Okay, it can be beautiful. It can also be full of dry wit and sarcasm. Still, I wouldn't have it any other way. I think. Unless, obviously, I am dancing and she looks at me like I stepped out of some horrible reality show- You know, the kind you pass and know you should keep clicking the remote but something about it draws you in and you are pure ashamed of the entertainment value you have or else you would have changed the channel by now. You better redneckonize and holla for that dolla.
So, I'm dancing. I'm dancing. A little bit of singing. And the harder I try to pull her into this wonderful Selena Gomez number, the more she looks at me in disbelief. She mentions something about how she wonders if our brains were switched when she was born. Ewww. At first, I am highly offended and then, the ah-ha moment kicks in. I am the mother of a teenager. Oh Lord, I remember this. My daughter is not this chipper, gum chewing, gossip girl sort. No. That would be easy. She has to be just like me. If you weren't around for my own teenage years, well, good for you. It was....something.
So I am looking at her. She is laid back and super cool with her headband and pony tail with hair clips because, I guess one thing in her hair is not expressive enough. She is rocking her retro Madonna t-shirt, faded jeans and anklet. Dark black nails, to boot. Oh crap, I am trying to have a discussion with teen-me. Oy vey. She explains to me how pop music is simply not what she relates with. She is more into Korn, Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. I laugh, and remember my room, plastered in posters- every inch. And now this way awesome deep teenage soul that relates to songs of rebellion, angst, and things I may ground her for because, well, I know all the words to the songs. Let's leave it there- she is like totally dissing my love for the shallow pop music. Oh, how I used to judge those pop people.
So, going back to that dry wit and sarcasm, I reach out to my daughter. I want her to know I have been there. I remember that feeling. For some reason, when I do a speech, I do it in a random voice. Not an impression, just a stepping out of myself, in a voice that may be related to sort of voice. And my speech goes something like this:
"Oh yeah. I know. I was there. I was you. Dark and moody in search of outlets for my artistic expressions. The music of modern day mainstream simply does not grasp the pain, the suffering of reality. I used to dress in black from head to toe, my hair all in my face, a huge cross around my neck that would make the gangstas jealous, and my black nails. I like totally feel so much when I hear true beauty in musical resentment- the revolting, the agony. I mean, I like totally felt abused when I listened to Korn sing about it. I mean...totally."
Score one for mommy-humor, right? Ha. Not with mini-me. Without skipping a beat, she crinkles her brows like she cannot believe I would ever say such. This is when she walks over to me and gives me her own speech. It went a little something like this:
"Okay, first, what is up with the voice? Why do you suddenly sound like Ozzy? Sharoooooon! Come on, and look at you. I mean, come on, mom, really? You are still wearing black all over- just a little t-shirt and capris- but look, all black. You have a cross around your neck still. Oh, sorry, it is smaller now, right? Yeah, all you got different now is some pink nail polish and a hair clip."
Mama bear, all in black, just got told....or served....whatever them youngins' call it these days.
She laughs. Everyone laughs. Ha Ha Ha.
The moral of it all comes down to one thing;
I may be embarrassing at times but she is just like me.