My teenager: a post-dance interview.

This is the third one of these we've had, and I think I've written about the other two. Let's see, first there was this one in the fall of 2009, then this one last autumn, so, yeah, this one's definitely number three.

The ritual hasn't varied, other than the fact that each successive episode includes a few additional gussied up teenagers squeezing into our brick bungalow for a high school dance pre-function.

Last night, twenty-five sixteen- and seventeen-year-old children congregated for some Safeway Select frozen pizza, Caesar salad and root beer, electrifying our living room with more giddy energy than a twelve-ounce can of Welch's frozen Robin Williams Concentrate.

They were a fantastic group of kids, at least as far as I could tell, since I couldn't understand them. They spoke a dialect of inside joke humor and abbreviations; curling irons were referred to as "c.i.'s" and the term "for sure" was pronounced "fowsh." Frozen pizza? "Frope."

I realize now that my house is divided between those who speak English and one who claims "Eng" as her primary language.

At nine o'clock, our house instantaneously purged itself of the four inch heels, the short, shiny dresses and the basketball shoes worn with slacks. The time had arrived to hit the 2011 Chief Sealth International High School Homecoming Dance.

The kids retreated to their cars, and the newly silent house rang my ears with a piercing din, reminding me of searching for the Ford Grenada in the quiet night air after watching the Scorpions.

For the next few hours, to the best of my knowledge, the evening proceeded successfully. No police activity, anyway.

I asked my daughter this morning for permission to interview her about the dance while it was still fresh in her mind. She consented, provided I performed the interview while she showered. The following conversation took place as I sat on the toilet seat, talking to a shower curtain.

My words will be in italics; hers in normal case.

So, you've been to a few of these now. Are they still as fun?

Yeah, I guess. They always go the same way. No one dances and then, suddenly it's a huge mosh pit.

Do you ask each other to dance?

No. You just start dancing and usually, you just end up next to someone.

So two people don't walk out together?

No. Dad, no. What the heck? Why would they do that?

What if you end up dancing next to someone you don't want to be with?

If they're a jerk or a bad dancer, you just walk away and circle back. It's really easy.

Who was the best looking guy there?

No one stood out. Most of the guys wear ties whenever they have football or basketball games, so I'm used to seeing them look nice.

What about the other guys? The non-athletes? What about the bad boys?

No. They're not hot at all. Eww. They're gross. They do nothing with their time except pierce themselves and get tattoos.

Lots of tattoos at your school?

Oh, my god, Dad. Of course. Did lots of kids have tattoos when you were in high school?

No.

None?

None.

That's weird. At least one person in each of my classes has a tattoo. Is that right? Let's see. First period? Yes. Second period? Yes. Third period? Yes. Fourth period? Yes. Fifth period? Yes. Sixth period? Yes.

Was anyone at the dance highly obnoxious?

Well, one guy tried to do a back flip but couldn't, and he hit his head on the floor. I'm sure he got a concussion. And then, the DJ didn't get paid at the end of the night because he had signed an agreement to bleep out any swear words in the music and I must have heard the "F" word six or seven times. So he didn't get paid.

Anything else you want to add?

Well, it was really fun, but strange to dance in the lunchroom. The theme was "A Night in Gotham City," but it was really a night in the lunchroom with a sign that said "Gotham City."

I love this face wash. It makes my face feel really nice.

Would you be interested in having your mom and I chaperon the next one?

No.

Okay, how about just me? I can be cool.

Dad, who wants a fifty year old man standing in a dark corner by himself watching everyone? That's even creepier than both of you being there.

Good point.

A tale of two evenings.

Last night was a little odd.

After weeks of hype, my elder daughter, as I mentioned in this post, finally suited up for the big game...the Winter Ball, that is. It really was a lot like the build-up to a dramatic sporting event:

She arrived early to receive treatment from the trainer, or in this case, she got a pedicure and intensive hairapy.

She reviewed the game plan with her coach. Her mother planned a well-orchestrated photo session for thirty teenagers and caravan to the Old Spaghetti Factory in time for a seven o'clock reservation and eight o'clock dance. Since spaghetti can be a potential land mine for my kid, she practiced on some Yakisoba earlier in the day. Although the surface area of her dress virtually eliminated any possibility of receiving an errant sauce drip, her hair remained in harm's way. The coach thereby covered this contingency.

Finally, she applied eye black, or rather, makeup. Game time.

Okay, enough with the sports analogies. I wasn't present to witness the evening's events, since my younger daughter and I veered off in our own direction. We went out for dinner ourselves, and returned home to watch none other than the Miss America Pageant.

