That better not be Greek... |
I take my kids to a music program on Wednesdays. As I spin
around singing and dancing with a bunch of grown ass adults, I think to myself,
“I can’t believe how much I pay to do this hippie shit.” I do the class because
I want my kids to have an interest in music, laying the foundation for future
music lessons and recitals. The kids love the class. Maybe it’s amusement from
watching adults acting so unusual, but if it gets them excited about jamming
out, then it’s worth it.
I’d say a majority of the classroom are hard working serious
people, in hipsters clothing. What’s with this need to hide the fact that we
are all wolves ravaging the forest to stockpile a big ol’ pile of cash so our kids
can participate in these kinds of classes, which lead to even more expensive
classes? These hipsters are trying way
too hard. They show up with their kids wearing all kinds of crazy shit because letting
your kid dress themself seems like an innocent enough way to let them express
themselves. However, these kids are a hot mess; they will be wearing striped
leggings with a tutu and a sombrero. It’s like the parents are letting their
love for their child cloud their judgment; they think their kid looks cute but
in reality they look like a moron.
Another way the group is obnoxiously hipster is the names of
the kids. One lady’s kids are named Finn and Sawyer. I think both names on
their own are perfectly adorable, but together is fucking asinine. It’s so
ridiculous, I’d assume their dog is named Twain and the cat is called Riverboat.
Needless to say, this lady is the one who birthed them, so she can name them
whatever the fuck she wants.
Last night I watched the movie, Get On Up, about James
Brown. I thought it was very well done, and a good watch. James is a music
powerhouse yet he had one of the most awful upbringings a person could imagine.
That shitty upbringing made him ox strong, and gave him so much fire to be
great. I think this is the thing I am toying with in my mind, I want my kids to
be successful, but I don’t want them to think life is about throwing a sombrero
on your head and being told how cute it looks, because one day someone will
lay it out for you: that hat looks stupid because you aren’t in a Mariachi or
in Mexico or at a Mexico themed party.
Growing up in a big family, I am used to people saying
really mean things to me; things that made me cry, a lot. Maybe this type of
violence is not constructive for building a leader, but it is very good at
building a loyal soldier. I once tried to explain this at a job interview; I
would not consider myself a leader, but the best follower you could imagine, I
will do whatever you ask of me. I did not get the job. Maybe they thought I was
a potential sexual harassment case.
I have certain admiration for France, it reminds me of my
family. I hold it at distance because, like one of my brothers or sisters, if I
say something too heartfelt they might lash out at me with a snide and
demeaning remark. For a time there was this influx of self help books by
French women or Ex Pats living in France writing about how French people “do it
better.” Basically, they don’t get fat, and their children are not entitled
mouthy little shits. What I gather from these books, is French people are not
embarrassed to scream at their kids in public if their kid deserves it, and
they easily tell a friend that they have gained weight when they start to pile
on the pounds.
I think this is great. Most people don’t understand how a
kid is a bit like a dog, and if they are given free reign of the place, they
will shit all over it. A year after I had my daughter, a woman told me,
“Alicia, you have lost weight every where on your body, except your stomach.” I
swallowed my enormous bite of food, and pushed my plate back looking longingly
at my fries.
In all my travels, bopping around like a bubbly little
idiot, it was in France where someone made me cry. I was at H&M and the
girl who cashed me out was, simply put, a grade A fucking bitch asshole. In retrospect,
I get it. It was a reaction I would get from a family member who saw me acting self-absorbed,
relishing in my elation. However, if it were a sibling who decided to
bring me to tears for being too damn happy, I could at least take my hand and
wrap it around their forearm, with my fingernails digging into their skin, and
drag my hand down to the wrist. All I could do at H&M was throw the pen at
the shop girl as I walked out of the store. Of course I never let her see me
cry, I saved that for the trip back to the hotel. After a nap and some wine, I
moved on, because that’s what you do.
The woman who raised a couple leaders and a couple followers |
One of the offspring, showing what her mama gave her |
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