It's prom night. Anyone remember it?
My daughter is attending, yet in an administrative capacity. She's gone ahead and donned her "I'm-going-to-make-you-sorry-that-you-didn't-ask-me-to-this dance, you-immature senior bastard" outfit, as she and a friend have assumed tonight's duties of checking handbags, coats and boda bags filled with Mountain Dew and Red Bull (right?).
She and her friend have also been given the task of crowning the Wills and Kate of the 2012 Chief Sealth International High School Senior Prom, so I felt compelled to fill them each in on, while highly tempting and hilarious, not to try that stunt like they did with Carrie with the pig's blood. Apparently, it's only available at the Metropolitan Market, and she'd be spending two weeks allowance for thirty seconds of prom queen traumatization followed by supernatural vengeance. Hardly worth it.
So here I am, los lobo solo, sitting here in an empty house. My younger daughter traveled yesterday to Idaho to participate in a middle school music competition, accompanied by her unflappable chaperon for a mother. The only way I'd have volunteered for such a mission would have been stops in both Moses Lake and Colfax for some six-packs of Five Hour Valium.
For those of you who haven't experienced today's youth rituals visa a vis these annual high school spring galas, I'd like to let you know that it's absolutely ridiculous. Guys no longer just ask girls between classes and consummate the arrangement with high fives and side hugs. Nope.
These man-children often sacrifice their first quarter tuition at the University of I Haven't Got a Clue Yet for elaborate propositions which would irritate Mickey Rourke's character from Nine-and-a-Half Weeks. Seventeen-year-old gents, after confirming with their prospective dates' parents, will regale the girls' bedrooms with streamers, signs and balloons (at least I think they're balloons, but they're all beige colored with reservoir tips) or create massive scenes in hallways and lunch rooms.
Sure, I'm all cocky because my teenager isn't technically attending. She won't have the opportunity to participate in any after parties, since, as part of the support staff, she'll be whisked to IHOP to dine with the highly adult activities director.
A math equation comes to mind, one which Hawking and I have traded a few emails, but finally solved:
Crappy Belgian Waffles + Adult Supervision = Paternal Peace of Mind
It's nice to put off for three-hundred-sixty-five days and event which is so very pressure packed. These kids have put so much money and effort into the lead-up that their expectation of a magical night becomes a tall order.
I can only hope no one gets lost finding the restaurant afterwards and misses their reservation so they get seated by the kitchen and order champagne from the waiter since they feel so old in their white tuxedo and get completely laughed at by both the waiter and a few patrons, including Dave Winfield of the New York Yankees, who's sitting next to this hypothetical couple..
And then I sincerely hope no one shakes the valet's hand, rather than tipping them.
Yeah, that's something that only some idiot would've tried thirty years ago.