Archives For My Suburban Present

fight

Not just ANY dance mom.

She was a “DefCon One, Maximum Readiness” Dance Mom.

(DefCon One is actually the highest level, NOT five as is commonly thought. I check these things here because in the wee hours of the night, I worry for our nation’s safety.)

You’re welcome.

This species can be identified by copious amounts of makeup, an overabundance of cleavage, high heels completely unsuitable for dashing around backstage, and clothes flashing enough bling to give you a cluster headache.

They’re the ones timing, in seconds, the amount of time their kid has dancing front row center.

And keep records of how much this is in comparison to the other dancers.

 

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I WISH I was kidding about this

 

Little Dude studies Hip Hop dance.

I got tired of him “break his neck” dancing in my family room, so I suggested a class.

Out went basketball, in came dance.

I struggled with that a bit.

We have a basketball hoop in our driveway, and I ENJOYED the 12 inch height advantage playing hoops with him.

 

I don’t cut it as a dance mom. (Did I even have to write that?)

It’s not just that the typical dance mom is as annoying as a painful rectal itch.

I work; often, during the same hours he takes classes.

I can’t sit in the studio, glued to a monitor, salivating over his every move.

Even when I can, I don’t. I HAVE SHIT TO DO.

I have no interest in living vicariously through him.

It’s enough I’ve given him a permanent twitch I’m über invested in him academically.

I harbor no delusions that he’s going to MAKE it on Broadway.

 

I don’t even know these batshit-crazy whooty-whore Dance Moms.

Someone else drops him off. And when I pick him up, the last thing I want to do is make small talk with a Dance Mom.

It’s like interacting with an endless loop about finding good help, and how her bikini wax burned her beef curtains.

It’s not that I find them Loathsome and Soulless.

It’s that they ARE.

So, I wait in the car.

 

 

The recital was this past Saturday.

Before I describe THAT debacle, you need the proper context.

The school is run by 2 frazzled overwhelmed employees, and the only 3 other women in the county besides me who aren’t married to wealthy men.

Working to offset the exorbitant cost is slightly less painful than selling a kidney.

 

They men actually walk around in these shirts.

The men actually walk around in these shirts.

 

They’re so understaffed that every event – Picture Day. Dress Rehearsal. The Recital – is a giant cluster of FUCK.

Recital Day, we have to be at the theatre at 9 am. Yes, 9 in the AM because there are FORTY FIVE dance routines.

My kid blasted Avicii the whole 45 minute drive to the recital and I let him, even though on two hours of sleep my head was pounding and I was feeling stabby.

 

The dance school can’t just use a high school gymnasium. No, they rent out an 1800-seat theater.

NOTHING is too good for these little darlings.

NOTHING is too good for these little darlings.

 

YES. And it’s at least 3/4 full.

So, CHAOS.

I get Little Dude checked in back stage.

Because I’m not really part of the clique, I’m always greeted with a “where the FUCK did this skinny bitch come from” look by the other moms.

 

I find my seat, which is with my Ex and his sister and her husband.

My Ex has that “restraining order” look in his eyes.

I start live tweeting the entire event, just to relieve my anxiety.

 

I’m sitting exactly 92 seconds when my bag mysteriously falls onto the floor, which is a superpower I have.

Making objects that appear firmly planted just plunge to the ground.

It over turns, dumping the contents everywhere, and knocking over my can of Red bull, which spills and gets my phone SOAKED.

OMG WE ARE NOW IN HIGH ALERT BECAUSE IF I CAN’T LIVE TWEET THROUGH THIS WHOLE MOTHERFUCKER I WILL SURELY DIE.

I stuff all manner of wet objects back into my wet purse and the old dude sitting next to me graciously helps me.

I wipe my phone frantically on my shirt; it appears to be still working.

Thank God.

 

Now I get to sit through HOURS of watching other people’s kids dance.

This might not have been so excruciating if the elderly gentleman hadn’t decided that since he retrieved wet tampons from the floor for me, he is now my  BFF.

