behind them. If you want to play along, just let me know.

1. Your son has already showed a preference for cheese on unusual dishes - for example, strawberry pancakes. What things do you put cheese on which other people might consider odd?

I don't really put cheese on anything weird. I'm kind of boring when it comes to food, which is why my son's odd food choices make me do the Spock eyebrow thing. I do like peanut butter on my pancakes though...does that count?

2. Discuss at length the reason why Utah bothers with speed limits on the Interstate.

What? Is this a test? I don't even have a driver's license. (Yes, that's true). About all I know about Utah and the Rules of the Road is that the Governor is considering reverting to the 1970's by lowering the speed limit to 55 again, instead of getting with the times and raising it, like a lot of states have done. Oh, and I know that it's a myth that there isn't a speed limit on the Interstate in Montana. There is one. It's 75 in the daytime and 65 at night. All along the Interstate you see billboards that say stuff like, "Yes Mario, there is a speed limit." Here ends my knowledge of Utah and it's driving laws.

3. Ever been to the beach? If so, share a beach story with us. If not, make one up.

Sex on the beach is not as romantic as it looks. Have you ever seen those love scenes in the movies? They're on the beach, the sun is setting, the waves are crashing, she's lying casually on top of him...everything is perfect.

Sex on the beach is nothing like that. I know..I tried it. Oh, it starts out like that. You lay the blanket down and you get all comfortable. You lay there talking and listening to the water. The sun starts to go down and you're kissing...and then you realize that it's getting cold. You ignore that because it's romantic, dammit.

You continue snuggling and things start to get a little more intense. You're still trying not to think about the fact that it's freaking cold out and now there are mosquitoes. Shit! Were those voices? You both stop and hold your breath, you're rolled up in the blanket now and you're trying not to shiver. You wait for a moment and realize it was the wind, and not voices.

You try to get back into the mood, but it's just clumsy now. You're determined to finish it though...so you eventually forget that where you are. You get into things again. His hands on your skin, his breath in your ear.

He rolls you over and suddenly your naked. The blanket feels warm and slightly scratchy against your skin. "This is how it's supposed to be," you think. Then you feel it...the sand. It's everywhere. It's in every crack and crevice of your body. You close you're eyes and hope it will be over soon.

As soon as it's over you pull your swimsuit back on and run down to the water. You mistakenly believe that you can wash the sand off...but no, what you don't know is that you will be finding sand for days.

No, having sex on the beach is nothing like it looks in the movies. Bastards.

4. Finish this sentence and explain why you picked what you did: "This one time, in band camp, I..."

This one time, in band camp, I...I'm drawing a blank. Everything I start to write that begins with that phrase is hopelessly filthy and unfit to print here. This is NOT that kind of blog. It could be that kind of blog, but I'd have to change the banner and several of the fonts and there would be a few people that come here who would be shocked.

5. Which describes you better? "Tastes great" or "Less filling"?

This is an easy one. I am a "Tastes Great" woman all the way. The whole low fat, low carb, low taste craze is a crime against nature. Food should taste good. Food is meant to be enjoyed.

Chocolate should melt in your mouth and when your eating it.
There should be no such thing as a fat free, sugar free brownie.
Houses should smell of fresh baked bread at least once a month.
Everyone should own at least one recipe for homemade macaroni and cheese, the kind with heavy cream in it.
You should be able to sit in the sun with your eyes shut and enjoy an ice cream cone, just like you did when you were a child.

You will never find me on the Atkin's Diet, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, or any of the other starve yourself options that permeate our culture. I will never be anything below a size twelve. I am definitely a "Tastes Great" kind of person.


1. Leave a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions (if I don't have your email address, you can email me instead). I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions


Teenage Angst: Remembered

Everyone has horror stories from their childhood. Everyone has a story to tell about how they got picked on by someone at sometime. Some are worse than others. Well, not everyone has those stories. Some of you reading this will have been the givers, others will have been the receivers. Even so, everyone can relate.

This is gonna be a long one folks, but stick it out. I promise this story has a moral.

I was a nerd in school. I was more than a nerd, I was an uber-nerd. I was the nose in her books, glasses wearing, never cared about fashion, always knew the right answer kind of nerd. Add to that the fact that I made friends with the weirdos, the freaks, the dummies and the outcasts...yeah, I was a beating waiting to happen. You could have just painted a big 'ole target on my ass the first day of first grade and sent me off to the playground.

As the years passed, it only got worse. I got boobs in the fourth grade. Not the "Oh, how cute" kind. The "Jesus, that kid is a freak" kind. The girls were merciless. I mean, sure, I got my revenge in high-school when I grew into them, but at the time it was hell. By seventh grade I had read all of Shakespear's collected works, in my spare time, for fun....painting a picture here? Yeah, not pretty is it?

