So a lot of people don't like their families. I mean, that's cool. Here's the thing though, I do.
Let's be real. Bonnie may just be the most hypocritical car passenger the highway has ever seen, but I still love her. You don't want me to sleep when you drive, but it is ok when you sleep as I drive. That makes sense, totally. You can mess with the radio, drive with your knee, send emails and eat as you drive, but rue the day that I try to do the same. Hey big sis, I'm just trying to be like you. That's all it is. If you don't like my music, next time bring your own. Your head hurts? Oh, I'm sorry. You are hungry? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too fast? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too slow? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm talking too much? Oh, I'm sorry. My music is too loud? Oh, I'm sorry. Please, Bonnie. What can I do to make this trip the best car ride you have ever experienced in your entire life? I'm just trying to drive 80 miles per hour in traffic so we can get home. Don't mind me.
Ok, so I like my family. The Bonnie rant wasn't intended, but as it turns out I am still bitter. I know. Shocked me too. Back to my initial remark. I love my family.
My parents are hysterical. My dad has been telling the same jokes since my soccer practices in the second grade. A bit dated, they are, but occasionally punny nonetheless. My mom doesn't have jokes. That's what I love about her. Teaching high school students day in and day out, this woman is seasoned in all things people watching. I thought people watching was fun at food courts and funerals, but think of the unfortunate teenagers fussing over bathroom breaks and prom dates that she gets to observe every single day. Jack pot. That material is money right there. My point? I get it from the best. I do not judge. I observe and critique.
Ok, so maybe I judge just a little.
Woops.
You may think that I am a judgmental person. If you think that then you probably know me very well. However, you also know that I am a nice person. Unless someone worth judging gets in my way or provokes me, I typically let their heinous display of whatever they are doing slide with a shrewd face and side comment. You can call me compassionate. It's ok. A lot of people do.
Bonnie and I drive home and meet our parents for dinner at the Olive Garden. You know, the Olive Garden. Not the Cheesecake Factory where people occasionally choose to dress up and rendezvous. Not a country club where certain attire is implied. Not an upscale restaurant with a dress code that serves portions intended for infants that haven't worked their way up to solid foods yet, but the Olive Garden. Excuse me for not putting on my deb dress to eat a breadstick.
First off, I did not get the memo that we were in the midst of prom season. Sorry for not caring. I get out of the car and comments from my parents ignite. Yes, I am really wearing this. Hey, at least I color coordinate. Credit when it's due, please. No, I didn't know we were meeting for dinner when I got dressed two days ago. Yes, I slept in this last night... and maybe the night before. No, I don't have a change of clothes. Yes, I probably have an odor. Geez. It is really nice to see you guys too. Hugs and kisses.
Work with me here. My outfit is not that atrocious. I am wearing a navy shirt, light blue shorts, navy sneaks and white socks. Yes, they are high socks, but since when is that a crime? I am wearing pearls, so can't we just call it even? Again, dear family. We are at the Olive Garden. Ugh, yes. Fine. I will brush my hair before we go in. Just for you, Momma. Just for you.
We walk to the door and the side glances begin. From the parental perspective, I get where the conviction is coming from. I'm in public at a restaurant other than Wendy's and I am wearing high socks. I mean, my parents judged me. Why not let every other parent in Gaston County do the same? No big. But you. You? Really. You are going to judge me too? Honey, please. Did you even look in the mirror after the free samples at Merle Norman threw up on you? And yes, Bedazzled may have had a huge liquidation of all dresses that make innocent eyes bleed, but think about it. They were on sale for a reason.
I know you think you look really adorable in your pink and black sequined dress that drags the ground when you attempt to walk in your clear plastic pumps, but please. Don't judge me. You must understand you are in no shape or form to give me the look that I should be throwing right back at you. There are enough sequins sewn onto your dress to cover the shores of Tripoli and please trust me when I say, you and I are now at war. Yes, my hair looks like a small child with downs just finished playing in it, but you? You are wearing a tiara. A tiara. My entire outfit may look like I am a lovechild of Duke and Carolina, but you sweetheart, appear to be the spawn of Ralphie May and Avril Lavigne. That is just inhumane. Who wins the battle of eligibility to eat in this restaurant? You guessed it, babe. Me.
