Break(yourself) Dancing

Things are changing here in the desert.  The weather’s turned and now our “cold” spells mean it’s only in the low 80s, our beloved cheerleader-turned-governor signed legislation declaring the Colt Single Action Army Revolver (you know, the thing they used to shoot all those pesky little Indians who were here first) the official state of Arizona firearm, and I’ve slowly begun my metamorphosis into an old, crotchety, snarly man (see: Dirt Devil).

Not sure what your state's legislators have been up to, but down here in the Grand Canyon State, we get things done.

Just the other day, as I was driving back from working in Phoenix with a co-worker, I found myself screaming into my phone, “What the hell do you mean you can’t email me the phone number?  I worked for you guys for two years and you can’t take 15 seconds and email me a phone number?  You work in human resources!  I’m a human, aren’t I?  Shouldn’t you be a resource?” at an unsuspecting Oakland Unified School District human resources drone while my co-worker looked on from the front seat with a look of terror on her face.  I sheepishly apologized afterwards; she was gracious enough to pretend I was sane, though I think she might have been reaching for her pepper spray all the while.

You might think I’m going to write an internet-sharing piece on reflecting, on change, on how no matter how old we are we can still change our behavior and become better people.  Yeah, well, fuck all that noise.  What I am going to do is introduce a new segment to this emerging-from-hibernation-internet-sharing site.  It’s called: “Shit That Makes Me Salty.”  Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first installment of “Shit That Makes Me Salty.”

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Our daughters take dance classes at a posh dancing boutique in the Catalina Foothills (that’s Tucson for the rich, white part of town).  The place is great.  The teachers are excellent, the girls love it, and they’re accruing cultural capital (i.e. learning how to dance) so that one day they can go to a party and can do things with their bodies that don’t involve beer bongs or anything else that might make a fifty-year-old dad grab his Colt Single Action Army Revolver.  So, why does Creative Dance Arts make me salty?  Oh, dear reader, I’m so glad you asked.

This part, I like.

At the end of the spring dance semester, all the dance classes perform in a huge recital that’s held in a performing arts center at one of the campuses of the local community college.  That’s marvelous.  What better way to celebrate months of hard-work and growth than with a performance with the dancers’ loved ones in the audience?  If the dancers loved ones are willing to pay $10 per ticket, that is.  And if the dancers loved ones have paid the $35 recital fee per dancer.    And if the dancers loved ones buy the $75 recital costume, per dancer per class.  So, in case you didn’t have your abacus at home, for Nayezca to perform for both her hip-hop and ballet class, that’s $75 + 75 + $35 + $20 = $205.  Can I at least get a Coors Light and a reach-around with that?

"Hello, I'm an unidentified man at the beach with a doo-rag. I'd like to purchase some dance recital tickets, please."

We’ve elected to keep Adayah out of the recital because, you know, she’s two, and the last time I checked two year-olds are more concerned with what’s for snack than what they’re wearing at the recital.  Neither were we too keen on dropping another $110 for our toddler to skip around on stage for two minutes, only to stop, look at the audience, and ask, “Dada, why you say ‘fuckin shit’?”  I lobbied hard to have Nayezca not perform, either, but Sonya wasn’t having any part of that.  She had a point.  After all, Nayezca loves dance and has been looking forward to the recital for a while.  It didn’t feel fair to crush her just because I’m bitter at being bent over by some nice women in leotards and weird sock-like things they wear on their toes.  It’s just lame that the recital has to take the form of an over the top mega-performance that requires your whole family to eat Top Ramen for a week just to pay for the damn thing.  That shit makes me salty.

These things called "Foot Undies" really exist and people really wear them. Where can we get "Foot Thongs" or "Foot G-Strings"?

Just to be fair, this sort of extracurricular screwing you over like a credit card company thing doesn’t only happen at posh dance studios.  I coach Nayezca’s little league team and we have to participate in “picture day” soon.  Which means we all stand around in the Arizona sun, smile, and pay some guy $20 so we can get the exact same pictures any parent could have taken on a digital camera.  And every year in the fall every elementary school in the country makes parents ask themselves if they want to be the mean parent who doesn’t buy the class picture or if they’re ok with paying $20 for pictures of other kids and some nice staged ones of their own kid that aren’t nearly as nice as the 7,000 others sitting in the folders of iPhoto.  There’s this whole predatory industry that convinces you your memories of your children doing cute things can only be obtained if you pay for it.  Or, in the case of the dance recital, that you can’t even participate in the cute dance unless you cough it up.  It sucks because you want to be the supportive parent who doesn’t let a few dollars get in the way of something memorable, but at what point do we draw the line and say, “I’m not going to let you fuck me in the ass every time my kid participates in something cool”?

Being strong-armed for the sake of smiling one day when I’m fifty bothers me.  The $205 dollar dance recital just makes me salty.

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Thanks for indulging in another Desert Dad semi-psychotic episode.  If you want your email provider to magically tell you every time I rant, rave, or actually write something worth reading, just go ahead and sign up as a subscriber to this internet-sharing site.  Better yet, tell a friend of eight.  The field is near the top-right part of this page.  Thanks!