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!

Vegas, Baby, Vegas!… (w/ pic)

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

My chicks and I go way three times a year.

Palm Springs spa weekend.

Mammoth Lakes ski weekend.

And, Vegas, Baby, Vegas weekend.

Yeah, we’ve been trippin’ for a long time now.

For the last 10 years. Yeah, Ba-bay!

WE HAVE GOT IT DOWN.

Our so-called weekend getaways have now stretched into five night minimum stays.

We know where we are going to eat… who serves the strongest mai tais… where the “I Dream of Jeanie” (Oooooh Master!) slot machines are… and where we can laugh the loudest not get thrown out of the place.

You might say, that after all these years, we could be professional partiers.

You might be right.

But, alas… we are just moms that have maneuvered a tri-annual ESCAPE for the last decade.

Admit it now, you’re jealous.

It’s okay, we understand jealousy.

These are required outings for we, the core four.

Since my girlfriends would have a coronary if I actually named them, I’ll just give you our names that we developed one year when we watched “Malibu’s Most Wanted.”  Since we are all Mom’s and can’t seem to get out of the freaking kitchen . . . you may sense a theme here.

I am “White Top” AKA Wonder Bread, Sunbeam, Goya Loaf. They seem to think that I have lead a conservative life . . . I let them think what they want as I spread my three fingers and bang it on my chest like I am a “bro in the hood.”

Bang, bang, bang (three fingers) “White Bread, yo?”

Yeah, that, popping a couple of my “Move Free” glucosamine/chondroitin pills and my hair spray makes it all very convincing…

Then there is “Cinnabon.” As you can imagine she’s a beautifully tanned mother of two, and makes her hand into “C” shape and whacks it on her chest. “Cinnabon, Buya!” 

Then of course, we can’t forget “Bagel.” She hysterically tries to form a “B” shape with her fingers to bang on her chest.  And, then groans, “Bagel. You guys, I got a crummy name.”

“Oy! Such is life Heidi Goldbaum,” not really her name, “You be Bagel, and don’t give us any shen-agle!”

And, then lastly . . . There is “Buttertop.”  She doesn’t have to make any hand signals at all, because frankly there’s no room left on her chest. She has the most beautiful store-bought breasts any woman (or man) could hope for.  So yes, she is “Buttertop.” And she doesn’t have to do a thing to just stand there with that perfectly shaped shelf of breasts.

You could put a plate of sandwiches on those breasts…

So, it’s basically us four — White Bread, Cinnabon, Bagel and Buttertop, and we try our best to terrorize Vegas within an inch of it’s questionable life.

Yo.

Yo Momma.

Me Momma?

You Momma.

We da Mommas.

We da Ho’s.

Well, I guess you can see what we “think” we are accomplishing here…

But really, life is too short to be Mommies all the time.

Sometimes . . . we have to be just girls.

Girls gone wild!

Girls gone wild…

With cellulite…

And baby-tummy.

And, thyroid conditions, and children’s college tuitions to pay.

And . . . And . . . Well, 40-ish Girls gone half-mad might be a better description.

But, ALL, and I mean ALL of Vegas knows that we have a good time!  It take the city a whole year to recover from us.

Yeah, we DO know how to play…

Our husbands wish so desperately to be flies on the wall…

“No, no, no, Joe.”

“Just fo the Ho’s. You get to stay home and play Mommy, mo-fo!”

But, remember . . . most people say, “What Happened in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!”

However, OUR mantra is . . . “What Happened in Vegas . . . Never Happened!”

So, you want to go to Vegas, baby?

Yeah, I could show you the town!

  

Some of the Crew

The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon

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!

HELLO?

(Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Hello . . .

Uh, Checking . . .

One, two, three . . .

Is this frigging thing ON? (Bang, bang, bang)

Where’s the God-dang button here, kids?

Crap.

What in tarnations?

(Don’t even ask me to explain THAT word. You’re just going to have to accept that it’s just a Southern explicative. Don’t know what else to tell you. You could add it to your word building exercises for the day if you are planning a trip to Alabama, or thereabouts. Otherwise . . . hmmm . . . no.)

I hate technology sometimes.

Okay . . . Everybody, I am just going to have to YELL.

HELLO?

Hey, Y'all!

—-
Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

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!

