La-di-da

Tonight, while I risk missing The Amazing Race's finale, I will be at a meeting learning the details and cost of signing my oldest daughter up for the local junior cotillion.

These kind of organizations strike me as comical, particularly after reading Paul Fussell's Class: A Guide Through the American Status System. We are not looking to change our Category X status, or boost ourselves up some ridiculous food chain, attempting to be perceived as upper-middle class -- ironically a dead give-away that you are in fact a medium to high prole -- frankly, we don't care. But Sarabelle has expressed a strong desire to learn how to dance, ballroom style, and aside from the bounty of hip hop dance factories around here, which she assures me she most definitely does not want to attend, as she is one of the few girls in the county who does not want to grow up to be Britney or Jessica or appear on American Idol, there are no studios offering such lessons. That they teach manners too can't hurt. It's just that it's all so damn pretentious. And hilarious.

Oh, and listen to this: You can't just sign up. She was nominated for membership by some of our homeschool friends. And you must wear white gloves. Impressed?