Recommended wine for today’s entry: A fruity, summery, light Virgin Vines Chardonnay. I have to admit, I had it last night, at the grand opening of my friend Beth’s Flying Pig Bistro — a little brick patio tucked into her garden. Yummy!
OK, I totally should have had boys. This whole preparation-for-prom marathon has left me crabby and thinking about a drink at 2 p.m. Scary stuff.
The dress shopping was done in Chicago over spring break. I’ve pretty much recovered from that, but I don’t know if I can say the same for the rest of the five-person entourage who trailed along behind my daughter down the Magnificent Mile.
First nightmare: eyebrow waxing. I had no desire to participate in this ritual, but the bossy Asian lady kept making me look. I would divert my eyes and she’d say, (sharply, I might add) LOOK! Every time, just as she yanked the little hairs out by their plump little roots. And “look” was truly the only word I understood from the woman. She kept holding some instrument next to my daughter’s eyebrow and asking me something. I’m not sure why she thought that repeating it six times, louder and meaner each go-around, was going to make me understand her. So I finally said, “Yes. Sure. That’s great!” She might have been saying, “I’m going to use this instrument to scoop out your daughter’s big blue eye.” And I said, “Yes. Sure. That’s great!”
Then today, THE DAY OF THE JUNIOR PROM, I got up early, feeling just a little less perkier than my less-than-perky normal due to the Virgin Vines that tasted too good last night, and off we went to the manicure/pedicure appointment. Now, my daughter has a driver’s license, but she wanted mommy along, so, in the interest of mother/daughter bonding, I grabbed some coffee and went.
I might point out that I hate nail salons. The smell is atrocious and the workers all get masks to protect them from the noxious fumes. Not us, though. For two hours, hungry and bored, I sat while my daughter had her feet massaged. Finally, she called to me when the woman finished, and I quickly put down my puzzle and hustled over. “Can you pay the lady?” my daughter said, exasperated, I guess, because she had to remind me to do so. Then I sat next to her as her nails dried (a super fun way to spend a summer day) and I got a Jolly Rancher. It was apple flavor and I was happy. For a minute. “GOD,” my daughter said, loud enough to make all the masked ladies turn at once. “I HATE HOW YOU EAT CANDY! CAN’T YOU BE QUIET?” Yep, this is the bonding every mother dreams of.
Armed with a picture of a loosely curled ponytail, we headed to the hair salon for the updo. I perused a Gourmet magazine, literally dropping a splurt of drool onto page 32. The Jolly Rancher just wasn’t holding me. Suddenly I looked up, only to see that the woman had piled all her hair on top of her head and secured it with 4,922 bobby pins. “Oh,” I said, “didn’t you want it in a ponytail?” At which point, I got The Glare from my daughter. I guess I was supposed to have been monitoring instead of reading a magazine. So, out came 3,242 of the bobby pins and a ponytail it was. Except it looked like a mullet. Picture Billy Ray Cyrus in a lime green ballgown with rhinestones. Nope. Up it went again, and now I got The Glare from the hairdresser too.
Finally, we walked outside, where I somehow caused a gust of wind and was berated, then I went over a bump in the road and was reamed. I pulled in front of the florist, right at the door, and told her to go pick up the boutonniere. She looked at me, aghast, and said, “You want ME to go in and get it?” Now I gave up on the bonding. “No, you little crap. Let me just park five rows away and haul my old lady butt in there and do it for you!” OK, perhaps I truly am an idiot, but if my mother had yelled that at me, I would’ve been in that flower shop really fast. Not this kid. She just said, “Good.” So I went.
On the way home, I found an old packet of cashews wedged next to my seat and I popped one into my mouth. I honestly took one bite and heard, “GOD. I HATE WHEN YOU EAT NUTS!”
As I write, we’re at T-minus-2-hours until pickup time. Then those of us in the family who are post-prom age are heading to the Kenny Chesney concert where I plan to down as much Corona as I can.