Showers do not bring Flowers

How do I like to spend my weekends? At bridal showers! My future sister-in-law's shower was on Sunday, and in truth, it wasn't too bad. At first, I was pissed that I didn't get to host the shower. Being the control freak that I am, I thought that it would be fun to be the hostess with the mostest. After attending the shower, however, I am delighted to have dodged that bullet. If I was in charge of the shower, there would not have been salmon salad, nor heart-shaped candles. We would have eaten pizza out of a box and watched a movie. Guess it's a good thing the old ladies beat me to the hosting punch.

The most boring part of the evening was watching Jamie open presents. Fourteen wine glasses, a margarita pitcher, two toasters, and a bunch of decorative frames later, and I had kissed almost two hours of my life goodbye. I must say though, that while the "party" was mildly tolerable for a social leper like me, the worst part of the entire event, even beating out the gift-a-thon, was the older women asking me about my dating life. No thanks.

"So, Ariella, have you met any nice boys in New York?"*
"So, do you have a boyfriend?"**
"Did you go out with a lot of Jewish boys this year?"***

*A few. I didn't go out with any of them though. I prefer the jerks.
**No, and thank you for bringing that to my attention. Again.
***Nope. I had casual sex with a few goyem, you know, people outside the tribe. From what I hear, Jews have tiny penises.

Ah, bridal showers: a roomful of people excited about love eating mini-quiches. If God is as benevolent as those Jesus freaks claim, then I will not be attending another one for a while.

Shoulder Pads

NYC is, and by my best inference, has been, without shoulder pads for at least a decade. You are more likely to see a three-headed dog walking down Broadway than a woman in shoulder pads. It is only in Denver that they still pass as high fashion.

While attending the aforementioned band concert, I took a break from rolling my eyes and making faces long enough to look up to the stage and watch the performance. Conducting the 9th graders was a woman whose silhouette resembled that of a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. I can only imagine that her shoulder pads could have doubled as airplane floatation devices. I tried my best to stifle a laugh and moved on with my life. Until I noticed the rest of her outfit, that is. Her pants were at least five inches too short, with the gap between her clunky shoes and the hem occupied by thick, white athletic socks. I started laughing and pointed it out to my mother, seated to my left. She smacked me and told me to be more sympathetic. "Maybe she doesn't have enough money for new pants," Mom hissed. (Why the linebacker couldn't have bought pants that fit the first time around is beyond me.)

I spent the rest of the concert pouting, distraught over my failed attempt to mock the less-fortunate. Until next time, I guess.

Beacuse my life has been reduced to blogging and 9th grade band concerts.