Curfews

It's 11:51 on a Friday night when I think to text my Mom and tell her what I'm doing.
>We're watching Once Upon a Time.
A few minutes later, I get a reply.
>Which episode? Is it okay with them if u stay later?
I smile and put my phone away. She knows exactly where I am-indoors, just down the street at my friend's house. She dropped me off herself because I didn't feel like walking. Besides, it's entirely possible an ax murderer could have been lurking behind mailboxes, waiting for the perfect opportunity.
He'd have to be a short ax murderer.
My four friends and I sat around, talked about everything, and painted our nails. When we discovered one of our number had not yet been introduced to the wonderful world of ABC'S Once Upon a Time, we were forced to take drastic measures.

No, no, we did not dress up in pretty wedding gowns and stab her. That would have ruined the fabric. We sat her down in front of the TV and had her watch professional actors dress up in pretty costumes and stab people. They're adults, so it's perfectly safe.
The episodes are around forty-five minutes long, and we couldn't watch just one. So that's how I came to be sitting on the couch, eating skittles, so very late at night.
I'm one of the lucky ones-I don't have a curfew. The subject hasn't come up yet (and hopefully never will). My average Friday night is spent in front of the computer, toiling away on the latest portion of my acursed science fair project. Which I happen to be procrastinating right now. Last Friday night was practically an adventure.
I can see how parental curfews could be necessary. Some teenagers like to play with sharp objects (while not wearing protective wedding dresses) or participate in other such activities. Legal curfews make sense as well-if you happen to live in one of those big cities populated by conveniently sized ax murderers. My life, not so much.

A Few Words for Teenage Guys

Do these gentlemen look happy? Yes they do.

      So I went to a dance tonight and couldn't help but notice that some of the guys were being very...how do I put this gently? Pathetic. Being a girl, I have secret insider information on how you guys can avoid being lame, have a good time, and even impress a girl.
One: Leave your manga sketchbook at home. I actually saw this tonight. It's a dance, not a cartoon convention. Fifteen years from now, do you want to live in your parents basement, sit in the corner, and doodle monkeys every Friday night? Please don't say yes, because I like to think positive thoughts about mankind.
Two: Brush your teeth. Did you think ladies like stale breath? No. Especially when we happen to be standing six inches away from your mouth.
Three: Don't say "No.". Or "Sort of." What kind of answer is that? This also happened to me tonight. Our society is male-dominated in many ways. If a girl works up the courage to ask you, that means she likes you. To some extent. Or maybe she just wants to have fun, and you happen to be the least ugliest guy in the room. Either way, good for you.
If you deny her, she will instruct your friend to tell you how pathetic you are, turn on her heel, and tell this amusing little story to five of her friends, three of her friend's friends, two of her cousins, her parents, her friend's parents, her church youth leaders, and that random guy who sits behind her in geography class.
At least, that's what I plan on doing over the next few weeks, unless I come up with a better Guy Story.
Four: Be a Man. Ask a girl to dance yourself. Why do you think we have dances in the first place? Centuries ago, a bunch of guys sat around and came up with a decent way to hold girls' hands. It's alright if you're nervous-that can be cute in guys. It makes us feel special. And powerful.
And don't worry about what she'll think-you aren't that ugly.
Five: Be Awesome. A tall, mysterious stranger steps into the center of the circle. All eyes are on him. Without warning, he does sort of flip with a scary twist in the middle and lands on his feet. Feminine screams fill the room.
If you're the type of guy who has reoccuring nightmares about crashig headfirst into hardwood floors, you can still show off. I mean, impress people. Instead of doing that boring step from left to right to left to right routine, get on youtube and learn something simple, like the box step. If she doen't know how to do it, you can teach her in all of fifteen seconds. Now you appear to be an experienced, talented dancer.
There are other ways to be awesome. A few months ago, I was at a dance at happened to meet up with my friend who was paralyzed over the summer and now uses a wheelchair. It was her first dance. Not one but two older guys asked her to dance.
We let them have their space, but as soon as the dance was over we crowded around her. Who was this sweet boy, we wanted to know, and how old was he? Where did he go to school?
Now that you have discovered these little tidbits of wisdom, your mission, and you had better choose to accept it, is to find a dance, something decent to wear, and a pretty girl. Or at least a nice looking girl. Or a girl with a pretty personality.
If you don't, I will bash my head into the keyboard, mutter a few choice words about the lack of chivalry these days, and blame you for the resulting headache.

Snobby vs. Obnoxious

Last night, my friend Esme and I went to the Jazz vs. Grizzlies basketball game. It was a pretty good game, the Jazz were losing at a steady pace until the second half, when they pulled ahead by eighteen points. However, we were sitting in front of two obnoxious guys. They were in their fourties or late thirties and had piercings and weird goatees. They enjoyed loudly dissing both teams, talking about the advantages of having older players, beer, the cheerleaders' outfits and adjustments they thought should be made, the best places to smoke something I think might be another name for marijuana, and how weird and quick the season was going. Yeah, it's called a lockout. Have you looked at the news in the past few months?
Generally, they were being annoying and I wanted them to shut up. So when one of them swore again, I told him, "Watch it, there are children in this audience."
Unfortunatley, they both developed hearing problems and short term memory loss at that moment. They were unable to hear me and didn't know what they'd just said. They apologized condensendingly "if we said something that offended you" and asked if I was underage. I didn't know what age they were refering to. Twenty-one? Eighteen? Sixteen?
They left too quickly for me to take a picture of them and post it for their wives or mothers to find. As they were leaving, one of them had a beer chugging contest with himself and the other one talked on his phone. It went like this: "Yeah, we were like, sitting behind these, like, snobby teenagers who were like, all offended by the way I like, speak."
Snobby? I can see where he's coming from, but at least we know the basics of grammar and the like.
So if any of you readers have ugly and obnoxious sons or husbands who went to the game last night and sat in row 15 of section 123, ask them just what they said about the cheerleaders.