I Just Saw This Horrible Video . . . Unfortunately It Rings True

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

I was just going through my Facebook a couple minutes ago, and I got the link for a very graphic and all too real video.

The subject matter of the video is four teenage girls in a car in Great Britain. The problem is, is that this horrible situation can happen anywhere in the world.

This video has to do with texting while you’re driving.

Since I have two teenagers with cell phones texting all the time . . . well, I took notice.

It’s hard for me, and probably hard for you, to imagine the ramifications of such a seemingly benign action.

Texting.

Just punching letters and numbers on your telephone or PDA.

Simple, really. Too simple.

The beauty of texting is that it’s immediate communication without actually having to go through all of the niceties and “How do you do’s.”

<TEXT> Do you want to meet us at Starbucks? <SEND>

See how simple that was?

Really, texting is perfect for our world the way that we see it right now. And, the way that we communicate.

We want everything right now. Right this moment. No waiting. I can’t fricking wait, okay?

Well, after watching this video, you might agree that waiting until you pull over to the side of the road might be a better choice. It may be that your life and your friend’s lives depend on this patience level.

Maybe, if the Department of Motor Vehicles thinks that you’re old enough to have a license, then maybe you should be wise enough to pull over the car.

I would post the link, but YouTube made me sign in and verify my age prior to watching the video, however I think the people are shooting it all over the web right now. If you go under YouTube and search for “Graphic Crash, UK, Dangers of Texting While Driving.” (You can cut and paste this Video Title into the search bar of the YouTube site.)

I would give you the direct link, but since YouTube made me sign-in and verify my age, I feel a certain responsibility to my blog readers to maintain a certain level of ethics. You understand, I am sure.

Please watch it. Have your teanagers watch it. Have anyone watch it that texts.

Not only could it save their life . . . it could also save mine . . . and also yours.

As always,

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!

Daily Random Facts . . .

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

Gave a reading from my book, The Widow Wears Black, today.

It made people cry.

—–

Seems like Michael Jackson’s doctors are in some hot doo-doo.

—–

Men that wink and talk to me, need to stop shaking my hand. It kind of freaks me out.

—–

My kids tell me that I am a texting illiterate.

That it’s silly that I text words that are spelled correctly.

—–

Be well Dahhhhlings, (at least I don’t spell that correctly!)

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!

Continued Adventures of Super-Belle! Vacation Voo-Doo…The Dreaded Timeshare Presentation – Part A

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

 

Okay.

Here am sitting in the beautiful California mountains, on a blissful mountain side. Three and half hours it took me to drive up here. 3 and a half Goddamn beautiful hours.

We check in on Saturday, into a two-bedroom timeshare unit. I get out of the car. Stretch my legs, which the backs are now dimpled with the upholstered impression of polka-dot imprints from the stupid seat insert. Nice. I gotta get rid of that thing. It’s really not comfortable, and makes my hot-pant-legs look less than “hot.”

I look at the grounds of the resort.

Nice.

Huh, huh. Yes, these are adequate surroundings in which I will be able to embarrass my two young off-spring. The construction looks flimsy enough for everyone to be able to hear my screechings.

So, “Yes, everybody,” I decree, “This will do fine.”

It was 100 miles of my kids comparing fart jokes, my daughter’s eye-rolling to every comment I say (between each text, ya know. Can’t be bothered, right?), the air-conditioner not working due to a lizard that decided use my A/C hose for a hide-a-den, and my forced-straight-ahead-stare, because I woke up with a “crick” in my neck from forgetting to detach my Bluetooth while it charged before I fell asleep last night. (BTW, what the frick is a “crick?” I am from the south, so y’all will have to forgive me.)

So, life is not quite as magical as it might seem on beautiful facia of La-la-land.

So, when the going gets tough, yes, the tough go out of town. And, yes, I made that up.

It was 3.5 hours of bumper cars on the spaghetti network of freeways, getting me out of the fan-fricking-tastic wonderland. Yeah. Like I am going to miss any of this 101 Freeway confestation.

We drive up the winding road. People honking each time we make a left turn, because every time I turn left I go over the center line. Crap that Bluetooth, and it’s Goddamn charging chord. You’d think that by now, the “crick” in my neck would have lessened, however if you ask anyone going downhill from the mountain on this bright and beautiful day – well, their horns work just fine since my head won’t turn left.

