Talk Show

Middle Child asked to go home with a friend after school. I would love to be a fly on the wall at that house. The mom was a bikini model, and now she doesn't have to cook. (I have never quite figured out what one had to do with the other.) Apparently they will be doing science experiments to determine whether or not ice cream can be lit on fire. My house will never, never be that cool. (Because I prefer to eat the ice cream which eliminates both the bikini and the opportunity to commit frozen treat sacrilege.) Anywho. Middle child stayed until time for her sister to be at choir. And then she was busy doing the stuff normally done after school.
At ninish, the child sauntered into the master bedroom where I was tucked up in bed with a heart-shaped box of chocolates watching the fictions of reality t.v. play out on the small screen. She informs me that the amongst the girlies coming for tonight's 80's Dance Sleepover there are those who don't really like pizza and one with an allergy to wheat. Which would be fine if I had not already been to the grocery store to stock up on Middle Child's favorites from pizza to cheez-its to frozen waffles for her sleepover. All of which contain what? Yes, Gentle Mommies, "wheat" is the correct answer to today's rhetorical question. I glare through narrowed eyes at Middle Child before informing her that I will deal with this tomorrow. (Besides, if she doesn't leave soon, my chocolates might start to get squishy because I stuck 'em under the covers upon her entrance to avoid sharing.) I watch her clear the doorframe before slipping my chocolates back out.
No sooner do I clear the "What do I feed the girls!?" question out of my head to allow the reentry of mindless t.v. chatter, and she's back. (I think she saw the chocolates as I shoved them back under the blanket a bit too slowly.) This time she wants to come up with 80's themed outfits. I point out that I was totally available for this discussion after school when she was hanging out with the bikini-clad, ice-cream-burning Mommie. There is a back-and-forth that does not bear repeating. I finally tell her that I will pick up oversized t-shirts and shoulder pads for her and her friends today. They will have to come up with their own flats, wide belts, and skinny jeans. Mistakenly thinking the topic has been put to rest, I return my attention to the last two minutes of trash t.v. with no clue what is going on anymore. Kate continues to talk at me in the horrifying valley-girl accent that she has picked up since starting middle school. She punctuates her sentences with "like," and "uh,"--- and the mister finally intervenes to send her off to bed. (So I can hide the chocolates back in the closet instead of in our bed.) And turn off the t.v. so we can go to sleep and have nightmares about valley girls.