He was a Nudger. He kept nudging me whenever he found something entertaining.

I kinda would rather have a tire hung around my neck, filled with gasoline and set on fire than be continuously nudged by an Old Dude over other people’s kids.

 

It’s adorable when 5 2-year olds who HAVE NO EARTHLY CLUE what they’re doing get led onto an enormous stage in front of a trazillion strangers. 

3 of them started crying full throttle melt down.

crying-ballerina

I almost started crying like this out of sheer boredom.

 

I speak toddler. They were clearly saying:

“I want my mommy, this fucking tutu is scratchy, why I am being paraded out here like an organ grinder’s monkey, where is MOMMY, my vagina is itchy, okay that feels better now, what is UP with this goddamn tutu, MOMMY!”

And then one who was standing there dazed, like she just hotboxed some good weed, all of a sudden came to, and starting jerking her hands and feet in a frenzy.

It was FRIGHTENING.

I don’t think 2 year olds can have strokes, but that’s what it looked like.

 

I had to help Little Dude do his one costume change.

The boy’s dressing room is not the bedlam the girl’s is, so it went smoothly.

Besides the part where I held some strange boy’s head while he nerve- barfed into a garbage pail.

 

I headed back to my seat and remembered we were going out to lunch afterwards. (The Ex was lobbying for Hooters).

I’d left the house in a rush, and looked like a bushpig.

I wanted to get myself together a little.

So I darted into the girls dressing room to put on some lipgloss and comb my hair.

It was complete pandemonium.

The Dance Moms were flapping the fuck out.

I just needed to secure 4 square inches of mirror.

Before you could say ‘jazz hands,’ that DefCon One Dance Mom was giving me the stink eye.

“This is where Kerry is,” she said, self importantly.

She had an entire counter filled with giant tackleboxes holding dance recital accoutrement.

I smiled pleasantly.

“I just need this little spot for a minute.”

“But this is where KERRY is,” she repeated. Loudly. And – ominously.

“Look, lady – I’m sorry I don’t know Kerry, and worship her suitably, as befits her eventual illustrious contribution to the dance world.

But I need 4 square inches and I’m OUT.”

 

She turned purplish and barked at me,

“Well, I’m telling Joellen (the owner of the studio) about this!

“Really? Well, you could fill a ROOM with how much shit I don’t give, you cock mongling queefburger,” (I thought).

And then I STABBED. HER. TO. DEATH.

 

Okay. Not really. But I wanted to.

 

As the show progressed, I became increasingly more disturbed by the costumes, makeup and dance moves for the hip hop routines.

It’s safe to say, I’m no prude.

But I fail to see the connection between hip hop dance, and dressing up 12-year-old girls like Miami hookers.

Do they need to wear so much makeup they look like prostitots? Some of the “costumes” amounted to no more than glittery lingerie.

And in case the lack of clothing didn’t sexualize them enough, the only thing the  choreographed “moves” were missing was a stripper pole.

These 7 year olds have more on then the girls in the recital.

These 7 year olds look conservative compared to what I saw.

 

It got me to wondering if this is a contributing factor to the massive promiscuity among high schoolers in my area.

As I tweeted my distaste for these little girl’s attire and gyrations,

Gretchen tweeted another disturbing thought; that this was “a pedophile’s Disneyland.”

Ugh.

I don’t even want to think about that.

 

The bottom line:

WHITE PEOPLE HAVE DESTROYED HIP HOP.

It used to mean something. The lyrics and the beats spoke politically and relevantly of a generation that was lost, in a way that the lost generation could relate to.

It was taken over by white corporate America which released garbage that’s palatable to the white ear.

It became commercialized and watered down.

More easily digestible for white teenagers who wanted to feel cool.

Increasingly focused on materialism and posturing.

Granted, this had always inflected the genre but hadn’t totally defined it.

From there, it was only a pop-and-lock away from the suburban dance studios.