And that's when the evening assumed an odd tone. While my teenager and wife experienced a semi-annual, ultra-dolled-up event, the rest of us witnessed the culmination of a lifetime of  "dolled-upedness," in the form of these beauty contestants.

I've preached repeatedly to both kids about the objectification of women in these competitions; they're certainly talented, but when half the points are based upon how they look in two-piece swimwear and evening gowns, it's like saying, "Please stay with us, because following the debate, Senators McCain and Obama will oil up and wrestle in lime jello."

The pageant was sponsored by a company called DSW, also known as "Discount Shoe Warehouse." Each commercial featured shot after shot of high-heeled pumps, wedges and any other types of shoes which could be worn with swim suits. My elder daughter, who wore similar stilts last night, informed me that the dance venue wouldn't allow girls to remove their shoes, with the consequence of being evicted from the venue.

What's up with that? Was it a way to ensure that no one would stay too late because they could barely walk after two hours, or maybe it was to show solidarity with the hobbled Miss Americans?

Either way, Miss Nebraska won the extravaganza and wore the same facial expression as my older daughter, who returned home aglow after attending her first dance with an actual date. The main difference was that for one of them, a year of extreme girly-girlishness awaits; for the other, it's back to spaghetti sauce in the hair.

I'll take the latter any day.

This time, she's going to a dance with a boy.

It's happening again. This Saturday.

Another heapin' helpin' of hormone stew, another melding of primitive frontal lobes encased within adult bodies.

And these bodies won't be wearing much.

It's time for my teenage daughter to attend another dance, but this time, it's with a...um...boy.

Usually, I report back after the fact, since the whole pre-function comprises a story unto itself. This time, however, I'd prefer to talk about the buildup alone, since it's been an odyssey.

High school dances are different than they were in my day. Back in the Seventies, unless the event was a 'tolo' or 'Sadie Hawkins' dance, the guy bore the responsibility of asking the girl, period. I can recall being so nervous that I could feel pimples on my face completing an entire lifespan, from red giant to white dwarf, during the course of asking the object of my affections for the privilege of her company.

These days, either gender can ask the other to any dance, which is terrific for both parties. The old system seems so Victorian when you consider that an adolescent male could simply prioritize his choices and work his way down the list, like some sort of seasonal babe draft. In addition, couples are now not mandatory for attending; one girl can accompany two guys, two girls can attend with one guy or any other imaginable combination. I guess you'd call this system either "hippie commune" or "Utah friendly."

Now, if you snooze, you lose, which is why my baby girl asked her date to the Winter Ball back in November. Soon after he accepted, she proudly showed me a picture, taken with her phone of course, of the two of them together. Maybe this is the way kids show that the deal is sealed, or possibly it was just one of the thousands of phone photos taken during the course of one day, but they gave the appearance of a happy couple.

After I acknowledged the look of contentment on their faces,  she replied, "Of course, Dad. It's obvious that we're in love."

The girl has a dry sense of humor, but I'm still not convinced she wasn't being serious.

With the dirty work out of the way, the next checklist item for my woman child was the dress. I'm not sure when this happened, or why I wasn't consulted, but last Sunday, my teenager appeared in our living room, holding an article of clothing which apparently is considered a dress in her culture.

I quickly performed some rudimentary math, and deduced that the fabric would barely cover her torso.

"It looks really short," I understated.

"Dad, don't worry. I'm wearing spandex underneath, so even if it gets hiked up, no one can see anything." So not comforting to me, yet she looked so very confident with that statement.

"You only need to touch your nose to hike that thing up," I countered.

"Dad, just wait until you see me with it on. You'll feel much better." Fair enough.

Five minutes later, she emerged from her room, not only wearing the dress, but also a pair of black pumps which would put Gene Simmons to shame. Again, I used my right brain to assess some basic spatial relationships and concluded that she now stood six feet, two inches tall.

I quickly veered toward a less confrontational manner. "Are you going to want to be taller than (I'll call him) Matt when you guys get your picture taken?"

"Good point, Dad. Hmm...I'll look for some shorter heels tomorrow."

She turned and retreated back to her room to change. I felt good, actually really good, after having talked her out of shoes which only look appropriate in Whitesnake videos. Chalk one up for Dad.

"Oh, and about that dress..." Too late. The door to her bedroom slowly closed, slightly muffling the sounds of Lady Gaga emanating from within.

She had pulled it off. The old bait and switch.

A most toxic, yet intoxicating, plant

Today, I'd like to discuss my experience with a seemingly innocuous, even festive, holiday garnish. It hangs in corners of ceilings or doorways, passively beckoning those who stand under it to celebrate the season with a kiss.

Obviously, I'm speaking of mistletoe. It signifies whimsy and spontaneity, cheer and warmth, but for me, it hearkens to darker emotions, most notably—fear.

