Thursday, February 07, 2008

The Big Dance, part II

Well, in the end I ended up being more "Ned Flanders" than I had originally intended. I had fully planned on making this as difficult for date-boy, and as embarrassing for daughter as humanly possible. I had been planning this night for most of my adult life, after all. One of the guys at work who has a seven year old daughter once said to me, "Let me know how you manage to survive the whole 'dating' thing." I simply replied that I intended to survive just fine, but that there would likely be a trail of teenage-boy corpses left in my wake.

As it turned out on dance night, the boy already looked horrified when he arrived. Not scared of me, mind you, but scared of my daughter. I'll explain:

The evening began much as expected, with my daughter running around complaining that there wasn't enough time to get ready, her hair didn't look right, and all the other neurotic rambling of any sixteen year old. As I wrote earlier, mommy was at work, and daddy was to be stuck helping with dance prep. Just as I was trying to decide if it would be better to sedate her or myself, my mother-in-law arrived to save the day. Mother-in-law was here to do hair and makeup, which apparently I'm not trusted to do (for some reason I can't understand.) Mother-in-law's arrival ended up freeing me up for more important duties, like shoving the video camera in my daughter's face every chance I got.

Just as I thought I had seen the maximum stress level possible out of my daughter, one of the boys called (not sure if it was her date, or her friend's date) and said that my daughter's date didn't have a car or a way to come pick her up. Apparently this is a big deal... because her head came off her shoulders, spun around three times, and then exploded. She hung up on whoever it was and said to her friend, "If he can't get here to pick me up, I'm not going with him! I'm NOT meeting my date at the dance!"

I kept rolling tape...

Someone else calls, and says that he has a limo that can pick them up, but the limo won't be able to go pick up her date because it would be extra mileage or some such thing. More screaming. A combination of limo-excitement and rage aimed at the guy without a car. I told her to call the limo-kid back and let him know I'd be glad to pay for the extra mileage. (It seemed a fair price to pay in order for someone to come and pick my psychotic daughter up and take her away from the house.) It was about 6:15... and the dates were supposed to have been there at 5:00.

The phone rings again, and it's limo-boy, saying that the limo isn't going to work out, but his big brother can come pick them up in the minivan, but they might have to meet her date at the restaurant. More psychotic screaming into the phone. I don't even think it was words... just angry sounds. Like some sort of aboriginal hooked-on-phonics tape.

I left the room so she wouldn't see me laughing.

Finally, she said, "They're on the way, and HE'D better be with them, or I'm not leaving this house!" I thought briefly back to my previous blog about Ned Flanders vs. The Sergeant, and I decided that this poor lad had enough problems that night without me scowling at him. I went upstairs and unstrapped my holster, changed out of my "Teenage boys make good compost" t-shirt and practiced smiling in the mirror.

An hour and a half late, two nervous and twitchy boys arrived at the door, one all decked out in his ROTC uniform and the other in his police cadet garb. They seemed like nice enough boys.

I'm glad I didn't kill them.

For now.


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