The teachers loved me, usually....the other kids looked at me as something from a science fiction movie. My locker got stacked. They smeared Vaseline on my glasses. They shoved me in the hallways. I got called every name you could think of. They would surround me in the locker room and steal my clothes, make me beg to have them back. I got followed home everyday with threats of physical violence being hurled at me.

I took it all. I never said a word. I went silently through every single day of torture at school and never uttered a word. I never screamed or yelled. I never complained to the teachers. Not a sound. I just read more books and wrote in my journal. Except for one day in eighth grade. On that day I had had enough. On that day I had been pushed to far. On that day I decked one of the other girls. Just hauled off and slugged her in the nose. WHAM! Down she went. She tried to get up. I thumped her again. They were agog. They didn't move. They stared at me as if they had never seen me before. Then one of them screamed. Very Carrie.

I calmly walked myself to the principal's office. The secretary was confused by my appearance and asked why I was there. I told her. Then I sat down to wait for my mother. I got suspended from school for three days. I was sent to counseling to find out why I had struck out at a fellow classmate in such a violent fashion. When I responded to the counselor's questions honestly I got asked what I had done to "provoke" that kind of treatment. At that point I stopped talking to the counselor and was labeled "difficult". Okay then.

In high school I moved to a new city and ended up in a school where I wasn't the smartest kid I knew. In fact, there were a lot of kids that were much smarter than me. I fit in. I didn't even have to do anything. I just fit. My self-esteem improved. My fashion choices improved. I grew into my boobs. Right about the time my boobs and I came to terms with each other I got a boyfriend and life was good.

I found a voice in that place. I learned to stand up for myself. When I was sent home to my mother three years later, I wasn't the same quiet little nerd I had been in the eighth grade. Suddenly I was the "scary" kid. I was combat boots and safety pins in the wrong places. I was punk rock in a sea full of cowboy boots. This terrified each and everyone of my former tormentors. Not one of them opened their mouths to me. Not one. It was remarkable. Suddenly I was to be feared. I was a thing of awe inspiring gasps. I was "That Girl" and not in a Marlo Thomas kind of way. Girls talked in hushed tones when I walked by and the boys wanted me....oh how they wanted me. Combat boots and big tits will get you noticed in a school full of Wranglers and sports bras. I was sex and parties and sin on two legs. I was on fire.

I promised you a moral to this tale, so here it comes. I spent a vast majority of my life in public school as that kid everyone thought was weird. The one that you hear about in the news. I was that kid. I was quiet. I kept to myself. I never complained. I was friends with all the other weirdos. We sat in our own corner of the lunchroom. We read. We talked about politics. We played Dungeons and Dragons. We were each others shelter from the storm. We were lucky to have even that. We hadn't done anything wrong, we were just different. No one came to our aid. No one stood up for us. No one told the "popular" kids that it wasn't okay to be such complete and total bastards. Everyone just ignored it or worsed, asked us what we were doing to provoke it.

Some of you that read this post will adopt the "kids will be kids" attitude. The "suck it up, life's not fair" approach. Some of you will read it and think that I, and kids like me, could work harder to "fit in". That being different is somehow justification for being targeted. Quite a few of you will shrug it off with the classic, "High school doesn't last forever."

Would your perception of my experience change at all if I added details? How about knowing, for example, that the entire time I was being picked on by fellow students I was being abused at home. Not just garden variety spanked and yelled at abused, but the "Mommy Dearest" coat hanger on the back kind? Let's insert the additional detail that at the age of nine I was sexually molested for a number of months by a neighbor, and that upon reporting this to my mother I was called a "lying little slut"? Up the anty a bit, how about knowing that I went to school on a number of occassions with visable bruises and administrators did nothing? Top it all off with a nice helping of suicidal tendancies brought on by severe and prolonged depression which would later be diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder.

Is your perception of the person walking quietly down the hall of that junior high, absorbing all the abuse being thrown at her by fellow classmates shifting slightly?

We brush off how much the bullying that children undergo at school can impact their lives. Not just as children, but as adults. That "weird" kid in the hallway is a person. The "whiner" or the "brat" at your child's elementary school has feelings too. Those children have lives outside of the walls of those schools. None of us is born detached from society. Children don't learn to be social, they learn to be anti-social. They learn it from us. They learn it by watching how we react to situations like the bully on the playground. If we shrug and say, "Kids will be kids," our children learn to shrug and say it too.

Monsters aren't born, they're created. As we continue to make excuses for our own bad behavior, we will continue to see it manifest itself. I was one of the lucky ones, I got out with my soul intact. Not everyone survives. Those of us that do make it out don't do so unscathed. The scars that come from long term, habitual torment at the hands of your peers last into adulthood. It effects the way you form relationships. It effects the way you treat others. Eventually, it has to come out.

Remember this the next time your tempted to pass off school bullies as no big deal: Today's children are tomorrow's adults. What lessons are they learning when you shrug it off?



