Before we begin, I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge Ms. Soup -- who, over the past four days, through which she suffered some mysterious Canadian Summertime Sickness (which may well explain the symptom I'm about to describe), read everything I've ever written on this blog!
I think Sparkle may have recently done it, too, over the course of a couple weeks. And I know there are several of you here who've been with me from the start, lapping it one day at a time as I cough it up. You brought me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it. I thank you all...
But eighteen months in four days, though? That's just madness!
Welcome to the nuts club, Soupie!
Now, with that important business out of the way, let's gather 'round the fire for a little game I like to call Would You Rather (but which is really called Zobmondo, and you can buy it here).
The category this week is Appearance/Embarrassment, and the question is...
Would you rather get stood up for your high school prom -- OR -- take the date of your dreams to the prom and have him or her leave with someone else?
Okay, true story time: I did not go to my senior prom. This is partly because I was a snob, and partly because I was a dork. Too snobby to go with the boy what asked me, too dorky for the boy I asked instead. Such is my life. Rather Goldilocks-ish, except I never do seem to stumble upon the just-right.
To wit: I did go to my junior prom. I wore a white, spaghetti-strap, sort of flappery dress in a size 7, which I thought was huge, with pink, plastic, rock-candy-looking costume jewelry that I thought was mint (only I pronounced it the Woostah way: mihn'). I don't remember what kind of shoes I wore. Probably four-inch spikey heels. Probably Payless. Probably pink.
My date was a friend of my sister's boyfriend. We'd been set up, of course, but on my request. I actually liked him -- until he showed up at my house in a powder blue polyester tux. With a ruffled collar. And, I shit you not, a pair of blue suede shoes.
This was in 1985! And he wasn't being ironic about it, either. Any self-respecting fashion maven knows the ironic way to go in 1985 would have lyrca leopard skin. There was, speak of the devil, one of those at this prom, too. Unfortunately it, too, was worn in earnest.
Mihn'!
Anyway, I refused to get official pictures taken. The whole stand-under-the-archway-and-hold-each-other act? I wanted no part of it. Hell, I wanted no part of my poor date after laying eyes on that mook suit he was wearing. I certainly did not want any photographic evidence of this fiasco!
(Yes, pictures had been taken at my folks' house when the boys arrived. And in the family album there are still lots of lovely photos of Big Sis in her (appropriately powder-blue) Gunny Sax with the fingerless lace gloves -- although I think her date and his tasteful gray tuxedo may have since been trimmed away. But somehow all the photographs of Mr. Blue and me came out fuzzy and smeared. I didn't do it. I wouldn't have known how to do it if I tried. My best guess is that somewhere in my wicked, miserable youth, I must have done something good.)
So... what was the question? Oh, right: would I rather.
Well, of the given choices (which, in case you forgot, were: get stood up for your prom or take the date of your dreams and have them leave with someone else), I would totally rather get stood up.
Oh, yeah, no question. I'd much prefer to sit at home and cry -- even if it meant throwing up all down the front of my pretty white dress (something else I've actually done, but we'll save that story for another time) -- than to have to watch my Dirty Boy slow-dancing with that slut.
Your turn: What would you rather do?