Back in May, I wrote about my inaugural attempt at dancing at an after school sock hop. I was a thirteen-year-old seventh grader at Olympic Junior High, and as I think back, this adolescent ritual more closely resembled a simian social gathering, where the genetically favorable male apes are rewarded with equally desirable partners in their rites of revelry. That first dance taught me that most girls would dance with me (except for slow dancing; only a few agreed to that). I simply needed to ask.

I concluded during my post dance analysis that I could dance passably, as long as I didn't try anything rash or Travoltian, and walking into the evening air, I felt confidant that the next experience would be much more enjoyable.

Dance number two was a more intimate, nighttime affair, held in the same multi-purpose facility at the school, but with a live band and holiday trimmings. I entered the venue solo, as usual, but feeling buoyant and sharp. My clothing choices epitomized men's style of the mid-1970s: a tan silk shirt with long, pointy collars, dark green corduroy flare legs and a freshly coiffed "butt cut" (parted in the middle, feathered on the sides, no earl lobes showing).

Due to school regulations, I removed my shiny brown platforms, and in doing so, shrunk two inches to my customary height of five feet, six inches. The crowd was still filing in with a smattering of couples already dancing to the house band, "Crossfire."

As I gazed upon the psychedelically lit gym floor, I watched an eighth grader (I think his name was Lonnie) approach a pair of dancers and hold a small sprig of vegetable matter above their heads. As if on cue, they abruptly stopped dancing, converged and lip locked with a vigor worthy of a conjugal prison visit.

They had been "mistletoed."

As the dance floor slowly filled, more couples were visited by random mistletoers. Where did these people acquire this stuff? Who knows, but that familiar, metallic taste of fear flooded my senses. Oh, my God, I thought, I can't get mistletoed. I've never kissed anyone on the mouth (except my grandma, after she'd been drinking), let alone for ten full seconds.

I still wanted to dance and talk to some girls, but what if we were descended upon by one of these evil holiday messengers? What if...hmm...what if?

I guess I'll have to try it, won't I?

The first three co-eds rejected my timid dance offers, which, although disappointing, wasn't unexpected. The fourth accepted and we danced mistletoe-free. Okay, that's cool, I rationalized. Maybe I can avoid these mistleterrorists all night. With my confidence notched up a peg, I hit the floor with another gunny-sacked beauty. As I immersed myself into the vibe of Crossfire's signature cover song, "Slow Ride" by Foghat, a shadowy figure approached from four o'clock.

It was my neighborhood friend, Jeff. He smiled a toothy smirk and hoisted a stalk of the now familiar plant between her and me. The act ensued in slow motion as we approached each other. Our heads repeatedly tilted in the same direction as we performed a jerky, yet well choreographed neck dance. I finally held my angle as she shifted hers, and what happened then is a little murky. It was warm, kind of soggy and since we both had braces, we luckily avoided a jaws of life event.

However—I had done it. I jotted a big check mark on the mental list of things to do right next to "first kiss.' At that point, it took no time to acclimate myself to the junior high version of throwing your car keys into a bowl, and by the end of the night, my mouth harbored more human bacteria than Richard Dawson's after an entire season of Family Feud.

As the evening ended, I slowly exited the building, joining a few friends for the short walk to the after-party at Pizza Hut. I felt a great sense of accomplishment, yet one thought still lingered:

When's the next dance?

How I fit my teenager for a GPS without her knowledge

This cool dad thing is starting to wear off.

My wife and I are always encouraging our fifteen-year-old daughter to invite her friends over to the house. It's nice to meet the people she hangs out with during these pivotal years, and if they're here, they're not somewhere else (obviously, but you know what I mean).

These kids hang out in large social clusters, quite similar to gorillas and elephants with expanded vocabulary, but only recently have these groups become co-ed. Crushes do exist within their ever-morphing amoeba, but very little pairing up actually occurs—fine with me.

A few weeks ago, a group of twelve boys and girls assembled at our house to eat frozen pizza, drink high fructose corn syrup and get ready for the high school's fall homecoming dance. The girl faction had gathered earlier, and were ready to go when the males arrived. As they entered, the aroma of "Pink Sugar" perfume, the latest incarnation of adolescent female essence, hung thickly in the air, melding with the slightly burnt odor of ten Red Baron combo pizzas.

Since I'd not met most of the dudes, I tried to kick things off on a cool note. You know, make sure they noticed my ear piercings, maybe try a nonconventional handshake on one or two of them.

"Hey, guys, I'm Zoe's dad." Obviously. What other middle-aged man would be plodding around the house in shorts, slippers and a torn UW hoody with no drawstrings.