I dare you not to laugh.
That's it. I give up. I've logged in about twenty times in the last three days. I apparently have nothing to say.

Okay, that's not exactly true. I have a lot I want to say, but I can't get it all straight in my head. Do you ever have days like that? You sit and you stare at a computer screen or a piece of paper and the thoughts your thinking, which just mere moments ago were logical and cohesive, are now muck?

I haven't been able to work on either one of my stories. The characters have turned rebellious, little bastards. Everytime I try to write they run off, I think it's a conspiracy.

A whole lot of nothing.

I hate that damned cursor. It just sits there blinking at you.

If it starts talking to me, I'm going to have myself committed.


And todays choices were.....

Today for breakfast we had:

Two pancakes
a glass of milk


Shredded Cheese???

What the hell?

Could someone please explain my son to me? Shredded cheese?

Paging Dr. Frankenstein....Dr. Frankenstein to the White Courtesy Phone...

There has been a lot of media coverage regarding the bill in Congress supporting stem cell research and President Bush's promise to veto it. Over at BlogHer Dana from The Dana Files gave us her opinion about the subject. It's sparked quite the little debate, with your's truely chiming in a time or two herself.

One of the points that has been raised is the issue of how abortion fits in (the fetuses used for stem cell research come from abortions) and when life starts. The question being asked? Are we using the byprduct of murder to further medical research?

Suzanne replied to the post and pointed out that comparing a zygote to a child is not really an accurate comparison and that to use that comparison to make an accusation of murder would be wrong. And she's right.

Life technically begins the minute an egg is fertilized. Technically. A child however, in my mind, doesn't come into being until much later. And it is at that stage, at the fetal stage, when abortions are performed. We are not discussing the interruption of zygomatic development here, we are discussing the use to aborted fetuses for the use in medical experimentation. Those fetuses have arms, legs, heads, eyes...they look like human beings. While it remains true that they would not have been mature enough to support themselves independently of their mother's body, does not make them any less human.

Now, that being said, let me make a second point. The issue of stem cell research really isn't about abortion. A woman's right to reproductive control is her own. Abortion is legal. I may not agree with it for my own reasons, but I would never belittle of denounce another for having excercised her right to have one. I will continue to work for better education, better access to birth control and better medical care in the hopes that one day the choice to have an abortion will be obsolete...but I will never call someone that chooses to have one a murderer. I have not walked that path, and so have no right to sling those barbs.

No, the issue of stem cell research is not about reproductive freedom. That stops as soon as the abortion procedure has been completed. At that point we cross into a whole seperate moral and ethical arena. I object to the use of fetal tissue for stem cell research because of the future implications it has on our society. If we make it okay to gather aborted fetuses for medical experimentation, where do we draw the line? At what point are we unable to look the other way? There are militant groups defending the rights of animals from experimentation...can you imagine what will spring up if stem cell research is allowed on aborted fetuses?

Our society will continue to evolve and change. At some point abortion will become an outdated procedure. Birth control options and post contact methods will make it obsolete...and then what. Where will the material for this miraculous research come from then? Once we open this particulay Pandora's Box, we won't be able to close it.

Once we step into that territory, where we make one exception, it will become easier to make others. Who's lives are worth what exceptions? What illnesses are worth what risks? How far would we be willing to go in the quest for perfection and the effort to cheat death?

Death and illness are a part of life. People die. Sometimes there is no reason for it. Playing God will not change that. In fact, it could make it worse. If we start screwing around with the human genetic code, there's no telling what could happen. I have children. I wouldn't want to see them suffer for any reason, but I'm also not willing to consign them to a future of scientific and ethical uncertainty to prevent it.


Mind Numbing Nothingness

I sat down with every intention of wowing you with My stunning ability to think deep and meaningful thoughts. I was going to write something profound and thought provoking.

All I could think of was:

Why is it that apples in my kitchen seem to have a damned half life and bananas go bad in like three days? What the hell is up with that?

That's it people. I got nothing. The bananas win. My brain has been taken over by the banana conundrum.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.


A memory preserved.

Suzanne over at C.U.S.S did a wonderful post about friendship this morning. It made me nostalgic.

Do you remember when being best friends meant "forever"? Even if forever was only until the end of the summer? But it felt like it streched into eternity? Like that time would never end. When it did, it always felt like something in you had died. Childhood had a tangible feeling...

I want to go running outside onto a sunwarmed playground into a group of lauging friends. I want to swing so hard and so high the chains go slack and it feels like I'm flying. I want to play kick the can in the dark, hiding behind the bushes at the neighbors house, holding my breath, listening to my heartbeat in my ears.

I want the feel the rush of joy that came with waking up on Saturday mornings, knowing I had the whole day to eat cereal out of the box, watch cartoons and play. I want peanut butter sandwiches on the grass in June.

