Miss Hootie Tootie, at it again

cotillion

Cotillion is going to kill me.  We have homework this week.  Michelle has to write an essay about the manners of one of her teachers.

“Dad!  I don’t know about my teachers’ manners!  I don’t see them eat and stuff.  What am I going to write?”

“Well, I guess you could say: ‘My grammar teacher seems to have good manners.  She generally sits correctly and I’ve never heard her burp out loud.'”

I can’t help the kid.  Although all of her teachers seem fairly polite, I too would have a hard time writing a paper on their civilities.

And now, I have to find a white dress for her to wear to the Cotillion Ball.  Where in the heck am I gonna find a white dress?  Oh, and not just any white dress, it has to be “tea length.”  What is that?  Tea is not a measurement, it is a drink.  Is there a lemonade length?  A cherry Kool-Aid length?  A Red Bull length?  Who comes up with this stuff?  Miss Hootie Tootie?

I asked someone, “What is tea length?”  She said, “It comes above the ankles.”

So I said, “Oh.  High-waters.”

So, I need this high-waters, white dress by March.

I went to Target – NOTHING.  I went to Costco – NOTHING.

I found one online at a fancy pageant dress shop.  It was $295!  I ain’t spend $295 on a dress that she’s gonna wear once.  Plus, I couldn’t figure out her size.  It said to measure her bust (I don’t think she has one yet), her waist (got that one), her hips (again, none at this time) and measure “Hollow to Floor.”  What in the heck is Hallow to Floor?  Is that from her mouth to the ground?  Her nostrils?  They’re the only hollow things I see on the kid.

I also figure I need to buy something that isn’t too fluffy.  There’s that boy who, when he dances, holds all the girls by the elastic in their underwear.  I don’t want to throw him off.

Oh, she has a red dress.  Maybe I could just bleach it.  I’ve done that a ton of times with other articles of clothing.  That stuff seems to just suck the color out like a tic on a scab.

Geeze, I bet I’m gonna have to hand write the RSVP too.  Better dig out the Miss Manners book.  Had to do that last week for a function for Stephanie.  She is so wise.

“Dad, isn’t this tea required?”

“Yea.”

“Then why do we have to RSVP?  We don’t RSVP for school do we?”

I think my daughters might need to live in West Coast when they grow up.  They’re never gonna make it in the south.

By The Underwear

Michelle, my Co-ti-llion!

Michelle, my Co-ti-llion!

Sometimes as a parent, all I have to do is ask one, simple question and the information starts pouring out.

“Michelle, how was cotillion today?”

“OMG!  I was dancing with this guy and we were shagging, you know, to beach music.”

“Yeah.”

“He went to turn me and his coat button got stuck in my hair!  It wouldn’t come out.  It was so embarrassing.

Then, this other boy I danced with kept counting out loud.  1, 2, 3 – 1, 2, 3.  Like he was saying it where I could hear him.  I mean seriously?  It was so annoying.

And one boy I danced with was tiny.  He only came up to my chest.  He was soo cute.”

“Yeah.  Maybe don’t tell him that.  Guys usually prefer to be big and handsome.  Not small and cute like Moosey.”

“Yeah.  Oh, but Kimmey danced with a boy and he hung on to her underwear.”

“What?”

“It was sooo funny!  He grabbed her waist and held on so tight that he had her dress and her underwear in his hands!  But don’t tell her mom.”

“OK.”

“AND THEN, the boy I was sitting beside right before snack time asked me if I could run fast.  When I asked him why he wanted to know, he said he wanted to be the first one at the snack table because he didn’t like to stand in lines!  I was NOT RUNNING, in a DRESS, at COTILLION, to get Ruffles potato chips and stale cookies!  Dad, that boy really needs this class.”

“Sounds like it.”

“They taught us to sit like girls today.”

“Mmm.  How’s that?”

“You cross your legs but at the bottom, not at the top.”

“Why’s that?”

“I guess you cross your legs so you don’t show anybody your underwear.”

“Makes sense.  Might make that boy want to grab ’em huh?  What’d he look like?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t dance with him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because no one held me by my underwear.”

“Ahhh.”

Purchase Danny’s Book:  Laughter, Tears and Braids

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