Suburgatory

by Linda Keenan

  “Yeah, so I guess I have a really strong position on this topic and … and …” EatMyShit unexpectedly started tearing up. “Well, to be really honest, my boyfriend Graydon—he’s the chef at Ploughshare. He broke up with me last month. Maybe it’s made me a little crazy… . Love sucks, doesn’t it? Miss?” she said to the Applebee’s waitress. “Can I get the Bloomin’ Onion?”

  SHOUT OUT

  The House that Ate My Husband

  Carla Baker is a wife and mother who lives on Linden Street.

  I take to the Shout Out section today to deliver a cautionary tale to my fellow wives out there.

  It was July 16, 2007. Yes I remember the exact date, how could I not? How can a loving wife and mother erase from her mind that horrible day when her family was ripped away from her without warning? The day I signed my name on all those dotted lines, page after page, thinking I was forging a bright future for my son, my husband, and me, too, in our new suburban town. But that wasn’t how it all worked out. No, no it did not.

  It was the moment Steve was stolen from me by a mistress who consumes his heart, his time, his very soul. She is unrelenting in her demands, and her steely grip on him is complete. To add insult to injury, while I can still rock a size 8 on a thin day, she is built like a brick house. Because she is a brick house. Our house. And I curse the day I let that fat bitch into my life.

  As soon as he saw her, when that old-hag broker pimped her out to us, he had to have her. His hand ran gently across her mantle. He traced the curves of her countertops. It was only then that I realized that I hadn’t seen Steve look like this in years: He looked happy. I could tell that this was it, it was her or nothing. I thought she was borderline white trash, I mean, her kitchen? Those tacky cabinets? Steve insisted we could class her up. She just needed our help. Steve really meant his help, his tender, knowing touch. And within weeks of that day we closed, as the tools piled up and the projects got their own Excel spreadsheet, I knew he was hooked. He was already out the door emotionally, and he was taking my preschool son with him.

  She makes Steve feel needed in ways I never could. “Steeeve, my gutters are so clogged. Can you clean them out? Pleeeeze?” And he’s out there in a flash. Sometimes he’ll try to duck out and I’ll catch him and demand to know where he’s going. He can’t look me in the eye or say it, but I know where he’s headed: Home Depot. Because she loves sending him out on a whim, hoping he’ll come back with some bauble to make her prettier. Whore-red paint for her shutters. A gaudy spotlight to show off her shapely front door. Anything to tart her up, to keep him coming back for more. And when he’s not hanging off some part of her, I can see him drift, get that glazed look. I know he’s thinking about her, what he wants to do with her next and how fast he can start. Then there was that time she called during dinner.

  “Steeeve, the acid rain is falling on me. I’m burning! Can you come and power wash me? It’s stinging me! Ow!” I told him if she ever called during dinner again, I was out of there. He shot back at me, “You know, every guy in town is just like me. You act like I’m some criminal or something!” I said, “They are not just like you. They bring in plumbers, landscapers, and handymen so they don’t get too attached. But you couldn’t resist, could you?”

  There’s always drama with her. I’ve always been sensible, reliable, predictable, easy-peasy; now I see what Steve has always wanted: a train wreck. He can’t get enough of the excitement, the challenge. “Oh, no! How did this happen? Steve, helllp! My basement just flooded and you need to clean me up now! The mold, it’s coming!” Then, “I don’t know how this could have happened but my furnace shut down and I’m getting soooo cold, Steve!”

  You know, I think I could accept this betrayal from Steve; I get it, relationships change, mature, grow old, grow tired. We’re both adults. But she’s sucked our little boy into her sickening web, too. He follows Steve around with his little play toolbox, anxious to see what Dad’s all hot and bothered about. When I ask him to make muffins with me, Jackson will say “No Mommy, I have to help Daddy wee-gwout the tiles in the baff-woom!” And I see Steve’s example imprinting itself on my little boy. It’s what Steve’s dad did to him. And I look ahead at Jackson’s future and think, it’s what Jackson will do to his wife, too. We all know it’s a cycle.

  She’s taken everything dear from me. But I’m trapped. I can’t leave because then that cunt would win. And we’re underwater on our mortgage. Because of her. That filthy, good-for nothing homewrecker.

  Parents Called “Bad Jews” for

  Rejecting Sleepaway Camp

  Suburgatory, USA—An area Jewish family has been harassed online and in person by those in their community who are flabbergasted by the parents’ decision not to send their seven-year-old son to sleepaway camp.

  “I want my boy home this summer. These people will have to pry him from my cold, dead hands,” said Lori Metzner.

  “How do you like that,” said Bari Weiss, whose daughter attends Hebrew school with Metzner’s son, Josh.

  “There she is, quoting Charlton Heston. People thought he was a Jew, too. Well, he wasn’t. I’m starting to think Lori is less of a Jew than he was! Ben Hur would have sent his kid to sleepaway camp, you can be damn sure of that.”

  At first, friends and acquaintances of Lori and Jeremy Metzner were gentle with the couple, as they tried to process the idea of a Jewish child just aimlessly kicking a ball around at home all summer, completely bereft of other young Jews. Some asked them, delicately, “Is there something wrong with Josh—is he sick?”

