Would somebody please make me a mom-sized version of this clown costume? Please? For Halloween next year? To terrorize the neighborhood. Do it for the sake of the children. The scared, scared children.
I also figured out where I got my love of ric-rac. Basically, everything I wore from a newborn to a fourth-grader was covered in ric-rac and eyelet lace. (Okay, I just googled eyelet lace to make sure I was spelling it right, and the first thing that popped up was a Victoria's Secret super-alien wearing matching undies, and then I clicked on the link to see if the description said 'eyelet lace thong' because that would be funny, but my over-aggressive internet child-safe protector thingey wouldn't let me visit the website.)
Meanwhile, nothing to do with eyelet lace thongs....
|Ric-Rac With Scary Doll Clowns -- The Dress!|
This explains so much.
But perhaps the most alarming picture is this one:
This was taken on my way out the front door for the first day of seventh grade. AUGUST 1988! Check out my lovely acid washed jeans with the weird buttons that ostensibly could continue up way past my bra-line. They were Guess jeans, guys. If you grew up in the 80's, you will know what that means, how important it was to own a pair of guess jeans. But, these are indisputably the fugliest jeans ever invented. Way to go, Guess Jeans. And thanks for being so pushy that I wore a matching Guess T-shirt. OMGLARB. With sleeves that I rolled up, because obviously, I am packing some serious guns. And the hair! Oh the hair. With the enviable triangle shape, created by lots and lots of hairspray and a bad perm.
But seriously. Those are the worst jeans ever invented right? With those triangle points that folded over like dejected lapels.
And the weirdest thing about this getup? I WAS NOT THE ONLY PERSON WEARING THIS OUTFIT. There were at least two other girls wearing the exact same t-shirt and jeans that day on the first day of school. I lieth not.
For several years, I looked at the photos of my gawky years and wondered why my mom let me out the door looking like that. And karma is a bitch, yo, because now I have a 12-year-old daughter, and oh no way do I have any influence over what she wears. This morning, I begged, I pleaded, I offered her Disneyland, if she would just for the love of glob put on a different shirt! One that she hadn't been wearing for three days straight. And please, PLEASE, could she just try on one of the new shirts she got for Christmas. Just try it on and I will buy you a pony to ride around Disneyland led by a shirtless Prince Harry lookalike. But no. I have no idea how to convince her that these new clothes I bought are not, in fact, laced with arsenic and uncoolness.
When my daughter starts junior high this fall, I hope that she will listen to me and not whatever-the-equivalent-of-Guess-jeans-brand is this year. I will make her a delicious hot beverage and sit her down next to me on the couch, and show her this picture as a cautionary tale.
And then I will dress her in ric-rac and eyelet lace and scary clown fabric.