Isn’t it strange that one moment you and your mom are best friends and the next…you’re searching for local foster homes? Take now for instance: my mother is single-handedly ruining my life. Or at least trying to drive me into a mental institution. It’s a specialty of her’s. If embarrassment was an Olympic sport, my mother would own.

            “Darling…what about this one? Too vogue?” I looked up from my laptop at the far end of the studio to see her. Too rogue’s more like it, I thought. The front of the dress was covered in yellowed lace: fake—or maybe they were real—pearls hung off of that like a hundred-year-old doily. I hoped my mother couldn’t see the sheer disgust on my face from across the room.

            “No,” I stated flatly. Mom’s nose wrinkled and she turned back towards the wall of mirrors behind her; primping and preening the dress against her flat tummy in hopes that would magically transform it into something more tasteful. I doubted anything less than a weed-whacker and a can of bleach could do the trick.

I looked back at the screen. A Jonas Brother’s screensaver blinked back at me and I concealed a small smile. I was off to college in just two weeks and I still harbored a JB crush. They were my guilty pleasure—that I wasn’t all that guilty about. I pulled up my only open window and stared at the semi-blank document. It was supposed to be a paper for my freshman English professor at Fallcette University, of which I would be attending in the fall. The assignment was to describe the event that was most influential to myself during my first semester at school. Of course I hadn’t even packed my things yet, but I liked to be one step ahead of things. I was a closet nerd.

            “I’m going to go try on the Vera Wang,” Mom piped up. I barely looked up to watch her leave. Mom was getting married in December to some rich guy I’d never even met before. I had only heard him referred to as “Gene” with a nauseating sigh at the end. It was hard for Mom to find guys with the work schedule she kept. She worked hours on end up here at her penthouse studio as a designer to…as she called it, the ‘stars.’ More like sons and daughters of overpaid CEO’s…but it kept mom happy and it kept me in my favorite city in the world, New York. Mom’s high glass walls overlooked Columbus Circle, one of the best views in the city. Our flat in Soho didn’t have nearly enough to look out at, so I spent a lot of my free time here with Mom. It was Sunday, the one day Mom took off a week. Not because either of us were particularly religious, but because shopping day was notoriously Saturday, and any good business man—or woman in this case, was open. But of course we were here anyway, because Mom needed input on her trove of potential dresses. I, of course, offered my services. Not that I was enjoying this, however. When Mom told me she was marrying a man I’d never met last Spring—I wasn’t really next in the line to jump on the Happy-Stepfather-Express. I really loved my dad and watching Mom remarry without a second thought hurt a lot. The divorce was unpleasant. Mom and Dad haven’t spoken a word since then, and I had to watch Dad move to Boston. Now I was going to have a stepfather—that meant an invader in my family. And apparently he had a son too, whom I’ve also never met. And that was just brilliant. It put a new spin on the 'brother-I-never-wanted' concept. I was supposed to meet them once I came home for my birthday in October—because of course it’s nothing like weeks before the wedding to meet ‘dear Ole’ Dad.’ (HA!) But while the idea sickened me, I kept my opinions to myself. The fact of the matter was, I’d never seen Mom so happy. She had a new spring in her step ever since ‘Gene’ came along, and I didn’t want to ruin that. If this guy, and this potential lifestyle change made Mom happy, then by golly I was going to be happy too. Well, at least I’d try to grin and bare it.

            “What about this one?” Mom flounced in and snapped me out of my thoughts. I took one look at the halter top, bare middle combo and almost sent my lunch flying.

            “Mom, no!” I screamed. Mom’s face registered surprise.

            “Why!? What’s wrong with it?” She asked and checked out the back as if she had just sat in chocolate and didn’t even realize it.

            “Slutmania, MOM!” I scoffed. “Are you serious?” What was she trying to do, kill me from embarrassment!? Mom checked out the triangles of flesh on her middle in the mirror.