  But once word got out that Josh was not sick, the gloves came off. It was decided among the Highland Street Jews that an intervention was needed. Two parents, Roni Sussman and Lisa Scher, banged hard on the door without warning one night and barreled in, giving the Metzners no chance to keep them out.

  Roni: Lori, we are really, really concerned about Josh.

  Lori: Why?

  Lisa: How is he going to learn about his Jewish identity if he doesn’t go to sleepaway camp?

  Jeremy: Considering I never see either of you at temple even on high holidays, I’m starting to think your Jewish identity is sleepaway camp.

  Roni: Think of our terrible past. Our people died in the Holocaust and would have wanted our kids to go to sleepaway camp.

  Jeremy: They had sleepaway camp in Nazi Germany?

  Lori: Wait, are you saying you think Holocaust victims would want me to put my child on a bus to be sent away to a camp out in the woods a hundred miles away?

  Roni: Lori, that’s not funny.

  Jeremy: Good one, Lor!

  Lisa: You two are letting Hitler win!

  Undeterred, Lisa and Roni put up a Facebook page called “Save Joshy’s Summer” in hopes of putting pressure on the Metzners. The page encouraged people to post their favorite camp stories and it attracted a few thousand camp-crazed Jewish adults from all over the world.

  It remained generally positive, that is, until the Metzners decided to have some fun with it. First, Lori posted this. “All I learned at Camp Shalom was how to give a blow job.” Then Jeremy said they had changed their minds and decided to send Josh to camp, which got dozens of “Likes” within minutes. Then he posted which camp—it was Sunnyvale—a well-known high-end camp that caters exclusively to WASPs. A few minutes later, as those dozens of people “Unliked” the post, Jeremy added “Psych!” One response to the Metzner’s ruse was this: “Why don’t you send him to the Gaza Strip Hamas training camp, because that’s the only place that’d want you.”

  Did these attacks upset the Metzners? Jeremy Metzner snorted, and said, “No. We’re tough Jews.” And is Josh going to miss being around his Jewish brethren this summer? He said, “I’m going to be with my best and favorite Jews in the whole world,” pointing to his mom and dad.

  Dr. Drama

  “When life hands you a problem, let’s make it more interesting!”

  Dear Dr. Drama:

  I know this is going to sound really a
wful but I recently dealt with a painful breakup with my husband, at the same time that my single mom friend says she found the love of her life. “He’s great with the kids, he’s great in bed, he’s got a great job, you name it, he’s The One.” Meanwhile I’m stuck in this suburb that has only about five single mothers, tops, and I’m suddenly the saddest loser around. I can’t deal with the resentment, and I feel like a terrible person for even feeling this way. Any advice?

  —Jealous in Suburgatory

  Dear Jealous:

  Wait, you feel bad? Your friend is the one who should feel bad, because if there’s anything I’ve learned in my many decades on this horrible rock we call Earth, it’s this: Happy couples need to shut the fuck up. Now if they are teenagers, I give them a pass. If they’re so unattractive that this is their first, crazy-making burst of love, fine. But any average suburban person over the age of thirty? If they haven’t figured out how much pain their joy causes 99 percent of the rest of the world, well, they are about two baby steps away from sociopath.

  Don’t feel bad, Jealous. Just be patient. That happy will be gone by the time the snow flies and you and your friend will be back together saying “shut the fuck up” to the next clueless couple shmushing their eternal love in your face. Because we all know eternal love has a shelf life shorter than the box of your kids’ Go-Gurts in the fridge.

  New Atheist Bigger Asshole

  than Old Catholic

  Suburgatory, USA—In a stunning development, our community’s so-called New Atheist has out-assholed the Old Catholic.

  “Yes, I definitely didn’t think this was possible,” said Brian Marooney, who judged this afternoon’s clash of assholes at the Community Comes Alive! town event.

  “Those Old Catholics are the worst. They try to explain away pedophile priests. They defend that psycho scumbag Mel Gibson. But still, those New Atheists, man, what else do they do other than think up new dorky ways to call five billion people around the world morons?” said Marooney.

  “New Atheists” are a relatively recent addition to town and the broader community of non-believers. They strike a militant tone compared to “old” atheists, on what they say are the evils of organized religion and belief in general. But in doing so, many, though not all, have adopted a sarcastic attack-dog method, with slogans like “WWJD = We Won. Jesus Died.” and “Too Stupid to Understand Science? Try Religion.”

  And so the clash of assholes at Community Comes Alive! began with the New Atheist and the Old Catholic sitting side-by-side at adjacent booths, though not communicating.

  “That boy needs a good haircut and a draft card,” said Old Catholic Gerry O’Connor. “Dad, they don’t have draft cards anymore,” said son Bob O’Connor, who insists he’s not an Old Catholic, just keeping an eye on his dad, “who wanders off sometimes.” What does Bob O’Connor believe in? “I attend the Church of Don’t-Give-a-Shit,” he said.