So, long as we don’t stop, I don’t think they’ll be able to turn around quickly enough to catch up with us…

We carry on.

Finally, we all got up the hill with only minor incident. My kids inform me that EVEN (as in, addition to) a pair of geriatrics, each only about a 100 years old, were also giving us (me) the middle finger with anguished enthusiam. Thank you very much grandma for showing some God-dang restraint in your stinking personal expression of yourself. My children are at a fricking impressionable age, and your stupid finger-flipping didn’t help too g-d-crapping much while I am trying to demonstrate to them to some respect for their Goddamn elders. Thanks a whole hell of a lot…assholes.

UGH. I digress.

I have checked in, and upon check-in, after verifying that the haggard woman that is standing in front of them is actually the perky chick pictured on the front of my credit card, they have decided to ask me for my driver’s license. Now, since I accurately match the beauty of my Department of Motor Vehicles picture they decide to swipe the old Mastercard and let me pay for this luxurious timeshare experience that we, as a family, are about to embark on.

I’m tired and on my period, man. Don’t mess with me. Give me the keys to the room and no one gets hurt.

Now that they have gotten the approval code, and have questioned my signature…. And, by the way, everybody questions my signature. EVERYBODY. Albertsons supermarket, The Coffee Bean and friggin’ Tea Leaf, and even my real estate agent who handles the rental of my parent’s house forced me to re-signed documents because prospective tenants were scared off by my signature. Hello-o? This is LA. How can you be scared by anything, especially a stinking signature? She mentions in a whisper that she is mailing back the check for the cleaning lady that prepped my parents’ house for rental viewing “The Check-n-Steal check cashing place near Juanilla’s house won’t cash the check. They think it’s fake.”

“But, it’s MY signature!”

“I know, I even showed Juanilla the rental documents that you signed. She’s not convinced. Please, send her a new check with a different signature.”

“With a different signature?” WITH A DIFFERENT SIGNATURE? “Hello, the bank won’t cash it ‘with a different signature.’”

“I know, I know. What can I do? The check place doesn’t believe it.”

“Have them call my bank. They’ll tell them that it’s a real signature.” I can’t believe that a checking cashing place – granted, the pillar of societal morals and impeccable ethical standards, that cashes all kinds of checks from possibly questionable sources, now decides that mine is undeniably a fake…

“I tried that. They want a new check with a different signature.” What kind of a business are these people running here?

So, needless to say, the check in question is sitting on my desk. Along with the envelope that it came in, and there it will sit until “I” get a new signature. Which will be … let me think here …. Never.

I digress. Again.

So, yes, after the “hotel” has checked every ID I have to confirm my seemingly outrageous signature, including my frequent buyers card for the Mobile Buzz-n-Wash-n-Fluff for my dog, they have agreed to hand me some hotel keys. It’s about sticking time. However, they have efficiently diverted me over to the “activities director” in order to obtain my parking pass.

No activities director, no parking pass.

So, I shuffle my numb 3.5-hour sedated butt over to the activities desk so that I can register our SUV and finally check-in to the unit so I can place semi-lame derriere into the couch and watch some freaking TV. That’s why I drove all the way up here, right? To nag my kids and watch television. Evidently I can’t do that well enough at home, that I have to come up to mountains and share my blastings with people from around the globe in the midst of a calm hillside with tiny white yarrow flowers dotting the paths and rocks, and inhale the green effervescent misting of allergenic pollen spores.

Where’s my frigging Allegra, man?

So, I finally get the parking pass from the tenacious talons of the activities commandant, however she does not relinquish it without the covert mention of the possibility of me attending a timeshare presentation. “And, you get entered in the $100 drawing if you go on the weekend!”

What?

What did you just say? Do my ears decieve me? Timeshare presentation? Did she really just say that? Or was it just the dread lingering in the back of my crowded head? Were one of my voices whispering it — just to scare me?

I look at her.  She looks at me. “$50 dollar gift card.”

So, she DID say it.  She said IT. Those words…timeshare presentation.  I don’t even have the balls to type it in capital letters…

…Yay….

 

TO BE CONTINUED…. TO CONTINUE TO THE NEXT PART OF THE STORY CLICK HERE TO Check out NEW–Adventures of Super-Belle! Part Deux — Vacation Submission into Acceptance

So, you come back, now. Ya’ hear?

Be well Dahhhhlings,

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!