As for your friend? Dang. Between the two of you, sequin factories are making BANK. I like shiny objects, but let's be sensible. From a girl that loves her fair share of sequined apparel, let me help you out. Ladies, we should not be able to stop traffic. Our waiter should not have to wear sunglasses. People at the next table should not have to feel bad about their comments about us. Our dates should not FEAR US if we were to accidentally bump into them. This is not normal. We do not look good.
Now that we've gotten that sorted out. Why am I dressed the way I am while you are pimped out in your going out gear and formal duds? Basically I am a caustic party monster who has exponentially more fun than everyone else. Duh. You need booze and fake bling in your date's ear to start the night off right. I, on the other hand, need high socks and sweet kicks. Ps, I heard you. Yes, I may look ridiculous. However you look exactly like a confused adolescent blemish on the forehead of humanity. Pop that.
Next up, the two gentlemen sitting in front of you. You may call them dates, however I will be referring to them as rude. Avril May, your date is all hot and bothered that he can't order the lunch portion of the spaghetti. Problem number one, he is ordering spaghetti. Problem number two, I am pretty sure homeboy has never ordered the lunch portion of anything in his entire 16 years of existence. That's right. Your main man here is the type of guy I have nightmares (slash sexual fantasies) about. An overweight high school nose guard who steals cookies from the cafeteria, undermines the naive custodial workers who think his athletic career is actually going places (other than Bojangles), honestly believes he is the only one of his friends to fully understand the non-sequential humor of Family Guy and is not afraid to freestyle rap at any time despite the secondhand embarrassment it may cause the people around him. Yep. He just word vommed a "fo shizzle" in casual conversation and no one made fun of him. Where do you kids go to school, again? Remind me to burn it to the ground.
As for the lady two tables over. Yes, I am more attractive than your lesbian friend sitting in front of you, but please stop the staring. Geez. Perhaps you heard my remark to my mother about your aerated face. If that is the case, I am deeply sorry. You must understand though, I am a professional. I read people. It's what I do. Don't believe me? Try this on for size:
Overdone facial piercings are for people who have accepted on more than one level that they are painful to look at. Crimped hair is for white women who wish they were ethnic. Bell bottoms are for people who think their lives would be better if they'd been born in the past. Purple, of course, is the royal color of the sexually frustrated. Basically you are one giant billboard of your own self-loathing. Nice.
Ok, I'm hungry.
As I spin my pasta in my shock induced trance, I reexamine the relatively new physical evidence that bad ideas still exist. Bad ideas meaning people, of course. I snap back to reality. The table topic has turned to networking. Goody.
My parents are fairly apprehensive towards public knowledge of personal information. Due to some of the things that I say being somewhat inappropriate, I realize they have my best interest in mind. Although their warnings and cautionary tales are told to both daughters, we all know that they are targeted at me. Why, you ask? Well it seems as if somehow a good number of my Facebook comments make their way back to the home front. How, you ask? What a good question. Don't you think so, Bonnie? Yea. Me too.
Anyway, so Bonnie goes on about how she has a Twitter account, but not to worry because it is completely legitimate. No, it isn't scary that people can read what you post all day everyday. No, it isn't pretentious that you assume everyone genuinely cares what you have to say all day everyday. It is actually an impeccable networking tool. Not only can you quote scripture and publicly encourage your friends to vote and do community service, but you can also check the weather! Yes, the weather. Another great opportunity within this realm of technology is that of improvement in leadership and advancement in education. (Surprised I was actually listening, eh?) By following certain accounts you can keep up with all things happy and wholesome. You can even follow the local news station so you know what is going on both in the community and in legislation. Oh my! All of the great things!
After the golden child finishes, our parents are so intrigued. Now that they've heard about all of the beautiful life experiences that Twitter has provided her with, I feel eyes on me for continuance. Uhhh... is it my turn? No thanks. I keep my eyes on the prize. Marinara sauce, that is. I can only imagine how that conversation would have gone. Hey Stephanie, what do you do? Oh, I blog about really unattractive people and racial slurs. No big deal.
Favorite Daughter Award goes to... Bodacious Bon.
It was a close one. Good game.
Note to world: Please do not prom it up at your local OG. The free thin mints are not worth it. Promise.