  Gerry O’Connor festooned his booth with photographs of mangled fetuses and featured pamphlet material on why radical homosexuality, not criminal pedophilia, was the cause of the priest abuse scandal. He began a discussion about how “a few poofs and queers and that Lady Gaga should go back into the closet and slam the door.” O’Connor continued, “Not seen and not heard. Those poofs and queers made our wonderful priests look like monsters.”

  Judge Brian Marooney said, “Wow. That was really bad. The New Atheist is going to have to bring it.”

  Ethan Barthold, who has tattooed a New Atheist “A” on his arm, was ready for the challenge. “People who don’t want their beliefs laughed at shouldn’t have such funny beliefs. We feel sorry for the theists, but my patience with their stupidity has come to an end. If they were capable of rational thought—and the jury’s out on that one—then maybe they would see the evil that their feeble-minded delusions cause.”

  Barthold’s booth had a banner touting “National Idiot Outreach Day,” and it featured various ironic and sarcastic attacks on people of faith such as Atheists—Winning Since 33 AD; No Gods. No Mullets; JESUS SAVES … You from Thinking for Yourself.

  “Whoa, this is a really tough call,” said Judge Marooney. “I mean, that Old Catholic really is hateful, but he is sort of sad, like, stuck in an Archie Bunker time warp. But that New Atheist, I mean, he’s just a complete asshat. So I’m going to say, after careful thought, that the New Atheist has out-assholed the Old Catholic.”

  Marooney did say to take his judgment with a grain of salt. “I’m an atheist and I think people like Ethan are hurting the cause. If they spent half as much time doing charity outreach in the name of atheism as they did thinking up those ridiculous insults, and gotchas, then maybe we’d be getting somewhere. How do they think evangelicals took over half of Latin America? Charity. Part of me wants to be wrong about atheism just so I can see God smack that smirk off Barthold’s face. Watching that dude be wrong for an eternity? I’m there. Oh my God, look!”

  Marooney pointed at Barthold’s sign, Athiests—­Winning Since 33 AD, but realized Barthold had misspelled “Atheists” as “Athiests.”

  Marooney laughed hard and said, “A is for Awesome. And Asshole.”

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  Mom Discovers

  The Sociopath Next Door

  Suburgatory, USA—After reading the book The Sociopath Next Door, an area mom identified the sociopath, who is next door.

  “It’s Griffin! It’s him in a nutshell, it’s uncanny! I stayed up all night Googling everything you’d ever want to know about sociopaths!” said Mary Thibodeau.

  The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout takes the idea of a sociopath—usually thought of as a violent criminal—and expands it to include the everyday deviant who might be “next door”—your coworker, college roommate, or in this case, an actual next-door neighbor, Griffin Driscoll. The popular book spawned an army of armchair psychologists diagnosing those around them, and Thibodeau is just the latest.

  “So here’s more sociopath, psychopath, and narcissist stuff I found on Google: ‘Pecking order is extremely important to the sociopath. His outward appearance may be the picture of success with all the trappings of status aggressively and elaborately displayed. But his inner life is empty,’” read Mary from her iPad.

  “Well, that would explain ‘The Rev,’” she said. That’s what Mary and her husband Jim call Driscoll’s habit of loudly revving his Porsche convertible each day in his driveway, a sound the Thibodeaus can only imagine is designed to attract attention to the expensive car.

  “Yeah, well you say that annoys you, but you run out every time he does it just to look at that car,” said Jim.

  “Not true! I
t’s because I can’t believe how rude it is!” Mary said.

  “So this stuff was on a support group for wives of everyday psychos,” Mary continued. “A sociopath will show little or no empathy and may lie to cover up his lack of feeling—like the time that little girl from down the street got hurt on his property, and he did nothing and pretended he didn’t see her even though I saw him strutting around half-dressed like a peacock on the deck.”

  “Yep,” said Jim.

  “The sociopath, while perhaps not violent to people, may use animals to satisfy his thirst for causing pain. Oh my God. The squirrel. Do you really think?” said Mary.

  Mary Thibodeau was referring to a squirrel found on their property border that had been mauled to death in a way that, to Jim, looked highly unnatural.

  “OK let me finish this paragraph from the support group: A sociopath is often highly sexually appealing to …” Mary abruptly stopped and turned red. Jim looked at her, grabbed the iPad, and finished “… women!” adding emphasis and drawing it out. “The sociopath has a surface charm. And that can often be an aphrodisiac for women. Even to those who claim to find his behavior abhorrent.”

  Jim put the iPad down triumphantly. “You’re hot for the Sociopath Next Door. Nice! Maybe there are some cute serial killers in prison that you can start sending letters to! God, this is just like when you and every other thirty-something housewife was obsessed with that psychotic killer Tony Soprano. What is wrong with you women? I mean, yeah, we men like big boobs and young girls but some of you freaks are attracted to men who might hurt you?”

  “Leave my Tony out of it. He would never hurt an animal,” Mary said.

  New Black Resident

  Worst Racist in Town

  Suburgatory, USA—A new black father who has joined our overwhelmingly white community is being described as the “worst racist in town.”