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Yes… It’s prom season!

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

My daughter comes back from her second prom last night, two o’clock in the morning.

It’s tough when you look freaking amazing.

And, she had a fabulous time.

It reminds me of when I was back in high school, although I did not go to my senior prom. I had just broken up with my boyfriend, and figured that he was not worth spending an entire night with, much less a bunch of money on, just to go to prom.

No biggie.

Hmmmm.

Prom.

So did I miss anything? Isn’t it just an over glorified dance?

I don’t think I missed anything by not dancing the hoochy-koo with my ex-boyfriend in a gym filled with bad teenage decorations.

I remember watching in an Oprah show on mothers that would do anything to make sure that their daughters are able to go to prom. Because these mothers, had missed their proms and felt like their lives were lacking as a result… of missing prom.

Chill everybody… it’s just freaking prom.

It’s just a dance.

Granted, it’s a nice memory. Nothing to get your whole life worked up over.

These moms were putting ads in local newspapers, spreading the word, even paying some of these boys to take their daughters to prom. Just because they, themselves, felt like they had missed out on something that was life-changing.

Isn’t that sad?

These women… and at least their 40s, were still hanging on to the fact that they hadn’t gone to prom… and they were going to make damn sure that their daughters didn’t have that same baggage.

Frankly, I don’t think their daughters would’ve had that baggage unless that baggage was suggested to them by their own mothers.

It’s just prom. Right? Am I missing something here?

I don’t think so.

Now, I knew that all my friends were at the party having a good time.

And, I was a little blue that wasn’t there. It’s true.

And then… I got over it.

I got to spend time with my irritating brother, and my silly dad, and my good-cooking mom.

Not too bad… really. They’re great people.

So, I’m glad to say that my daughter went to her second prom. And she had a great time at each prom, but had she not had a date she would’ve gone alone… and still had a great time.

This is the beauty of the modern teenager… That in this day and age you can go to prom by yourself. You don’t have to bring in three-eyed cousin from Nebraska just to be your date.

When I was going to prom… you did not go alone. Period. End of Story. That’s it folks. No Hans Solo.

And, all those women that were on the Oprah show, I believe that they were not “socially allowed” to go alone either. That there was some stigma attached to just hang with your friends at a big dance.

Luckily, with the progression of civilization we have accepted the fact that people can have fun alone… without a date… just hanging with your friends.

Thank god we have made major strides.

Right.

Oprah moms. Get over it.

Move on, Moth-ah!

Graduate from high school.

I am here to tell you there is life after prom.

I promise.

😉

Belle

A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winning Author

Finalist in Broad Humor Film Festival Screenwriting Contest — Announcing “PICKLED TINK” — Screwball Comedy Screenplay! Belle Karper, Award-Winning Author, Screenwriter, Speaker, Humor, Comedy, Suspense, Tragedy www.BelleKarper.com
WHY THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – The Ridiculous Escapades of Belle Karper on YouTube!

All on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

October 10, 2009

The Freaking Ice Cream Man…

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

I’m sitting once again at my son’s soccer game.

He excels in soccer and his team is riding high — undefeated in the tournament league. All kinds of parents around me, however the older big kids get, the fewer the parents to show up.

The ice cream guy is driving by. A rickety contraption that is identical to the truck they used in “Borat.”

The music is damned annoying.

Frankly, it’s a miracle that this thing moves at all. It’s a gasolin-ic wonder on wheels, despite the load it carries of the re-re-re-frozen goodies.

FYI — I never buy anything milk-based from one of these frozen “Goodie men.” I figure that I am risking my next 5-12 hours of digestive health whenever I purchase anything from one of these “trucks.”

Possible botulism on a stick.

I thus, further argue that you can re-freeze a fruity popsicle at least 20 times in a season before the bacteria converts it from a perky cherry pink to dulled dark grape. Wouldn’t that be a hoot — that grape is not actually a flavor at all… just the natural progression of bacterial degradation…?

I digress.

So, I walk up to the Goodie truck.

Also FYI, I am always wary of ice cream trucks or vans with no windows.

Makes me nervous.

Like… what’s going on back there? You got a secret, buddy? Something you don’t want the world to know about? A little contra-

“What do you want, lady?”

“I’m…uh… trying to make up my mind…”

“Well, hurry up. I’ve gotta hit two more soccer fields before noon.”

“What kind of popsicles do you have?”

“What lady, you can’t read?” He asks impatiently. “Make up your mind woman, because once I start playing my music again — I’m outta here.”

“Okay… a Cherry Popswider, please.”

“Out.”

“Huh?’

“No have. Out. Nada. Zero. Got it, ding dong?”

Ding Dong? “Uh… Okay,” I leaned back and reread the side of the truck. “How about a Lemon Ginger Crack?”

“You joking me? Don’t you see that line crossed out for that one?”

I take a step back and look at the 6 inch painted letters that say Lemon Ginger Crack, and I see a single pen line drawn through it that looks more like a key scratch which happens to match all the other 8 million scratches on this musical motorized contraption.

“Kids don’t like no stinking Ginger.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice and ‘ice creamy’ like the digital music that you blarefrom those dangling speakers?” I proceed with caution, “I think I remember another guy. He’s a little nicer, you know. Are you really the ice cream man?”

“No. I’m his brother. He’s out interviewing clients for a case.”

“He’s… an attorney?”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

What did he just say?

“Now are you gonna buy a freaking popsicle or you gonna find out more about my illustrious family tree, doll face?” He circles his nipples with his ring fingers and blows me a silent kiss.

Eeeeuuuu.

I am now officially scared of this man.

“Uh… Do you have any Tutti-Frutti on a Stick?”

“How fricking old are you? Those were out in the 90s, man. Join the 21st century, Darlin’.”

Here I am, being berated by a substitute ice cream man?

WTF?

I decide that I can’t handle the stress of ordering one of these frozen pastels. One of these icy delights…

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“No.” Jerk off. Doo-doo head. Nanny nanny Boo Boo, stick you head in-

“Do you want something or not, I’ve got an itchy music finger.”

“Press your fricking music button, asshole. What do you do during the week when you’re not degrading preteen ice cream clients and their parents?”

“I drive a cab. Now get out of the fricking way.”

—–

Just a little Saturday humor!

Happy freaking Saturday, y’all!

Be well,

Belle

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in!

October 5, 2009

A Memory of Folk Songs and Mary Travers of Peter, Paul & Mary

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Thinking back to simpler times.

The year was 1970.

I had nine years of life in me.

One fine summer under an Alabama sky, the fire crackled and spit threats at us should we get to close.

Orange flamed ribbons rippled the air before us lighting our faces to a marigold hue.

Harsh shadows on our skins reflected us. We circled the dangerous energy that was so inviting.

Seven days of hiking, swimming and Girl Scout badges recede into the nightly circle of sunburned smiles and roasted marshmallow smores.

Giggly chatter of wiggling girls.

The guitar strummed…

And, quickly it silenced the chaos in our heads.

The leader sang a soft lullaby of Indian lore and magical places. Musical words that filled the spaces between cross-legged girls and developing bodies.

The guitar played on.

Words we knew… those we sang. Words we didn’t, those we’d hum.

Voices warmed and raised up with the magic of the flames to tickle the stars above us.

And, the guitar played on…

—-

Thank you Mary Travers, and “Peter, Paul and Mary” for all of those wonderful campfire songs that I now sing with my own children… If I Had a Hammer

Be well,

Belle