 

I know putting my kid in these classes makes ME a part of the problem.

I’ve let his joy in these classes eclipse any politics I have about the mainstreaming of hip hop music.

 

The truth is, once hip hop became a staple in suburban dance schools across America, it was no longer relevant.

Hip hop has become a reason to have 12 year old suburban girls grind onstage in stripper outfits. 

I’m so relieved I have a son.

 

Who, by the way,  rocked that shiz like frozen crazy!

 

 

Okay, I didn’t REALLY kill a dance mom. The only thing that has died is hip hop’s relevancy.

 

However, next year? I’m bringing Beth with me. She tweeted that she was right behind me with a shiv, if I needed back up.

And that’s friendship.

 

Do you have to deal with Dance Moms? Or overbearing parents in general?
Am I the only one who finds these hip hop routines/costumes disturbing?
Does anyone else check for nuclear safety? 
Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

Outing Myself

January 24, 2014 — 120 Comments

meanpeople

A blog is a great place to hide what a

MESS

I am this week.

With my carefully constructed cyber facade you don’t get to see that I’m

Disoriented. Panicked. Anxious.

My hands are tingly; almost numb.

I’m making a whole lot of typos.

For once, I’m grateful for spellcheck. I normally never use it. I actually didn’t know it was even up there, until about a week ago.

Clueless. Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I was accused this week of being a liar.

Everyone who knows me knows that I suck at lying.

“Mom, what’s gay sex?”

“It’s when two men insert their penises in each other.”

“Where?”

“Wherever they can.”

 

I am, however, guilty of lying by omission.

What I present to you here is funny, cool, snarky, New York tough, great mom, wild Samara.

Sometimes I just SUCK.

Sometimes I’m close to CRAZY.

Sometimes I’m MEAN.

 

Let’s start with this “You’re such a great mother” thing.

This blog post my kid did. Yes, he was awesome.

But by 10:30 last night?  Two hours past his bedtime?

I was ready to beat him over the head with my laptop.

But since this is the yelling generation, not the hitting generation, I said,

“Dude, I’m exhausted.

He wanted to look for more kraken pictures.

He needed just the right kraken picture, because nothing is worse than a bad KRAKEN picture in a blog post.

“You have GOT TO GET TO SLEEP ALREADY!”

“Mama, scroll back –

“NO.”

‘But there were –

“NO!”

“But I-”

“Seriously. GO the FUCK to sleep!”

Dropped an F bomb. BOOM.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

We have a lot of fun. I am definitely a “fun” mom.

Just last week, I made him run around the car at a red light at a very busy intersection.

BUT

It’s not fun around here if he brings home a “B” on a test.

I don’t stick toothpicks under his fingernails, but I don’t say, “That’s great! Maybe you’ll get an “A next time.”

HELL no.

I say, “What did you get wrong? Let’s look at it right now.”

As in, right now.

This is called Tiger Mom-ing.

Yeah. I’m like that.

 

I once heard him tell his friend, “I like to do well in school so I can eventually compete in a global economy.”

He’s TEN.

 

I make my kid do homework all summer.

Yes, you read that sentence right.

He gets to have fun. Go to camp. Romp in the dirt, pick dingleberries out of his ass, collect farts in a jar – whatever it is boys his age do all day.

He also has to do homework. Every day. 30 minutes.

Because I’m the mom, and I say so. That line of reasoning.

Also, because there is a documented loss of retention in school age children over the summer months.

Even during the summer, we visit the library every week to take out books.

You know who’s in the library in August? Me, Little Dude, and 6 Chinese families.

 

It’s not just school work I torture him with.

I’m like that about everything.

He studies Tae Kwondo.

When he competes, I make sure he trains hard.

“Master B says, as long as we all have fun, we all win.”

I HATE that “everyone’s a winner/give everyone a trophy/ let’s just cut the balls off society” attitude.

“Oh really? Well, if winning isn’t the point, why don’t you all just hang out and spar at the dojo all day? Why even bother to compete?”

