Current Facebook Status: Matt’s back at work. Girls are at school. C is at preschool. Two and a half hours of a quiet house. Whatever will I do with myself?!?!?!
Currently playing in the background: I Love Lucy and whiny kids.
As I mentioned last week, I’m an affiliate blog for Clash of the Titles. As part of that agreement, I’ll post the winner announcements every other week and blogs like this sometimes on the other weeks. Here we go!
Guest post by: Jennifer Slattery
Do you remember those dances held during junior high and high school? How you and your friends would spend hours pre-dance talking about what you’d wear, how you’d do your hair, and…giggle, blush, giggle…who might ask you to dance? Only those dances never quite ended up how we envisioned, at least not in my school. Inevitably, the guys huddled near the far, heavily-shadowed wall while the girls spent their time crying in the bathroom or trying to comfort their near hysterical friend hiding in the stall.
At least in Junior High. High School got a little better and people actually danced, and the bathrooms were far less crowded with splotchy-faced, sniffling girls.
But reading this week’s excerpts actually brought me back even further…to sixth grade.
We didn’t have dances–instead, our school hosted skating parties. Do you remember those? “Elvirah” blaring from those gigantic speakers while a disco ball lit up the room, making that feather pinned in your hair really stand out. (Those have come back, btw. Seriously.) We’d do the hokey-pokey, skate on one foot, then backward…but what the girls waited for, holding their breath and scanning the glittering room for their short, waif-thin and equally shy hero, was when the DJ announced, “Find a parnter!”
Now here’s where it gets really fun, and extremely embarrassing, but remember I was a stupid kid with absolutely no life….
Who knew come skating party time, a boy–maybe even the boy–might hold my hand. Oh, the very thought made my stomach twirl.
In preparation, I slathered lotion on my hands the week leading up the event–and I mean slathered. Then, I’d rub it in and hold my hand out to my mom. “Are my hands soft? Feel them.”
She’d laugh and feel my hand. Then I’d slather on more. “Feel them now.”
She remained patient for about three or four applications.
What about you? Any stupid, cheek-burning stories to share?
Be sure to come meet our competing authors this week on COTT