I want camping trips in the middle of summers so hot it feels like the sun is to close to the earth. When the lake felt like heaven and we swam all day. I want to sit wrapped in a blanket on the beach and listen to my parents talk to their friends about things I don't understand. I want to lie on the cool sand and watch the stars and smell the fire and pretend we aren't ever going to go home, because here is quiet and no one yells.

I want to hold hands with my best friend and walk down the sidewalk on a cool fall day talking about what we're going to be for Halloween. I want the smell of Elmer's Glue on construction paper and the sound of the library.

I want the quiet moment before anyone woke up on Christmas morning.

I want the smell of fresh baked bread on Sunday.

I want to wrap all the wonderful things about my childhood up into a tiny little box and hang onto them forever. Unsoiled, perfect and untouched. Because that's how childhood should be.


And because it must have been a SERIOUSLY slow news day...

Apparently it was a really slow news day today. The AP reported that a Zamboni driver from New Jersey has been cleared of drunk driving charges. "Well," you might be thinking, "that's good. Drunk driving is bad." And you would be right....if the man had actually been driving a vehicle....on an actual road.

John Peragallo was charged with drunk driving in 2005 after a fellow employee at the Mennen Sports Arena "told police the machine was speeding and nearly crashed into the boards". (right now I'm trying not to laugh.) Okay, how fast can a Zamboni go. I'll wait while we all Google that.

Back? Okay...let's continue. Just in case you couldn't find it or were to lazy, let me clue you in: a Zamboni has a top speed of NINE MILES AN HOUR. NINE!!! I can run faster than that. So good ole' John was racin' around the ice at a whoppin' nine miles an hour after poundin' em back. (Apparently John likes a little Sambuca and Valium with his morning coffee.) Can't you just picture how that bust went?

"Excuse me sir? Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

"Umm, yeah? Do you?"

"Well we clocked you at," Cop pauses to look at his radar,"almost ten miles an hour. I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the Zamboni sir."

John looks confused, "Your fucking kidding, right."

"Sir, we don't joke about things like this. Your fellow employees are concerned for their safety."

"My fellow employees are idiots."

"Sir if you fail to cooperate I'm going to have to place you under arrest."

At this point, do you think John jumped back on the Zamboni and tried to make a break for it? I'd love to see THAT on cops.

A judge ruled today that there was no crime because a Zamboni isn't actually a vehicle. The prosecutor's office is considering appealing the ruling. God, I hope their kidding. If I were the judge I would laugh so hard I would pee myself.

I want to write a book that Oprah will Hate!

A good friend suggested that I should write a self help book. I laughed at her. Then I started thinking about it. Maybe I shouldn't write a "self-help" book, maybe I should write a "self" book. Think about that for a moment. I did.

I started writing.

It's called:

"Actually, You're Mother IS to Blame."

I'll keep you posted.


Taffeta Hell

I have entered Taffeta Hell.

The Armory is dark and covered in tissue paper and balloons. There is a crappy band banging out a shitty rendition of the current popular redneck favorite in the background and everywhere I look there are taffeta covered Barbie wannabes. It makes me want to throw up. I am not amused. My date chokes back a laugh, looks at me and says, "Remember, you ASKED me to bring you here." I punch him.

We make our way through the neverending sea of pink and blue to a table where people I know are sitting. These are girls I know from class. Girls I usually have little to no problem with. Tonight they all look the same. They all look like little clones of each other. They're all wearing the same stupid grin and they are all giggling for some unknown reason. I'm at a loss for words. I simply sit down and stare at them. One of them says something and I have to ask her to repeat herself.

"Aren't you going to dance?"

My mouth drops open, "You're kidding, right?"

She actually looks stunned,"No, this band is great. We were surprised they got them to play tonight. We thought they would be booked."

My mind screeches to a halt and tries to grapple with this piece of information. Booked? For what? An In-breeders convention? I shake my head, "No, I think I'll just...No, I'm not going to be dancing."

My date is laughing at this point. I punch him again.

One of the other girls leans over and comments on my dress,"Why did you go with black? I mean, didn't they have anything less...dark?" She actually sounds like there's air leaking out of her head as she's talking. Her boyfriend spits into his soda can at that exact moment, completing the picture.

"I liked the dress. Pink isn't really my thing. To girlie for me."

She looks confused for a second and then her attention is drawn to something shiny off in the distance, "OHH...we have to go and get in line, they're going to do the processional."

"The what?" I ask.

At this point one of my classmates explains that every year, all the prom goers line up and prance down an aisle while being lit up by a spotlight so that friends and family can take pictures. Ooooookayyyyy......I'm out of here.

My date is now laughing out loud. I punch him one last time for good measure. He cringes this time.

I lasted fifteen whole minutes at my prom. Considering the amount of pink taffeta in the room, I think it's a miracle.