            “Oh Emmalyn, you’re a regular drama queen. This is fashion!” She sang. I rolled my eyes. The problem with having a designer for a mom is that she always thinks she dresses better than you. Except she designs sports jackets and legal skirts—so she dresses like an old person, which is NOT fashion.

            “Mom, please take that off,” I whined. I could just see her walking down the aisle in that, smiling her huge wide-eyed smile, waving at guests as jaw after jaw hit the floor; and I sobbing in the corner. My mother gave me an amused look.

            “Alright,” she humored me in her famous ‘you’re-ruining-my-fun-of-embarrassing-you’ voice. “I’ll try the Chanel.”

That was another thing about this wedding—the money. Just the cost of these dresses alone could feed a family of five for a year. Now Mom did alright for herself and me, it was this Gene guy flaunting his wallet. And Mom was biting. Another reason I already didn’t like him. No two-bit, money-bags, girl-name-having ‘Gene’ was gonna buy me off. My Mom, maybe. Me, not a chance.

I used the lull in the ugly dress marathon to pop in my earbuds and pull up an online radio channel. My new computer didn’t contain my volumes and volumes of CDs yet, but it was a work in progress. It didn’t matter anyway, because I knew for a fact that my boys were being interviewed today on one of these channels. Now if only I could find which one…

            “Emmalyn!? Can you hear me darling?” I tapped the screen for some bizarre reason and then realized the sound wasn’t coming from my computer.

            “What’s that?” I answered dumbly. Mom smiled, this time sporting a very simple white frock with a veil that made her look like the Bride of Chucky. I frowned instantly. “Mom, can’t you just design your own wedding dress instead? This would seriously be a lot easier on the both of us.” But mostly me, I thought. Mom lifted the taffeta material so that she could see me.

            “That would take far too long Em—but I guess that’s enough for today. Do me a favor love and run on down to Emile’s studio and grab my design book from him? He’s been wondering what to get Adalia for her birthday and I thought—”

            “Alright, alright,” I laughed, jumping off of my make-shift perch atop a desk and heading for the door. “You don’t have to bore me to death, I’m going.”

I looked back at Mom who was shaking her head at me and I smiled. “Love you Mom,” I giggled and she shooed me out of the room. The steps down to Emile’s broadcast studio were harrowing at best; kind of like the Frankenstein tower, except there were less windows and the stairs were painted puke green. Emile was a long-time friend of my Dad’s from college where they both studied Communications. Dad went for the Journalism aspect for it and currently worked as a Sportscaster in Boston; whereas Emile ran his own radio station as well an out-of-home software company. I’m not even sure what kind of software he sold—or made—or…whatever you do exactly with software. Guess which job was more successful? He never had a very interesting show—mostly politics, and every once and a while an old friend-turned-celebrity would show up; but I wasn’t a big Carson Daily fan, and thus, all the glitter was not gold in my eyes. I jumped the last few steps in my jean Capri’s and flowing white thank top before rapping on the door. I clearly saw the bright red neon sign above me that flashed ‘RECORDING’ but didn’t pay it much mind. Emile never cared who came in and out during talk shows. He once told me doing so eliminated the chance for the ‘big story.’ I wasn’t all too clear on how many big stories Emile had missed out by keeping his door shut—but I couldn’t imagine you needing more than one hand to count them with.

            “We’re recording!” I heard Emile’s shrill voice call out through the door. My forehead wrinkled. This was new.

            “Emi—”

            “Emma, babe, give us a minute,” Emile cut me off. I gave the door a deadened look and folded my arms.
           “Oh he better have the Jonas Brothers in there,” I muttered and kicked the bottom of the door. The foundation on the building wasn’t exactly first-class and the hinges on the doors never held, so I wasn’t all that surprised when the door jerked open a few inches—but I acted like I was. Peering inside I could see Emile’s palette-shaped table with its extension microphones hanging down from the ceiling. But all those gadgets were nothing compared to what was sitting around the table—and now two of them were staring at ME. Holy crap, he DID have the Jonas Brothers...

yeah, that was lame...bare with me hehe =]