Archives For Surviving Suburbia

Thankful for the Suburbs???

November 28, 2013 — 10 Comments

Wha?? Did Samara just write that? She, the curmudegeonly anti-suburbia wench?

I did. Please stick around. It’s Thanksgiving, and I bake. Yet another side to my many personalities. Add “Betty Effing Crocker” to my resume.

Once upon time, Gentle Reader, there were great stretches of land which grew up in symbiotic relationship with urban settlements. Then, Satan took over.

Lives in the Suburbs

Hmm- I need a place to live…

Created the Land of Life-Numbing Stupor.  Made the suburbs, a place devoid of independent thought. A place that lacks the spirit, community, creativity, individuality, the FIRE (ironically, since he’s Satan and all)  that make up the urban settlements.

And I worry for the future of my child – that what I thought was a move to ensure the quality of his education is actually going to inundate him with conformity and boredom. Even worse, entitlement and wealth where I live breed a generation of teens who are not kept in check by the realities of daily life.

My oldest and dearest friend, my roommate from freshman year of college, has been stricken with “The Big C.”

Last month, she had to have a radical mastectomy. She lives alone, and I traveled to Boston to spend the week and care for post-surgery.

She has been my sister-of-the-heart for 27 years. We met freshman year. We were not originally roommates. But it was arranged by fate.

By the second day, we recognized that we were each other’s counterpart. It is still so, to this day. But 27 years ago, there were no other girls like us in the dormitory.

To start, we were both from New York City.

I grew up dirt poor, on Staten Island, in what was notorious for being one of the worst housing projects in the five boroughs.  A white girl in a black world. No father. Absentee mother who worked all the time.

She was a Puerto Rican girl from the South Bronx projects.  A housing project is a housing project is a housing project. Ghetto cinderblock is the same no matter what borough. Dirt poor. Product of a broken home.

And there we were, on full scholarships, to a prestigious college.

We offed our existing roommates and buried their bodies in the arts quad so we could room together. (But actually just pawned them off on each other. Did they like one another? We didn’t give a shit.)

One day, I will write our adventures in college, for they are truly OUTSTANDING. Not at all academically. But in the width and breadth of chances we took – the things we did because we were New York City bad ass chicks-

While taking care of her, we reminisced about these times. Were we really so crazy/trusting/stupid/stoned that we did such things?

Like standing on the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx with thumbs outstretched, hitchhiking our way back to college in upstate New York after Thanksgiving break?

Get into cars with strangers? Yes, and blithely so! Especially if there were 2 or 3 cute guys in the car.  The more, the merrier. Our own naiveté functioned as well as Psalm 91: God’s Umbrella of Protection.   For we got into not just cars, but vans, with groups of young men, and hitchhiked our way upstate and downstate many times.

We merrily recalled how several times we were  chauffeured all they way to our college town, right to the front door of our off-campus apartment, and “come right in, thank you very much”.  Wipe your feet. continue the party. Crash on the couch. Pick it up the next morning.

At one point, my college BFF was telling a story about her childhood, She said, “and I leaned out the window, and all of sudden, there was a shot, So, I stuck my head in, really fast. Cause back then, there would be gunplay.  You know.”

And I did know. It’s how I grew up. It’s what drew us together, 27 years ago, this past September. We were the only two people in that dorm who would know what that felt like.

27 years later, we’re still the only 2 people in each other’s lives who would know what that felt like.

And so today I give Thanks. Because as much as I despise the suburban aesthetic, I am so very grateful that my child is not afraid when he steps out the door.

He never has to worry that he will be chased home from school and beaten up routinely. His sibling will not get mugged on a paper route.  He will not come home to find his apartment burgled, his brother tied up on the floor. He will not watch another brother beaten with bicycle chains, and scream hysterically for help that never comes. His mother will not be forced at gun point to leave her car in a supermarket parking lot in broad daylight.

He is not growing up the way I did. He feels safe. He is safe. Thank you, God.

Oh, the pie. Here you go:

Think this looks good? – you should taste my cupcakes

Happy Thanksgiving, to you and yours. I know you feel gratitude for all that you have. Please add feeling safe to the many gifts you have been afforded.

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How Did I Get Here?

November 21, 2013 — 58 Comments



“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.


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.

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:


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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