Once, at a competition they paired him with a kid who was several inches taller.

When the match began, my kid instinctively took 2 steps back.

Oh, HELL NO.

Afterwards, I said, “Don’t you EVER back away from an opponent during a match. EVER.

When that match starts, the first thing your opponent should see is YOUR HEEL coming at HIS FACE. You got me?”

Yeah. I said that.

 

He brings home a trophy every time. But still.

Should I be saving for his college education? Or his therapy?

 

MY New York BFF said the Polar Vortex Collapse is responsible for a whole bunch of shitty things converging in a horrible way for me.

Sickness. Death. Financial problems. Huge domestic blow ups. Work related crises.

When everything falls apart at once, so do I.

I don’t do multiple crises well.

I can only hold it together to make a pretense of sanity for my kid.

 

I’m not sleeping.

I wish I drank or smoked weed. Perhaps that would take the edge off.

I don’t like alcohol. I get drunk off of 1/4 glass of wine.

Can you imagine me getting sloppy drunk, alone? That image would make a carefree person suicidal.

I’m not opposed to weed. It’s not a gateway to make me start banging dope.

But this urban dirt weed?

Forget it.

I used to know people from Northern CA. Near Humboldt County. Do you… know where I’m going with this?

They were purveyors of the Kind kind. If I could have THIS kind of clean, uplifting brain tingle, then perhaps.

But I’ll be damned if I’m going to call one of the cast members of The Jersey Shore to sell me some Swamp Grass.

So I can pollute my lungs with with paranoia-inducing chemicals, and reflect for hours upon all my conspiracy theories, convinced that the CIA is tapping my phone.

So, I just,

LOSE IT.

 

I had no patience for my students this week. A CRUCIAL week.

When a student didn’t know that “It was his 16th summer” meant he was 16 years old,

I rolled my eyes at her. A real visible hairy eyeball.

Yeah. I did that.

I wanted to tell her to forget going to college completely and suggest cosmetology school.

Except my hairdresser is very smart and that would have been an insult to her profession.

I almost suggested the pole. She’s very pretty.

I stopped short of that. I actually bit my upper lip so hard, it still hurts.

From 2 days ago.

 

Someone I know was recognized in a positive way this week. I’d felt wronged by him in the past.

And because I was hurting for a completely different person, who is suffering at the moment,

and because the two things HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER,

except that they both dwell in MY head,

I bombarded the first person with horrible, scathing emails. Many of them.

Yeah. I did that.

 

My college BFF didn’t too so well on her first chemo. She’s supposed to have months of treatments.

She ended up in the hospital after her first.

I’m not sure why, but she didn’t call or text me. She posted on Facebook that she was in the hospital.

I don’t go on Facebook.

Facebook is a Whore.

I have a business to run. A child to tend do. Live people who I have to work in front of, every day, NOT a computer screen.

I can’t frolic and cavort on Facebook every day. If I could, I’d be on my company’s Facebook page.

Not my personal one. Which I haven’t been since 2011.

I don’t have time to gape at vacation albums; the cyber depiction of America’s Relationship with Credit.

Not my blogging one, which doesn’t exist, because of that pesky business/child thing.

My ex goes on Facebook. Of course he does! He texted me. “BFF is in the hospital.”

I was so freaked – and angry – at her for not letting me know.

Because it’s Samara’s World! And her cancer is all about ME, goddammit, me!!

Not about the fact that she may only be alive another 6 months.

I texted her, “What the FUCK is going on? You’re in the hospital? Why didn’t you text me? I don’t go on Facebook, how the FUCK am I supposed to know you’re in the hospital?

Yeah. I did that.

To my best friend with cancer.

I didn’t think about why she might have done it,

or even that, whatever she does, it has to be okay.

Because she’s probably dying.

 

What if, I died tomorrow, and this had been my last week on earth?

Holy Shit.

This would NOT be the way I want to go out.

