See, this is why I hate bringing cameras into the club. Because it's not about how you look, ok--yes, thanks, my butt looks gigundous here, like nobody ever points that out when they see the picture--but it is about what you *do*.
Fuck you and your little high-school glittery stuff around your face, ok? And those shiny four-inch heels you can't dance in? Because while you're over there leaning against the wall and posing like a spoiled diva and pretending like you don't care whether or not That Guy Is Looking At You, *I'm* out dancing, ok, and feeling the sound get under my skin and ignite, and while *you* end up pouty and drunk and out $30 from your stupid trendy cranberry-and-vodka-and-Red Bulls, *I* end up dancing like the wind, and having a glorious time.
Even if you think my butt looks big.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
~Dancing with Myself by kj~
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I know people will think I'm a terrible mother if I say this but -
I hate children's birthday parties.
I do.
Most times I have no clue what to buy the birthday girl/boy so I get some generic gift. I wander the toy store aisles and finally just toss something into the cart.
I really do.
This party is giving me an especially pounding headache. It's at a roller rink. The music blaring out of the speakers is felt in my chest (at one time that was a good thing, no longer) and, combined with the screaming of the children, the noise level is sickening.
Yes, I said sickening. I know my child is having fun but I don't want to be here.
The birthday child's mom sees me before I make it to the door. Damn.
She calls to me, "Could you stay and help keep an eye on the kids?"
She doesn't wait for an answer. She knows. Damn, damn, damn.
If I leave I'm a bad mother. I'm stuck. For two long hours. Through the music, the bathroom breaks ("Eww, it's dirty"), the soggy pizza, the flat soda, the sugary cake, the forced "say thank you for your nice present."
I look at the guy hired to make the nine year olds have a good time. I wonder how he does it.
I want alchohol in my flat soda.
I really, really do.
See, this is why I hate bringing cameras into the club. Because it's not about how you look, ok--yes, thanks, my butt looks gigundous here, like nobody ever points that out when they see the picture--but it is about what you *do*.
Fuck you and your little high-school glittery stuff around your face, ok? And those shiny four-inch heels you can't dance in? Because while you're over there leaning against the wall and posing like a spoiled diva and pretending like you don't care whether or not That Guy Is Looking At You, *I'm* out dancing, ok, and feeling the sound get under my skin and ignite, and while *you* end up pouty and drunk and out $30 from your stupid trendy cranberry-and-vodka-and-Red Bulls, *I* end up dancing like the wind, and having a glorious time.
Even if you think my butt looks big.
The latest advance in children's entertainment is that of virtual dance club. For $10 a head, kids are inundated with awful, pounding, blaring music and a vast assortment of strobe lights and colored lasers. At the bar, fruit punch disguised as liquor is served. Simulated cigarette smoke wafts through the club and causes everyone to cough. Actors are hired to stand alongside the dance floor and openly mock those who cannot dance.
As one might expect, the inventors are Japanese. The creators wish to provide to children the ultimate example of how adults behave in public settings. A roaring success in Japan, the company hopes virtual dance club for kids will be just as popular in America.
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