Flying Purple People Eaters

Apparently, I am an alien. And only trophy wives can see my evil lizard designs on the world. I know it seems farfetched, but I can see no other reason why they all react to me the way that they do. A little background: before we built the house we’re in now, I bought a nightmare of a house in a different town. I mean, nightmare. The house had been owned by a geriatric Tim Taylor…who totally screwed up the plumbing, electrical, everything. It was awful. The movie “The Money Pit” isn’t all that funny when you’re living it, lemme tell ya what.

So, we decided to build a new house and would thus have a house where we could be relatively assured that the second floor would stay above the first floor. The problem is, instead of building on a huge parcel of land, we built in a new neighborhood. Which, as it got built up around us, turned into one of “those” neighborhoods. You know, the ones with rules, and gates, and the local Nazi Association? I’d never really lived in the suburbs before…and had no idea what it entailed. I was fairly sure khaki was involved, but who knew you were supposed to check your brain at the mortgage company?

When we moved in, both of us had waist length hair, wore almost exclusively black, and drove loud, fast, sports cars with blacked out windows. Everyone assumed we were drug dealers. They may still, who knows what thoughts lurk behind the blank Stepford faces. But it’s been 3 years now. We sold the sports cars and bought baby-mobiles. I still wear mostly black…but frankly, I’m not a tiny girl, and black makes my bum look smaller. (Or so I tell myself…leave me alone with my self delusions, thank you.) Also, I’m not buying new clothes until I lose the pregnancy weight…and all my old clothes are black. But I’ve stopped wearing things like the “Fuck the New World Order” T-shirts to the park, which I think is a pretty big concession on my part. I mean, it’s not like I’m stomping about the place in doc martins and full eyeliner for cricket’s sake.

But, I swear to you, I must just radiate weird to these people. No matter how hard I try to fit in…I just can’t. There are 3 playgroups in the neighborhood with kids the boy’s age. I can’t wrangle an invitation to any of them. Yesterday…I took the boy up to the big park to play, and there was one of the playgroups already there. I took Tommy out of his stroller and put him in the swing next to one of the kids in the playgroup and said howdy to the mom standing there. She did that polite southern thing where they say hello and sniff at the same time. Makes you want to sniff your pits and ask “Do I offend?” (Ok, it makes me raise an eyebrow and consider slapping somebody…but that’s just me.)

I could not engage that woman in conversation for love or money. Within minutes, she’d snatched her baby up out of his swing, and herd-like moved to the gaggle of women gathered about 20 feet away. I tried to be friendly to them as Tommy and I moved from activity area to activity area, and I’m dead serious when I tell you they avoided me like I had the plague. It was the strangest damn thing. After about 15 minutes, it became a game to see from how many locations I could chase them. That part was kinda funny, actually. I chased them from the swings, to the jungle gym, to the slide, back to the swing, over by the merry-go-round before I got bored with it. It was like a Carol Burnett sketch, directed by Neil Gaiman. The best analogy would be to imagine a goth chick herding a bunch of blonde sorority girls with nothing more than a soy latte and a copy of Byron’s poetry.

I miss people who wear concert t-shirts. People who sleep with people who wear concert t-shirts. People in black. The techopagans…black leather code streaking through the umbra. People who read. People who read books even though Oprah didn’t recommend them. People who think. People who think they are thinking, but then get distracted by that shiny thing in the corner. People who put shiny things in the corners. People who understand that my Sam I Am with Green Eggs and Ham tattoo is a metaphorical statement about how we live life only by our choices. People who just think Sam I Am is cool. People who think they are Sam I am. People with personalities. And brains.

I’m surrounded by this plastic surgeon created, valium addicted, trophy wife canvas of nothingness. Blah! I had an event where friends and neighbors attended. (See, I told you I was trying to fit in.) After everyone but my best friend left, she turned to me and said: “You do know that all of those women were clones of each other, right?” And it’s true…they are. Right down to the same shade of blonde. It’s spooky.

I think it’s pretty obvious that they’ve spotted me as an imposter. And ya know, were it just me, I wouldn’t give a hoot. But it sucks for the boy. Just one more reason I want to move.

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