It would be like, getting hit by a bus and dying just as you’ve been released from jail for stealing White Castle hamburgers.

 

Little Dude came over to practice his solo for temple tonight while I was writing this.

I had no idea what he was saying. I don’t know Hebrew.

 

Temple was a nice comfortable 55 degrees this evening. My vagina went numb.

Jews are nothing if not frugal.

 

I cried like a bitch, watching him up on the podium, cause in less than 3 years, he will be reading from the Torah.

And 5 years of Hebrew school and Friday night services will culminate in his Big Moment.

He led the Congregation on his page.

 

Was it a coincidence that his page from the prayer book was

“TO LOVE AND CARE”?

and we read the English back to him:

“We thank you for implanting within us a deep need for each other, and for giving us a capacity to love and care.

May we always be grateful that we have one another and are able to express our love and acts of kindness.

Keep us gentle in our speech.

May we waste no opportunity to speak words of sympathy, of appreciation, of praise.”

 

Maybe, It was my reminder to pray tonight. To be a better person.

I’m so glad I get another chance.

To be

The person I can be. The friend I can be. The mom I can be.

Or maybe

It was a just nice to be somewhere where they serve a lot of cake.

We love cake.

 

Have you ever felt like you just screwed up really badly? With everything?

Talk to me.  I’m listening. 

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How Did I Get Here?

November 21, 2013 — 58 Comments

howdidigethere-punklarge

 

“You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? 
You may say to yourself, my GOD, what have I done!?”

-Talking Heads, Once In A Lifetime

I am trying to survive life in a particularly loathesome suburb – dominated by the wealthy and entitled; rich, money-mad, vulgar, materialistic and superficial clones, driven by pointless one-upmanship.

I DO NOT FIT IN.

Most of my life I’ve not fit in.  I’ve developed the ability to no longer give a rat’s ass while desperately seeking a bastion of fellowship

I grew up in a welfare housing project, one of only three white families. The other two white families despised us –  we were Jewish. Damn Jews. We don’t pull off the “white trash” thing well.

In high school I was a strange mix of nerd and underground/insurgent. No one could make sense of me, least of all me. I dabbled in different groups but belonged to none.

I was also a virgin. Not exactly a candidate for Homecoming In My Mouth Queen. My girlfriends were taking on football players two at a time. I had my nose in a book and played with myself a lot.

And now, Suburbia. Where the American Dream goes to die.

Culture, spirituality, art and intellect does not exist.

Plastic surgery does.

 

An Excerpt From My First Trip to the Suburban Gym:

I look around, panicked. I call The Ex. (my then husband)

Me:  *In a hushed whisper* This is a fucking stripper gym!

Him:  What are you talking about?

Me:  Everyone here has gigantic fake tits, fake tans, long fake nails and hair extensions! There’s a rap video slut on every treadmill!

Him: Those are the housewives.

Maybe I should have titled my blog: WordPress: Just Another Place I Won’t Fit In.

I tried blogging before. It was a train wreck.

I had 5 followers. Two of them were my other personalities.

I was terrified of posting anything. Paralyzed. Writing and me- we have an ugly history.

 

A blogger emailed me enthusiastically out of the blue. Asked if he could email – encouraged me to keep writing.

What a relief to have a little support! I’d work up my courage, post, and he’d  email me raving about how “brilliant” I was.

That lasted a week. 4 days, maybe. He didn’t even hit read my last post. Apparently, I’d lost my “je ne sais quoi.” That’s French for “what a douchecanoe.”

 

I probably should have been chronicling the jaunty exploits of a gal searching for love in the online dating world.

Online dating? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going out for a chai latte and ending up chained to a bedpost in Connecticut, having a discussion about “hard limits” with a serial killer.

“After you decapitate me, I’d appreciate you not using my severed head for oral sex. That’s just offensive.”

 

Hard limits – have you noticed every BDSM writer on WordPress has the same hard limit? Anal sex?

Did they have a WordPress Hard Limits No Anal Meetup?

