Homecoming 1992

I've already told the story of meeting my hubby. It reads like a 14-year-old's diary because, well, it basically was.

But what that story didn't tell you was that he also took me to the Homecoming dance.

It was fall of 1992, and he asked me to go with him while we were getting a ride home from roller skating in a friends' Mom's minivan. Why, yes, we were cool. Thanks for asking.

The "anti-girl" that I was, I didn't see any sense in getting a floor-length gown. First, I didn't have the money for one, and second, I really didn't think other people would be wearing long gowns. I mean, I didn't want to look silly or anything.

The woman my Dad was dating at the time took me shopping, I remember, which I hated. She was nice enough, but we had completely different tastes and every outfit she suggested, like, totally made me gag. I ended up choosing a straight black skirt that fell just above the knee and this hideous green shirt/jacket combo that I thought was really awesome at the time.

Honestly, that's me and the hubster circa 1992.

And Jay? He wore Z. Cavariccis and everything. Nothin' like goin' all out for your gurl. Yes, he's wearing a sweatshirt. (But a Z. Cav sweatshirt, so I thought he was dreamy.)
The best part? Neither of us were dancers. (Now we're old enough to drink, which gives us enough ammo to dance. Plus we've had 16 years of practice.) So we didn't really dance much. I remember that Saigon Kick's Love is on the way was voted to be the song for the dance and at the time I couldn't have been happier.

Would you look at that dude's HAIR!?! And that earring! What, does he think he's a pirate? He ain't got nothin' on Johnny Depp. And to think I aspired to be this cool.

Oh, wait. There's one better than that. The tradition, at least at our school, was to go out before or after the dance to dinner with your date and a group of friends. Some of the richer kids pooled their money together to rent limos, but most people either teamed up with older brothers or sisters or arranged for parents to do the driving back and forth.

Us? Not so much. We had a ride to the school from one parent and a ride from the school afterward to a busy section of town where a lot of restaurants were located from another. But reservations? What are those? I don't think either of us had ever been to dinner somewhere that required them.

We were going out with another couple. Problem was that everywhere we walked from the point where we had been dropped off was booked and we ended up at Taco Bell. With a bunch of drunk people. (Not from the school, these guys were like old. Probably like 30.)

While Jay, the chivalrous man he was even at 14, was up at the counter ordering my seven layer burrito and pintos & cheese, I grabbed a booth just as the drunks walked in. Drunks saw me sitting with the other girl, probably giggling about people being drunk and grabbed a seat nearby.

Lots of inappropriate comments made. Our "mens" returned from the counter with our food and tried to get the drunkards to stop their leering with a few jokes, which seemed to do the trick. (It is pretty easy to distract a drunk, by the way.)

At once point during the "meal", drunk #1 dropped something on the floor and leaned over out of the booth to pick it up. I heard a splashing sound as some sort of liquid hit the floor.

My eyes went wide as I tried not to say "Oh. My. GOD!" to my friends. I had thought he puked on the floor. Drunks #2 and #3 are laughing riotously at this point and are threatened by the rent-a-cop security that protects the burritos from escaping.

Turns out it wasn't puke - he had spilled the beer he was hiding in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Rent-a-cop threw them out and we enjoyed our nacho supremes in peace.

After dinner we ended up waiting outside, down the block for our third and final ride. We probably stood out there for an hour, but it was the best part of the night. To keep me warm, Jay stood wit his arms around me, hugging me. It so totally did the trick.