Well looky here, a Bad Decision Tuesday! I haven't written one of these since February, which was pretty much almost a whole year ago. We all remember Bad Decision Tuesday, right? My beret was a bad decision, and so were my overplucked eyebrows. My Christmas morning legwarmers were a bad decision, frolicking on the edge of the Grand Canyon was a bad decision---though it could have been, you know, a fatal decision---and the biggest bad decision of all was perhaps the Ladies' Prom.
(My friend Alison loves the story of the Ladies' Prom. "Tell the story of the Ladies' Prom!" she urges me, in front of people to whom I would rather not admit the shame of the Ladies' Prom. Like high-powered executives at my company. For instance.)
Today's Bad Decision Tuesday, however, focuses exclusively on my long-suffering husband, who had to know that trouble was brewing when I spent three hours this Thanksgiving break poring over photo albums with his mother. Ah, the holidays: so festive! So fun! So perfect for finding blackmail material in one's significant other's childhood home, taking blurry pictures of the evidence with your iPhone, and using it to your advantage on the Internet! That's the old saying, right? From the Latin?
Thing is, Sean started out quite cute. Scratch that, he started out adorable.
Don't you just want to tickle him under the chin? And look at him here with his brother! In his little bitty suit jacket with his big giant teeth! Man, that is so cute.
You'd never guess he got in trouble at school for calling another kid a "fucking sandwich," would you? True story. He says he had no idea it was a bad word. Whatever, Sean. I think I just found my new insult for Camille Grammer.
Even in his Superman pajamas and his CHIPS helmet he was cute, despite the weird crotch-grabbing that appears to be going on just below the photographer's lens.
"Ma'am, you're under arrest. Your crime is letting me be photographed like this."
Sean's early teenage years were, it has to be said, not his finest. And look, I'm not one to talk: from 1992 through 1995, I basically looked like a dude. (I think we all remember this little gem, do we not?) I mean Sean, for all his transgressions, was actually male, so at least there was that. Still, though. Can someone call Butthead and tell him we found Beavis?
You do realize, don't you, that by posting this I am now no longer getting any Christmas presents from Sean this year.
I cannot even talk about this one.
On the upside, baby, I......I like your plaid shirt? I think maybe we had the same one?
All of the above, however, is a veritable spread in GQ magazine compared to what I'm about to show you next: a pair of photos that will please you so thoroughly that if, after viewing the below, you do not find your day officially made, I will personally hop in my car---providing the air hasn't been let out of all the tires by a livid husband seeking revenge---and drive to your home to offer my sincerest apologies. Are you ready? Well, no, I don't think you can be, but still.
That is......no, that is not a hat. That is his hair. THAT IS HIS HAIR.
AND YOU KNOW WHAT, HE IS ANGRY ABOUT IT. He is really angry right now! I mean, why did he even have to come to his brother's first communion anyway, mom? God. Really. There is so much Jane's Addiction he could be listening to right now!
"Fine, I'll smile. Just a tiny bit. Just an ironic smirk. Then I'm going home to watch Ally McBeal. I mean Yo! MTV Raps."
Oh, and in case you were wondering, cutting it doesn't make it any better.
Yeah, he tried that.