dresse

Prom

I moral read this article about immigrant teenagers in Brooklyn putting together a prom without any authoritative idea of what a prom is.  Of seminar, I thought back to my own senior prom and what a come to disaster it was.  I got my hair cut short-lived into a poufy bob with bobby socks bangs.  Yeah.  I separate.  I wore lipstick with the little talk “mango” in the name.  I loathed my swain (cute story:  I ended up not revulsion him and we were together for five years.  awwwwww.) and my dress.  O!  The dress!  My dad took me to Valley Middling mall to buy it and man, was that a shitshow.  I was Soupy Sales wandering through Nordstrom, PMSing like only a kid about to graduate from high school can.  I didn’t demand anything flowy or puffy.  I wanted unembellished, classy and simple.  So there was NOTHING to be found at Jessica McClintock, where my dad, endow his pre-insane person soul, patiently waited while I pissily flipped through the racks.  Everything in Macy’s was tasteless and the lady in the “Special Occassions” count on told me I had a mature body and I cried.  And I yelled at her.  Then I got my spell.  My dad bought me a soda and a pretzel, calmed me down and took me back to Nordstrom where I ended up pronouncement a black spaghetti strapped dress by BCBG.  It wasn’t a pastel color.  It wasn’t puffy.  It was shapely enough.  My date met me at my house, where the limo was waiting to take us to dinner at Luminary Bene and then to the Coconut Grove for the evening’s festivities.  My mom took pictures of us posed in front of the rhodedendron bushes in the front yard and my dad snap murderous glances at my date (don’t concern, they grew to like each other somewhat over...

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