I continued, "You can call me Tim." Okay, that was kind of stupid. Chances are very slight that they'll ever call me anything. But at least I haven't messed up too badly yet.

But I didn't stop there. "I won't make you call me Dr. Haywood, even though that's how most people refer to me, since I'm a neurosurgeon."

Sparse, uncomfortable teen chuckles sprinkled the room. as my daughter's glare tore into me.  "He's not a doctor. He's a graphic designer. Bye, Dad,"

Well, that sure went well, I thought. It used to be so much easier to win these kids over. A solid knock-knock joke, followed by their favorite flavor of frozen Gogurt and a Capri Sun, and I was golden. Now the only golden object was my silence.

I retreated into another room and didn't emerge until I could hear them preparing to head out for the evening. I re-entered their domain, planning on saying as little as possible, but lost my game plan at the sight of three shirtless sixteen-year-old boys. Apparently, they decided to change into their dance shirts just prior to leaving, and my living room looked like the Chippendale's Apprentice Academy.

It was easy to stick to my no-speaking strategy, since my mouth and the mouth's of the girls in the room stood agape at the display of muscles I haven't seen on my own body since the Carter administration.

The wardrobe change took all of two minutes and everyone was out the door before I realized that my daughter had entered a new realm in her dealings with the opposite sex. And next time everyone comes over, I'll be much more prepared.

I won't be there.

Dancing with myself

One of Seattle's local schools, Vashon High School, has announced that their 2010 senior prom has been canceled. A school official sited lack of interest, as well as controversy over student "freak dancing" as reasons for pulling the plug. Less than fifty kids had purchased tickets.

What a shame it is to cancel senior prom. I don't think these students realize what a rare beast a school dance is, what a ritual of passage it can be for students of all ages and what an extinct opportunity it will prove to have become during their adult lives.

I will remember my first school dance until my dying day. I attended Olympic Junior High in Auburn, Washington, and the school held three major "night-time" dances per year, as well as numerous "sock hops" after school. During that fall of 1975, the first such hop was scheduled for immediately after school on a Friday afternoon in September.

It was the beginning of my seventh grade year, the first year in a non-elementary school setting—in other words, the big time. We had been given ample notice about this dance, and I was petrified about it, given my ample girth and the thought of some sweet, young girl watching it quiver rhythmically from two feet away.

The night before the event, my dad had graciously driven me to the local clothing store, Rottles, where we'd purchased a fresh pair of Lee wide leg jeans, a silkish shirt and some new socks (it was, after all, a sock hop). I returned home with my new purchases, walked straight into my bedroom and shut the door.

The new duds looked relatively good on my portly body as I posed in front of the mirror, yet I couldn't decide what to do with the shirt. Tuck it in? Nope. My gut hangs over. Tuck it out? No way. It totally covers my butt so I look like Florence Henderson in a pantsuit. Since I had never danced before, I carefully watched myself as I tried a few of the moves I'd seen on American Bandstand. This didn't help my confidence...at all. Only my feet moved in spastic gyrations.

I wore the pantsuit to school the next day, my insides churning with the notion that I'd soon be embarrassing myself in front of the whole school. I toyed with the notion of ducking out at the last minute and taking the bus home, until she walked up.

"Hi, are you going to the dance after school?" It was Renee. She was in my math class and also the unsuspecting future mother of my children.

"Yeahhhh." My spleen throbbed.

The day crawled along until the final bell rang out, signaling the beginning of the end of my life. I tentatively shuffled into the dark gym to the sound of "Ballroom Blitz," removed my hiking boots and
set up camp in a dark corner of the room. "This works," I thought. "I'll just stay here, maybe for the whole time. Yeah, that's what I'll do."

"Hi, Tim. Wanna dance?" My head whip lashed to the left. She wasn't Renee, but she was a friend of my older sister's...and she was a ninth grader and she was a goddess.

"Okay," I barely muttered through my pinched throat. Every muscle in my body had clinched to near spasmic levels. She towered over me as she led me to the center of the gym, her long, dark hair nearly caressing the tops of her tight bell bottoms. I felt the heat of my colleagues' stares as the Amazon and I established our positions.

She glided effortlessly to the beat of something by Aerosmith, while I abandoned every move I had rehearsed, opting to focus on sucking in my gut. I'm not sure if I moved as much as swayed, but it didn't matter, as I felt the weight of a silverback gorilla hop off my shoulders and out of the multi-purpose room.

The song ended. "Thanks." She smiled as she turned and disappeared into the darkness, the fleeting aroma of her Love's Baby Soft lingering in my nostrils.

"Oh, no, thank you," I thought, as I returned to a group of my cronies, sliding victoriously on that new pair of tube socks.