“Okay – so, he can bash a 2 x 4 over my head while his friend punches my tits, as long as there’s NO ANAL.”

Anal (I’ve heard) can be quite pleasurable.  Mix one can of Crisco with 50 shots of tequila. If you’ve ever borne a child – well, that’s like having an umbrella wedged up your asshole and OPENED. A penis in the butt is shoe shopping, comparatively speaking.

There goes my BDSM audience. Woops.

 

And I’m not inclined to chronicle my sexploits. Not current ones.

You want sex, watch porn. Don’t download it – it’ll give your computer a yeast infection. Buy it. It’s the safest thing for your hard drive, even though it gets old watching the same couples fuck all the time. Like being married –  “oh, these three again. Bor-ing.”

Yep – I dig porn. Now all the FemiNazis won’t like me. Another WP group I won’t fit in with. Well, I’m sorry, I enjoy smut. Porn, sex toys – love it.

Shopping for dildos completes me.

It’s all gone now – I trashed the “toy box” to spite The Ex.

My last blog was not about my life.

I was afraid. Of showing who I really am.

Then my life broke completely down. I had a true “dark night of the soul.” Everything that meant anything to me seemed to fall into question.

While in the darkest of moods, I stumbled upon the blog of WordPress leviathan Le Clown, who wrote:

“I’ll take your midnight black over someone else’s beige. That, to me, would be true death.”

 

He inspired me to start this blog. To show the “real me.”

I want followers, but at the same time, to protect myself, I can’t care.

And I’m not above admitting that I want what all the tarnished souls around here have. But at what price? If I could be me, exactly who I am, and still have all that, then fine.

But if having all that money modifies my consciousness, and I wake up one day –

a whole lot less smart, way less funny, no longer edgy, not in the slightest bit rebellious or biting or dark, and I hate blasting loud music and want to spend entire days picking out window treatments instead of going to the movies with my kid and laughing ourselves silly…

Forget it.

I live in a pretty, 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom home. I  cut open a vein saving for the down payment. I’ve never lived in a house before – only apartments.

It’s my first ever backyard. It’s like Christmas fucked July 4th and had tree babies.

At night, cicadas talk to me – and I’m not even high.

My kid has a trampoline in the backyard that he bounces on madly. I have to drink wine until it becomes safe for him.

It’s all such a gift – for this little housing project girl. Sometimes, I just have to pinch myself – but I have a low pain threshold. So I pinch someone else. Usually an elderly person.

Then one afternoon I’ll pick my kid up from his best friend’s house, and think, I’m not giving my child everything he deserves. Because this is what I drive up to:

Large House 2

partial view – couldn’t fit it all in the picture

 

Then I just get pissed. Is this really necessary? I left them a little love note:

Dear Dr. and Mrs. AssHat:

You redefine Ass Hatification. You are an anesthesiologist and a housewife, not Saudi Arabian royalty. You have 3 kids. You do not need an 8,000 square foot house. Calm the fuck down.

As soon as my son demands we buy him the XBox 1, I will light your house on fire. Enjoy it while you can.
xo,
Samara

Perhaps whining about the suburbs seems like “rich people problems.” It’s a literary cliché. Dates as far back as 1922 – Sinclair Lewis’s Babbitt. After all, aren’t there worse things? Like growing up poor?

I grew up poor. It sucked. But I grew up with what I believe are the CORRECT SET OF VALUES in life.

The real mission:

I MUST FIND A WAY TO RAISE MY CHILD UNSCATHED BY ALL OF THIS.

To be grounded, and genuine.

To understand that money, while undeniably wonderful, is not the most important thing in life.

To define success as happiness, not as a 10,000 square foot house.

To not expect a Lexus in the driveway on this 17th birthday. Cause that shit is not happening.

He’ll just have to be a Buick in the Land Of Lexus.

I will prevail.

 

Do you fit in? Did you, growing up? Talk to me. I’m listening. 

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